ARC: Stolen Songbird

by Danielle Jensen

  I shrugged. “That is a matter of perspective, I suppose. Most Hollow folk can’t read much – there isn’t a need. I wouldn’t have learnt if my mother hadn’t insisted. She started sending tutors to teach me when I was thirteen. I was the only one who received more than a cursory education.” I paused for a minute, then I glanced at Marc, who was silent. “I feel as though that misrepresents them, though. They are very practical folk – everyone knows how to do things. They are a very self-sufficient lot. Just because they can’t read, doesn’t mean they are stupid.”

  “I never said it did,” Marc replied.

  “I know. But it seems as though you value a different sort of knowledge.”

  Marc chuckled softly. “By you do you mean Tristan? Because I have certainly never given you cause to think such a thing.”

  I made a non-committal noise. While we had been talking, Victoria and Vincent had decided to wade into the river and were attempting to catch fish with their bare hands. A smile slipped onto my face as I watched their antics. “This city is too small for them,” I said. “I think they are stifled here.”

  “The world might be too small for them,” Marc replied, and we both laughed as Victoria threw a fish at Vincent’s head. He promptly grabbed her braid and dunked her under the water.

  “When you spoke about your village,” Marc said, “I noticed that you said ‘they’ and not ‘we’. It seemed as though you saw yourself as separate.”

  I frowned and plucked at the ribbon on my dress. “I was. My mother and her tutors ensured that. They didn’t just educate me – they changed the way I spoke, the way I moved, the way I acted. At first I tried to be two different people so that I wouldn’t seem strange to everyone, but that didn’t last.” I swallowed hard. “They changed the way I thought – once I could read, especially, it seemed the world grew in leaps and bounds with every passing day. There was so much I wanted to talk about, but no one wanted to listen.” I felt my cheeks flush. “I wanted to leave so badly, and the second I was gone, all I wanted was to go back.”

  “Do you still? Want to go back to your village, that is?”

  “I…” Such a simple question demanded a simple answer, but I found I had none. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I felt a piece of paper crinkle: the most recent of Tristan’s notes.

  His love notes, as his mother insisted on calling them, had not improved in quality. If anything, they had grown snider, but I found myself treasuring each one more than the last. With the notes had come fur-lined cloaks and heavy blankets to ward off the endless chill. The high-heeled shoes I detested all but disappeared from my wardrobe, replaced by practical flats that did not pinch my feet or cause me to “limp about like an old lady”. Sheets of music and collections of famous operas appeared on tables, chairs, and the pillows of the bed. A lute was the first instrument to arrive, and was followed in short order by a harp with a note stating his hope that I would “show more talent if given more strings to pluck”. Everything he sent seemed for the express purpose of making me happy. But all the gifts in the world meant nothing, because all my heart wanted was the one person it shouldn’t.

  “I don’t think my absence has changed much,” I said, not liking the direction of my thoughts. “Life goes on, with or without me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He keeps me appraised,” I said under my breath. Within the pages of my books, I’d often discover programs from my mother’s performances in Trianon, news clippings from the papers, and, once, a lengthy report written by one of Tristan’s agents describing how my family fared. I cried when I read those pages, and cried harder when they disappeared from my possession a day later.

  The sound of rushing water dropped away, and Marc’s light drifted behind us so that our faces were cloaked in shadows. The twins reacted to some discreet signal and increased their antics, drawing attention away from us. “He isn’t supposed to be telling you anything about the outside,” Marc said. “None of us are. The King gave very specific orders that you were to be kept isolated from the human world as much as possible – that’s why we keep you away from the market.”

  I kept still, my face smooth, so no one watching would suspect we were talking about anything out of the ordinary. “Why? Is it some sort of cruel punishment?”

  “I do not know,” Marc replied. “He did not explain why.”

  “His Majesty does nothing without purpose,” I mused. But what did he hope to prevent by keeping me isolated? Or was it something he intended to accomplish?

  “Agreed,” Marc replied. “Which is all the more reason not to let Tristan get caught.”

  “I won’t.” I chewed my lower lip, my mind grappling with why Tristan took the risks at all. It would be easier, and certainly wiser, to be constant in his cruelty, but he seemed intent on countering every argument we had with some act of kindness. Which should have made my life easier, but which managed to do the exact opposite. To receive thoughtful bits of kindness and then face the cold cruel persona he wore in public was more than just confusing, it was painful. It made every word he said against me hurt all the more.

  “Even if I went back to the Hollow,” I said softly, “nothing would ever be the same.”

  It was no answer, but Marc did not press me further and the sounds of the city returned to my ears. “You’re meant to be having tea with Duchesse Sylvie this afternoon, are you not?”

  I nodded. “She is teaching me to play Guerre.”

  “She will teach you well,” he said. Rising to his feet, he reached down a hand to help me up. “Get out of the water, you oafs,” he shouted at the twins. They waded out, heedless of their dripping clothes.

  “Who won?” I asked, taking Marc’s arm.

  The twins exchanged frowns. “You mean you weren’t counting the fish?”

  I winced. “Sorry.”

  They both heaved deafening sighs. “Poor form, Your Highness, poor form,” Victoria said, giving my shoulder a gentle shove. “I think we can attribute your failure to a distinct lack of focus.”

  “I second that,” her brother announced, the two coming around to walk on either side of Marc and me. “Too many hours spent in too many lessons on too many subjects.”

  I grinned, because it was true. The trolls knew so much about so many things, both past and present. Every day I spent with someone new, trying my hand at their trades, learning new languages, or listening to them lecture about some historical event. All my instructors were kind and eager to exchange their knowledge for what I could tell them of the outside world.

  “We may have to crown you champion of knowing the least about the greatest number of topics,” Victoria said. “Well done.”

  I dropped into a deep curtsey. “It is an honor and a privilege.”

  The four of us meandered up the stairs, my guards keeping their distance for fear of becoming victim of one of the twins’ pranks. In truth, I hardly noticed them anymore. They never spoke to me, only followed me everywhere I went. But I did not like how they listened to all my conversations, and so I encouraged any sort of behavior that caused them to keep their distance. Marc and the twins were far more powerful and capable anyway, and I didn’t worry about them blabbing my words to the King.

  “Lady Victoria! Lord Vincent!” We all looked over our shoulders to see a young troll woman wearing a bright red dress running up the stairs after us.

  “Drat,” Victoria muttered, exchanging a worried look with her brother. “It’s her again.”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “A sculptor we commissioned a while back.”

  The woman slid to a stop in front of us, bobbed a quick curtsey at Marc and me, then turned a chastising finger on the twins. “When are you going to arrange to pick up your sculptures? And more importantly, when do you intend to pay for them?”

  “Done so soon?” Vincent asked, stepping between the sculptor and his sister. “Are you certain they are properly finished?”

  The woman glared at them. “
You question me?”

  Vincent shook his head rapidly. “No, no. Are they very large, then?”

  “You ordered life size!” she shouted at them. “You two are large, thus are the sculptures.”

  Victoria flinched, and looked at her feet. I had always thought she appreciated her size because of the advantages it gave her in fighting. But perhaps I was wrong.

  “That is true,” Vincent said glumly. “I had thought it might take you longer to finish them.”

  “Lady Anaïs insisted the work be my first priority.” The troll placed hands on her hips and scowled.

  “She would,” Vincent muttered. Victoria tucked a lock of hair that had come loose from her braid back behind her ear.

  “This might take a while,” Marc whispered in my ear. “Let’s go.”

  I was reluctant to leave my friends in the company of the sculptor, but Victoria gave a faint nod indicating I should leave.

  “What was that all about?” I asked, watching the exchange over my shoulder as I walked.

  “They lost a bet to Anaïs,” Marc said. “So they had to order life-sized sculptures that were to be placed in front of their house for no less than one month.”

  “That isn’t so bad,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nude sculptures,” Marc added, his brows coming together in a frown. “She was being cruel – she knows that Victoria is… shy.”

  I scowled. “Why is she so blasted nasty all the time – Victoria is her friend. Friends don’t do that to each other.”

  “They shouldn’t,” Marc agreed. “But, I suspect Anaïs is angry at Victoria for how much time she spends with you.”

  “Maybe if she was more pleasant, Victoria would enjoy her company more,” I snapped.

  Marc sighed. “Anaïs is very unhappy, Cécile. And you don’t know her well enough to judge her.”

  I know enough, I thought angrily, but I kept my mouth shut. Next time I talked to Victoria, I would suggest she dress her statue in clothes and let Anaïs try that on for size.

  We entered a square dominated by a fountain with a giant winged serpent spouting water from its mouth, its emerald eyes gleaming malevolently. On the far side of the square, two trolls were shouting at each other. One shoved the other, and the argument quickly turned to blows.

  Marc sighed. “Wait here a moment.”

  I watched as he strode over to the fighting men. Raising one hand, invisible magic jerked the two apart, leaving them to dangle in the air while he questioned them on their grievance.

  I went over to the fountain to examine the serpent more closely. It had been carved in great detail, from its overlapping scales to its sharp golden-tipped claws. The plaque on the base read The Dragon Called Melusina. “A dragon,” I muttered, eyeing up the creature, wondering if such creatures existed somewhere, or if they were merely a figment of some sculptor’s imagination.

  Turning my back on the dragon, I leaned against the fountain, nodding at the trolls who offered bows and curtseys with their greetings as they passed. The sight of an older, but statuesque, woman walking across the square caught my attention. She was dressed all in black, which was unusual, and though I didn’t recognize her, I marked her easily as an aristocrat. Her gown was elaborate, the taffeta rustling across the cobbles, and she wore a wealth of jewels that glittered in the lamplight. But what made me certain was the air of authority in her walk, and the way all the other trolls made way for her as she passed. A slender servant woman walked a few steps behind her, head downcast and arms loaded with packages.

  Straightening, I prepared myself to receive and deliver the expected courtesies, but the troll only glanced my direction and kept walking. Her servant shot me a wide-eyed look of dismay and dropped into sort of an awkward moving curtsey. “Your Highness,” she whispered, looking back over her shoulder.

  I opened my mouth to warn her, but I was too late. The servant woman collided with her mistress and the packages in her arms dropped to the ground with the distinct sound of breaking glass. I winced.

  “You idiot!” shrieked the troll. She rounded on the servant, and I watched in horror as magical blows fell across the woman’s face, blood splattering against the pale grey paving stones.

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” the servant begged, cringing against the blows as they fell. Wounds opened and closed on her face, the red gore dripping onto her dress the only permanent mark.

  “Stop,” I said, but the troll didn’t hear me. “Stop!” I shouted louder. She glanced my direction, but ignored the command.

  In two strides, I was next to her. “I order you to stop this abuse immediately.”

  The troll turned her head to look at me, eyes dark and menacing. “You have no right.” She raised her hand to strike another blow, and I moved without thinking. Reaching out both hands, I shoved the troll woman hard.

  “Cécile, stop!”

  Magic lashed around my waist, jerking me back, and Marc stepped between the troll and me.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “I don’t believe you have met Her Highness. May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Cécile de Montigny.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Your Highness, the Lady Damia, Dowager Duchesse d’Angoulême.”

  I blinked. The troll was Angoulême’s mother. “Your Grace,” I muttered, and reluctantly curtseyed. This was not a random meeting, I was sure of it.

  The woman snorted. “It is a bit late for courtesies, girl.” Grabbing hold of her servant’s hair, she dragged the half-blood away from us.

  Marc held up a warning hand to keep me from going after them, but it was unnecessary. I knew the troll was trying to provoke me, but it was still infuriating to stand by and watch her treat the half-blood woman so. There had to be something I could do. I couldn’t just walk away.

  “My Lord Comte.” The sound of Damia’s voice jerked me to attention. I could feel tension radiating from Marc as he acknowledged the other troll. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  Damia’s eyes glittered. “Make arrangements to have the labyrinth opened this evening. This one’s actions merit disposal.” She jerked her chin towards the half-blood cowering at her feet. “I do not care to have my household’s reputation tarnished by such behavior.”

  Marc’s hands tightened into fists. “Surely such an extreme reaction is not warranted.”

  “I did not ask for your opinion,” she snapped. “She is my property, and I can do with her as I wish.”

  The twins came up on either side of me, but I scarcely noticed. I felt the blood drain from my face and my hands turn cold. How far was she willing to take this? Would she really send her servant into the labyrinth to die just to elicit a reaction from me? Because I was positive now that that was exactly what she was trying to do. She was baiting me in an attempt to get at Tristan. If I went to him appealing for help in saving the half-blood, it would not only undercut the carefully crafted ruse defining our relationship, it would also put him in the position of having to choose between sacrificing the servant’s life or revealing his true sentiments towards half-bloods.

  “If you are so eager to get rid of her, I’ll take her off your hands,” Victoria suddenly said. “Five hundred is fair, I think.”

  “She isn’t for sale,” Angoulême’s mother snapped.

  “A thousand, then.”

  “No.”

  “If you value her so much, I fail to see why you want to see her killed,” Vincent said, closing a hand over my shoulder. He was warning me not to take the bait, but what would be the consequences of me walking away? Could I stomach the guilt of letting the half-blood go to her death? But what could I possibly do to stop it? The law was clear – the servant was her property to do with as she willed. Only a royal decree from either Tristan or the King could stop her from sending the half-blood to her death. I did not see the King being forthcoming in that regard and asking Tristan would feel like I was passing the problem to him. I had to think of another way.

  “Ten thousand.”

  Damia shot the twi
ns a look of distain. “She is not for sale to you two for any price. You hardly need another in that menagerie you call a household.”

  “Sell her to me,” I blurted out. She could refuse the others – she outranked them. But she did not outrank me.

  A slow smile made its way onto the woman’s face. “With what coin?”

  I glared at her. “I am hardly destitute.”

  Her smile broadened. “That may be so, but it would still be Montigny gold doing the purchasing, and I’m afraid that would be breaking the law.”

  “How so?” I demanded.

  The troll chuckled. “This one,” she gestured towards the cowering servant, “is a Montigny bastard. And the law forbids the purchase of one’s own blood.” She laughed again.

  I clenched my jaw, wondering how much thought and preparation had gone into this moment. The law stood in my way at every turn, driving me towards only one possible option: asking Tristan to save the servant. I gritted my teeth, my mind searching desperately for a solution. And I found one.

  Forcing a dejected expression onto my face, I stepped backwards. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can do. Neither His Majesty or my husband are likely to take my side in this.” I glanced at Marc. “Make her arrangements.”

  Silence greeted my words, surprise written across all their faces. None of them had expected me to let this go.

  “Mercy, Highness, mercy!” the servant shrieked, throwing herself at me and clutching my skirts. “Don’t let her kill me,” she pleaded, the fabric of my dress tearing beneath her grip.

  “I’m sorry.” I let my lip tremble and tears rise in my eyes. “The law is the law.” I stumbled back and my dress tore.

  “Lessa, you fool!” shouted Damia. “Must you give me more reason to rid myself of you?”

  Magic slapped against the half-blood over and over again in a sickening rhythm.

  “Stop!” I screamed, but Damia only shot me a dark smile, baiting me to take the step that would end this violence. She thought me a fool – thought she could use the laws against me. But two could play at that game – and there was one law in particular that I knew would work in my favor. Bracing myself, I leapt between the two women, the sound of the magic lash falling loud in my ears.