Hidden Huntress

  “I’m sorry.” The words were clipped.

  “You had to make a choice,” he finally replied. “You chose. Now you have to live with the consequences” – he squared his shoulders – “and not squander what was paid for in blood.”

  The consequences: not only Anaïs’s life, but those of dozens of others. The punishment my friends endured for helping me. The sacrifice of years of planning. The destruction of the half-bloods’ hope for freedom. All to save one life.

  A life that was once again in jeopardy.

  “And there is always vengeance.”

  A charge of eagerness surged through me, ideas and plans swirling about in my head. “There is that.”

  “Do you know who the impostor is?”

  “No,” I said, picking up one of my eggs, carefully cracking it and peeling away the shell. “But I intend to find out.”

  * * *

  We spent the rest of that day in mourning, first delivering the news to Vincent, who took it badly, and then later, when the mining shifts changed, to Victoria, who took it worse.

  In quiet voices, Marc and I debated who could be impersonating Anaïs. The list was short. For one, Anaïs had been one of the most powerful trolls living, and there were only a few women with enough raw power to fool those close to her. Two, the troll would need to have known Anaïs well enough to imitate her voice and mannerisms. And three, it had to be someone who could go absent for days at a time without it being noticed.

  “Her grandmother?” Marc suggested. “Damia’s always been something of a recluse.”

  I frowned, bending my mind around the idea of the Dowager Duchesse posing as her granddaughter. “If anyone could manage it, it would be her. But…” It didn’t feel right. Whoever it was, she was in collusion with my father, and those two hated each other. “I don’t see how she or Angoulême could profit from this sort of deception.” I shook my head once. “I don’t think it’s her.”

  “Then who? Who could it possibly be?”

  I tilted my head from side to side, listening to my neck crack. “I have no idea.” Not only that, I had no idea how she was doing it. Creating the illusion was easy enough, but keeping it in place day and night, never letting it slip. That was no mean feat. It wasn’t only a matter of walking around and looking like Anaïs, it was a matter of becoming her. A fragile act that could be destroyed with one direct question: are you really Anaïs? Because no troll could say yes.

  The door swung open, and our voices cut off as Vincent stepped inside, his face drawn and exhausted, his hair coated with grey dust so that he looked twenty years older than he was.

  Vincent coughed once. “Took some convincing, but he agreed.”

  My blood started to race, and I stood up, feeling the need to act. “When?”

  “Tonight.” Vincent met my gaze. “But he had one condition.”

  “Anything.” The word was out before I thought through what meeting Tips tonight would actually entail.

  Despite his exhaustion, Vincent must have noticed my slip, because he winced. “His condition was that the conversation take place in his territory.”

  I forced myself to nod, the movement jerky. “Fine. I’m in no position to argue.”

  But bloody stones and skies did I want to, because Tips’s territory was the one place in Trollus that I never went. The one place that I hated above all others.

  The mines.

  Eight

  Cécile

  “Don’t you have a bed?” A sharp poke in the ribs pulled me out of my dreams, and I opened one bleary eye to regard my brother. His face was only inches from mine, full of a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Your breath stinks,” he informed me.

  “Shut up.” I tried to bury my face in the settee, but the fabric was stiff and unyielding, and all the action accomplished was making my nose hurt.

  Why was I asleep on the sofa? Memory of the night before came crashing down on me, from the events at the mouth of the River Road, to my mother stumbling in drunk, to her tearful justification of her abandonment of us. And then…

  I sat upright, the motion making me dizzy. When the stars cleared, my eyes fixed on the empty teacup on the table. “She drugged me!”

  One of Fred’s eyebrows rose.

  “Mother,” I muttered, arranging my nightclothes so that I was decent.

  My brother laughed, but he didn’t sound all that amused. “Sounds about right. She probably got tired of pretending to be a parent.”

  I grunted in agreement, but Fred wasn’t through. “I’m fairly certain that’s where my predisposition for strong drink came from – that she fed me whisky as a babe to stop the squalling.”

  “Don’t start.” I shivered. The fire had all but gone cold, and the great room was freezing. “I really don’t understand why you hate her so much. You might not agree with the choices she’s made, but it isn’t as though she’s harmed you.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Fred’s face darkened, and he tossed two letters on my lap. “One for you from father. Another for Sabine from her parents that you’ll need to read for her.” He turned and walked toward the door. “She’s far from harmless, Cécile, but maybe the only way you’ll learn is the hard way.”

  “Wait!” I called after him, but he kept walking. Stumbling off the sofa, I scuttled around so that I was between him and the door. “I’m sorry. Stay for breakfast.”

  He glared at me.

  “Please?” I pantomimed a sad face. “I hardly see you.”

  “I have work to do.” He picked me up and set me to one side, but this was a well-worn routine of ours. “Please!” I mock-pleaded.

  “Don’t got time for you.”

  I flung myself at his knees, wrapping my arms around one leg so that he dragged me forward with every step. “Please!”

  “Let go. What sort of reputable lady acts this way? You’re behaving like a child off the streets of Pigalle.”

  I clung tighter.

  He stopped walking long enough to rub the bottom of his boot on my hair.

  “We’ve got bacon,” I said, trying not to laugh and hating that laughing was even possible after last night. “And apricot marmalade.”

  He switched directions and started toward the kitchen, dragging me along with him. I let go after a few steps, and getting to my feet, trailed after him. Our cook was working away, and was only now setting the bread dough aside to rise. My mother didn’t keep live-in servants. She said it was because of the cost, but I expected it was more a matter of privacy.

  “What hour is it?”

  “Almost noon,” Fred replied, sitting down at the table. He was wearing his uniform, with both a sword and pistol buckled at his waist. He had always been tall, but at nearly twenty, he had finally filled out his frame. He looked quite dashing, I thought, bending to examine the badges of rank adorning his chest.

  “My brother will be joining me for breakfast,” I said to the cook, taking the seat closest to the fire. My mother would have insisted we eat in the dining room or the parlor, but the farm girl in me wouldn’t let go of the kitchen.

  “Yes, mademoiselle.” She did not look up from her dough. My mother did not encourage familiarity with the servants, and she was a difficult woman to work for. The maids changed so often, I could scarce keep track of their names for trying.

  “I saw Chris this morning,” Fred said quietly, buttering a piece of yesterday’s bread. “He told me your reclusive friends from the south are stirring up trouble.”

  I sighed and nodded, wishing for a moment that I’d never told him the truth. But keeping it a secret from my family had never even occurred to me, even if I could have pulled it off.

  Other than my family, only Sabine, Chris, and his father knew the truth. Gran’s magic hadn’t been strong enough to heal my injuries entirely and we’d been forced to come up with a tale to explain them. She told everyone that I’d been attacked by a madman, and only by the grace of God had the Girards been in town to rush me home in time
for me to be saved. It was a truth and a lie in one, a fact I was reminded of every time I undressed and saw the six-inch red scar running the length of my ribcage. It was a mark I’d bear for the rest of my life.

  “You haven’t told her anything?” He jerked his head up toward the second level where my mother was presumably still abed, keeping an eye on the cook while he did it.

  “Are you mad?” I hissed. “Of course I haven’t. Telling her anything would be as good as telling the whole Isle. All she knows is that I got cold feet and spent the summer in the south. Nothing more.” And she never pried into the details. I wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t care, or if her own secret-keeping tendencies caused her to respect mine. Either way, it worked in my favor.

  “That’s good. She’s a way of using information to her advantage.” His eyes were distant. “Though it might be better if the whole damned Isle did know.”

  Tension sang down my spine. “Fred, you promised to keep it between us.”

  “I know.” He tracked the cook as she moved behind me. “But I don’t like it. I think we should do something. Go on the offensive when they aren’t expecting it.”

  I winced. “You wouldn’t have a chance against them. How many times must I explain this to you?” I glanced over my shoulder. “They’ve got magic,” I mouthed.

  He snorted, his lips pinching together. “Something else then. Cut them off. Starve them.” He leaned closer to me. “I’ve met the Regent’s son, Lord Aiden. He’s young, not more than a few years older than me, and he’s a man of action. He often walks with the men. He’d grant my request to speak privately, and I could tell him…”

  “No!” I heard the cook stop moving, so I lowered my voice. “No, Fred. You can’t. Most of them are good, decent folk. They don’t deserve that. And there’s…”

  “Tristan?”

  It was strange hearing his name on my brother’s lips. I looked away. “Yes.”

  Fred’s hands clenched where they rested on the table. “Him I’d like to have a word or two with. Stealing my little sister and performing godless magic so that I don’t dare strike at him for fear of hurting you. Bastard!”

  The cook made a comment under her breath about soldiers and foul language, making Fred’s scowl deepen.

  “Well, then, there you have it,” I whispered. “Fine if you have no care for starving innocent people, but at least have a care for your own sister’s life.”

  He gnawed on his bottom lip, eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re an idiot and a fool when it comes to judging character, Cécile. Always have been. Refusing to see the black side of folk even when it’s right in front of your eyes.”

  Was this about the trolls or our mother?

  I pressed my palms against the table, and met his gaze. “You don’t know them, Fred. You don’t know him.”

  “I don’t have to!” He stood up, knocking the table hard. “I can’t listen to this. I need to go.”

  Fred started to go to the door, but then came back and enveloped me in a fierce bear hug. “I love you, Im-be-Cécile,” he mumbled into my hair. “But you’re blind when it comes to those you love. You need to open your eyes.”

  I listened to the heavy tread of his boots, hoping that he’d reconsider and come back. But he was gone.

  The clock in the great room struck the hour, pulling me from my thoughts. Bong, bong, bong, it sang softly, and I counted the beats up to twelve. “Do you know when my mother plans to rise?” I asked the cook.

  “She rose at a decent hour, mademoiselle,” the cook said with a little sniff. “She departed several hours ago, but she left you a note. It’s on the front table.”

  Frowning, I went out to the front entry and found a folded bit of paper with my name on the front.

  * * *

  Darling, I hope you are feeling much improved this morning. Please meet me at the opera house at noon today – I have wonderfully exciting news to share with you.

  * * *

  I glanced at the water clock, then back at the note. “Stones and sky!” I swore, then bolted to the stairs.

  Nine

  Cécile

  I was late, but my mother was later.

  We had grouped in the foyer de la danse, a grand room reserved for the premiere ballerinas and the gentlemen subscribers who admired them. It was a golden place, pilasters rising up to the graceful arches of the frescoed ceiling and mirrors reflecting the light of the massive chandelier hanging in the center.

  Portraits of famous dancers and sopranos ringed the room, their intricate frames clutched by gilded cherubs. It was, in a way, a history of the Trianon opera, for while this building was relatively new, the portraits dated back to when the company was in its infancy some two hundred years prior. It reminded me of the gallery of the Kings in the Trollus library, and made me wish I’d taken the time to see the gallery of the Queens. History told through faces and clothing, the skill of the artist whispering a story with oil and brush.

  I stared at the portrait of my mother hung in a place of privilege on one wall and wondered what secret truths, if any, it told about her. Moving almost of their own accord, my fingers brushed against the golden locket hanging at my throat, even as my eyes fixed on the one painted around hers.

  “Cécile?”

  I blinked. Sabine was staring at me with a frown on her face. “Sorry,” I said. “What was that you were saying about Julian?” She’d been telling me about my co-star’s antics the night prior, but I’d barely been listening.

  She frowned. “Has something happened?”

  I nodded. “Chris and I had a little adventure. I’ll tell you about it after.”

  “Bad?”

  I gave her a grim nod. We were practiced in speaking in code when we weren’t alone, but this conversation needed to wait.

  I shifted on the velvet banquette, pulling off my shoes and tucking my feet underneath me. I needed to change the subject before anyone took note of our conversation. “Does anyone know what this is about?”

  “I do,” Julian said from where he sat perched on his own cushion. He looked as fresh as someone who has had a night of uninterrupted sleep, although from what Sabine had been saying, he hadn’t gotten any more than I had.

  “Do you intend to share what you know with us?” I asked.

  He shook his head and grinned. “It’s Genny’s news to tell.”

  I winced inwardly at his familiarity, remembering all too clearly how she had rejected my father’s use of the very same nickname. They were very close, Julian and my mother. Uncomfortably so, at times.

  She had “discovered” him years ago, an orphan singing on the street corner for coin, and had taken him under her wing. Then she’d made him a star. Unbeknownst to me, or to any of my family other than Fred, he had been living with her for the past four years. He’d been ousted the day I arrived in Trianon because it would have been improper for us to live under the same roof, and anyone with two wits to rub together knew that he resented me for it.

  I glanced around the room to see who’d been invited. It was all the principal members of the company, plus a few from costuming and set design. A select group, which indicated we’d be performing outside of the theatre. “A private performance for some nobleman?” I asked, hoping to take the wind out of Julian’s sails if I guessed correctly.

  His grin widened, white teeth gleaming. “Better.”

  I slouched down. Whatever. It didn’t matter what or for whom. Adding another performance meant more rehearsals, and I didn’t have time for that. I needed to be out looking for Anushka. The need to be out on the streets doing something was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.

  But my mother had set conditions when I’d come to Trianon, and the primary one was that I perform often and that I perform well. Failure would see me evicted from her house before I could blink, and I had no other skills for supporting myself in Trianon. Even if I did, none of them would give me the sort of access to all the levels of society that singing d
id, which meant that I had no choice but to indulge my mother’s wishes.

  I closed my eyes, feeling the pressure of the promise I’d made to the King. It wasn’t anything like a promise made to another human. I had barely gone a moment without thinking about how badly I needed to find her. My hunt had monopolized my thoughts since I’d left Trollus, but now it was much worse. Obsessive. I needed to find her, but the question was how? I had already done everything I could think of to find her – short of walking through the streets, screaming her name, and hoping she might deign to show herself.

  And I hadn’t the slightest idea how to use magic to improve my chances. None of the spells in the grimoire mentioned anything about how to find someone, and it was my only resource. I needed a teacher, and not just anyone would do. I needed someone who understood the dark arts.

  The room went quiet, and I opened my eyes to see my mother swaying across the floor. She settled down on a banquette in the middle of the circle, always the star of the show.

  “Thank you all for coming,” my mother said, pausing to blow steam off the cup Julian had handed her. “I have very exciting news that I’m finally able to share.” She paused again for effect. “I am so pleased to announce that the Regent’s wife, Lady Marie du Chastelier, has commissioned our company to stage and perform a masque for her annual winter solstice party.”

  Most of the company exchanged confused glances, but history of the arts had been one of the things I’d studied in Trollus. I cleared my throat. “Haven’t masques been out of fashion for, I don’t know, two hundred years?”

  My mother raised one tawny eyebrow. “What is old is new again, dearest.”