It’s nightfall again, and I have more questions than I started the day with. I should be focusing on all the lies about colluding with Ostriary, but instead I’m fixated on the fact that consuls watched me send my brother off on a ship to fetch more medicine—and then they sent warships after him.
“You need to eat,” Quint says quietly. He’s sitting at the table with me, just like last night, and once again, loss and worry and heady emotion are filling the air.
Alice delivered stew half an hour ago, but I haven’t touched it.
I stare into the bowl, at the congealing mass of beef and vegetables that have long since stopped steaming. I don’t want to touch any of it. I push the bowl away.
Quint pushes it right back. “You haven’t eaten since this morning,” he presses.
Every muscle in my body is taut, and every breath I inhale feels like a battle. Forget eating. Forget everything. They tried to kill my brother. I long to find a horse and a crossbow and ride into the Royal Sector and shoot every consul I can find.
I’d be dead—or captured—before I made it through the gates.
“Sommer said the brigantines didn’t return,” Quint says. “Our sailors have never been able to navigate the rough seas southwest of Sunkeep, so there’s no reason to assume they would suddenly be able to now. Captain Blakemore surely would have spotted brigantines long before they were a threat. Prince Corrick would know that you wouldn’t send warships after him. I have to believe Captain Blakemore would be able to use his nautical skills to evade them in unfamiliar waters—and those ships were destroyed in the rough seas just like so many others.”
I’ve had these thoughts, too. They feed me a few crumbs of hope.
But I want more than crumbs. I want more than the hope that warships simply sank.
“Is this more of your perpetual optimism?” I ask, and as soon as I say it, I see the tiniest flinch in his eyes.
I frown. “That’s not condemnation. I envy it.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “If the consuls believed those warships were successful, they would have been bragging about their victory right along with the claims they’ve already made. There’s a reason this hasn’t been made public. They don’t want to advertise failure.”
Also true.
It still does little to ease the burn of anger and worry in my heart.
Is this my fate? To have everyone I love taken away from me?
“You said yesterday that you must be serving some kind of penance.” I draw a heavy breath so my voice doesn’t break. “Is this mine?”
“For what?”
“For everything.” My fingers press into the table. “For everything I’ve done wrong.”
He shifts closer, and his hand brushes over mine. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
I sent Corrick away.I swallow, and my throat is tight.
“Do you think he’s dead?” I say.
It’s the first time I’ve spoken these words, and they fall like a stone into a pond. The silence that follows is deafening, accented by the crack of the fire in the hearth.
The fact that he doesn’t answer immediately makes me assume the worst. I look up and find Quint studying me in the candlelight.
My chest clenches. “You do,” I whisper.
“No. I was debating whether to share a story. I thought it may provide some . . . hope.”
I frown. “Then why were you debating?”
“Because it doesn’t have a happy ending. It might not offer any hope at all.”
My heart gives a lurch, and I want to refuse. But he hasn’t left my side all day, and I keep thinking of the way his hand fell on my shoulder when we were questioning Sommer. He misses Corrick, too. I run a damp hand over the back of my neck and say, “Does it give you hope?”
“I won’t know until you hear it.”
I draw a long breath. “Very well. Go ahead.”
“When my grandmother was young, she had a sister who disappeared in the woods when they were picking flowers. She said she was quite distraught, because she and her sister had been very close. Couldn’t be consoled, really. Her mother, too. Her brother and her father had half the town come out to help look for the sister, and everyone kept reassuring them that they would find her. So many people were looking.”
I study him. He already told me the story didn’t have a happy ending. “They didn’t find her?”
“They found her body. She’d been killed by a wild animal.”
“Why on earth would this story give me any shred of hope?” I demand.
“Because my grandmother used to say she knew. She always said she could feel the loss in her heart. That’s why she couldn’t be consoled. She knew they wouldn’t find her sister alive.”
I stare at him, my breathing quick. Quint reaches out and touches the center of my chest, and it’s so new that the warmth of his hand against my shirt takes me by surprise.
“Do you feel it?” he says, and his voice is so quiet, forcing me still. “You’ve known loss. In your heart, do you think he’s gone?”
His eyes flicker with firelight and stare back at me, unflinching now. In this moment, I realize he’s begging for the same kind of hope that I am.
I put a hand over his, holding his palm against my chest. My breath hitches, and I think of my brother. My brave brother, daring and reckless and downright incorrigible.
Cory.
I’d give anything for him to be here right now. I wish I’d never let him get on that ship. The thought feels selfish in so many ways.
As always, he’d be so much better at all of this.
But even though he’s absent, I don’t feel like he’s gone.
As soon as I realize it, a certainty seems to fill my chest, so cool and sure that it chases the waiting tears away and settles my pounding heart. I can breathe for the first time in hours.
“No,” I say steadily. “I don’t.”
Quint nods fiercely in agreement. “I don’t either.”
Maybe it’s ridiculous, because this is the most nebulous hope, but it gives me the greatest relief. I take a deep breath.
“Thank you.” I take his hand off my chest and clasp it between mine. Emotion is swelling in my heart. “Thank you.” I draw his hand to my face and press it to my cheek, then kiss his palm. “Thank you.”
His hand softens against my jaw, his thumb stroking over my skin. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
I go still. “Harristan,” I whisper.
He shakes his head.
“Still a refusal?” I say. “Even now?”
That almost gets him. But then he sighs and draws back. “Well, you see, every time I consider it, I remember yet another moment and determine I simply could not possibly.”
I turn those words around in my head and determine they’re complete nonsense. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll remember you facing down one of the consuls, or standing in front of the rebels in the sector while they threw fire at you, or negotiating with Tessa when you wanted to reclaim the palace. Censure me if you must, but I cannot call a man like that something as simple as his name.”
He really is going to drive me insane. I have to run a hand over my jaw.
“Just this afternoon!” he exclaims. “You squared up to that brutish man with the beard who was refusing to bring food to Sommer. He was twice your size—”
I give him a withering look. “That’s quite impossible.”
“Please don’t ruin my memory. He was possibly three times your size, and you—”
“That’s enough, Palace Master.”
My use of his title draws him up short again. “Ah. Is that how it will be now?” He pushes the bowl toward me again. “Very well. Eat.”
I still don’t want to, but this time, I obey. The food has gone cold, but I consider how Leah Saeth spoke of her daughter begging for scraps while guards tormented them, and I don’t complain. I think of Reed, who was probably hungry, too, and died proving his loyalty. And despite myself, I think of a bound Sommer trying to forage for chicken feed in the cold cellar. I shouldn’t have any empathy for treasonous guards, but I do. I can’t help it.
But I eat my cold stew. Quint sits with me the whole time.
He ate an hour ago, so he really doesn’t need to. His little book sits on the table, but there isn’t much light, so he’s not flipping through notes either. He’s quiet, watchful, not quite watching me, but not . . . not either. It shouldn’t be different from the thousand other times we’ve sat at a table beside each other, but it is. Earlier, there were no walls between us, no barriers, but now an entire day has passed and I don’t know how to proceed again. The idea of courtship is something I put so far from my mind that I never considered the mechanics of it.
Of all the reasons I wish for my brother’s presence, this is an area where I could desperately use his counsel.
But he’s not here, and I can’t sit here in silence. Now that I’m not panicking over warships, it leaves too much room for new worries to crowd into my head.
“Has there been no word from Karri or the runners yet?” I say.
“No.”
I frown. Jonas Beeching, the consul of Artis, was the closest, and also the likeliest ally. The fact that we haven’t heard from him is concerning.
I try to shake it off, but thinking about Artis makes me think about the last time I saw my brother at the docks. “If Corrick survived the warships, he would suspect something is amiss in Kandala. He’d attempt to return quickly, don’t you think?”
Quint nods. “If he returns with Captain Blakemore, they’re walking right into a hornet’s nest.”
I mentally play that out in my head. We originally had no warning that Captain Blakemore’s ship was arriving at port, because the Dawn Chaser had a Kandalan flag. Would Corrick sail under the same? That might give him an advantage—though the Ostrian king would no longer feel the need to send a spy.
Then again, if they were trailed by warships, I rather doubt the Ostrian king was happy about it. The man might send back his whole navy to attack Kandala. I remember what Captain Blake-more said about Kandala’s history with Ostriary.
For one shining second, I want to leave it all to Consul Sallister and the others.
Go ahead, I think. Enjoy ruling while the country is at war.
But no. I could never do that to my people. Sallister would hand over the keys to the kingdom if it meant he got to hold on to his silver.
As always, there are too many variables, and there’s simply no way to know when—or if, I think grimly, despite whatever I feel in my heart—Corrick will return.
But still, we should be cautious. I look at Quint. “If we don’t have word from any of the runners within the next few days, we’ll need to station people at the docks to listen for gossip. We need to hear if any unfamiliar ships are coming to port, if any brigantines set sail, if there’s any talk at all of sailors from Ostriary. Let’s talk to Violet. Maybe she can take some of the children for walks along the water.”
Quint reaches for his book. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
I watch him write that down, the firelight turning his hair gold. I think of the way he kept pushing the food in front of me, when he knew I hadn’t eaten.
I think of the little flinch in his eyes when I spoke too sharply. How there must have been a thousand such moments between us that I never noticed—yet he stayed by my side through every single one.
My chest clenches. I wish I could undo them all.
His eyes flick up. I’m staring again.
I clear my throat and glance away. “I’m sure word has spread about the guards we killed. The consuls will use this to strengthen their claims. We need to undo the harms they’re causing. I need my people back.”
He nods. “Do you have a course of action?”
Little Ruby kept staring at me, her eyes so big. “Food,” I say. “They’re starving. We need to find a way to feed them.” I hesitate, wondering if the men who wouldn’t feed Sommer would be willing to risk their lives to feed guards who might be just as willing to kill them to get at me. “I’ll need to talk to the people in the morning to convince them.”
“You will. I have no doubt.” He says this so offhandedly while he writes.
I watch, entranced. I simply cannot comprehend how he manages to be so kind and so vexing and so determined—and so optimistic.
He’s the impressive one, truly.
“If I may,” I begin, and his eyes flick up again, the pencil going still. My tongue stalls when his eyes meet mine, and the silence hangs between us for a moment.
“You may,” he prompts.
It makes me blush and smile in spite of myself, and I try not to stumble over my words. “Why do you write everything down?” I say. “Your predecessors didn’t.” I frown a little, trying to remember. “At least . . . I don’t think they did.”
He closes the book and sets it on the table. “They may not have, but I find it suits my needs.”
I study him, because he’s said this in much the same way he brushed aside my questions about the list of dates in the front of the book. He’s not lying, but he’s not giving me the whole truth either.
I study him, curious now. “I sense I’m going to have to pry secrets from you, Palace Master.”
He stares at me, implacable. I stare back.
He breaks in less than a minute, tossing down the pencil. “Very well.” He sighs. “I’ll deny you nothing, so I don’t know why I bother trying. I’ll have you know, it’s not a flattering story. When I was young, I was quite the burden on my family. Couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t finish my chores, couldn’t be trusted to do anything, really.” He hesitates, then offers a little shrug. “Downright useless.”
I frown. “No.”
“Oh, but I was. My mother would send me to fetch a sack of flour, and I’d spend an hour arranging stones in the creek. My father would tell me to feed the chickens, and he’d find me weaving straw under the rabbit hutch, telling stories to random travelers. I had a sister who was perfect, worked right alongside my mother in the kitchen and never forgot a thing, so I always felt like a complete fool—which really only made things worse. My father grew so sick of it that they sent me to live with my aunt and uncle in Mosswell for a while, because they thought it was a matter of discipline—and so I endured a long, miserable year that made absolutely no difference. But the following summer, my father brought me home and said he’d hired me out to a miller down the lane who’d gone blind. He needed someone to read notices and bills and draft any new ones for customers. I’m sure my father expected I would do a poor job, but that the man wouldn’t have any way to know the difference. Honestly, I was just glad to be out of my family’s reach, so I went.”
None of this story has gone anywhere I thought it would, and I’m not sure what to say.
Part of me wants to find his parents so I can lock them in the Hold. The darkest part of me wants to do worse.
But now I’m remembering that moment we sat on the porch, when I asked Quint if he had a family, if there was anyone he was missing.
How he said no.
“The man was older,” Quint is saying, “and so kind, and when I saw all the papers and notices that he had waiting for me, I told him that I was unsuitable. No matter how badly I wanted to be away from my family, I wasn’t going to swindle someone. His name was Pascal, and he asked if I could read and write, and I said I could. Despite everything else, I’d always had rather good penmanship. But then he asked if I was honest and trustworthy, and I said I was, which was why I’d be unsuitable. I explained about the stones in the creek or forgetting the sack of flour. I told him about my aunt and uncle who’d make me sleep out in the cold or tie a rope around my mouth whenever I’d talk too much.”
I draw a frustrated breath. “I hope you know I want to kill almost everyone in this story.”
“It was a very long time ago, Your Majesty.”
“How long?”
“Ten years? I was fourteen or fifteen or so. Pascal said as long as I was honest and could read and write, I would do, because the last person who’d tried to help him kept sneaking his coins, and he was worried he’d lose the mill. He said he didn’t care how much I talked, because he couldn’t see anymore, so listening to me gave him something to do. He gave me a ledger and a jar of pencils, and he told me to write down everything. No matter how big or small, everything. Every task, every duty, every single thought in my head if I wanted. He said I could read it back to him later and we would figure out what was most important. If people came to the mill, I was to write down the person’s name, anything they said—everything, Your Majesty. Sometimes I would write down what they wore.”
“This all sounds rather hellish.”
He smiles. “Do you think so? I found it a bit freeing. Pascal said that this way it didn’t matter if I forgot anything, because I could read it all back to him later. I wasn’t perfect, especially not at first, because I’d write down that I saw a butterfly, or that the sun was very hot that day. But as I said, he was very kind, and very patient—and I did write down the things that mattered, too. We got on well. When the afternoons were quiet, he’d ask me to read off my notes, and I began to realize that writing things down actually helped me remember a great deal—instead of allowing me to forget. I found myself telling him everything that happened without needing to resort to my notebooks at all. Then the mill grew busier, and he hired a girl to help him tend the shop and the house. I was a bit frightened then, remembering my sister’s perfection, thinking he was going to have me discharged. Instead, he told the girl to come to me for her duties. He said, ‘Quint always knows every detail. You’ll do whatever he tells you needs doing.’ ”
He pauses, and I can hear the weight in his voice, the importance of that moment. How much it meant to him, to finally feel valued. Before I can acknowledge it, he blinks and looks up. “Within a few years he wanted to retire, because he’d grown too old to work. By then he’d hired half a dozen more people. He was selling the mill, and I was worried I might end up with a boorish new employer, but Pascal’s brother worked for the mill that supplied the Royal Sector. He’d heard that the Palace Master was aging and that King Lucas was urging him to take on some apprentices. Pascal encouraged me to apply, and his brother knew I’d done good work, so he provided a reference. I never thought I’d be considered, but here I am.” He taps the book. “Writing things down.”
“And here you are.” I narrow my eyes. “With your boorish new employer.”
Quint laughs, and it makes his eyes sparkle.
“Does Corrick know that story?” I say.
“He knows I worked in the mill before I came to the palace. But I’ve never shared the rest of it.” He grimaces and looks away. “Not with anyone, really. As I said, it’s not a flattering story.”
“I disagree,” I say. “Your determination and tenacity are rather inspiring.”
“Well now.” He blushes, though he seems pleased. “I shall add that to my treasure trove along with the knowledge that I am ‘very pleasing to look at.’ ”
I grimace, then run a hand down my face. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
He nods, then opens his book, lifting his pencil. “I should write this down.” He speaks slowly, drawing out each syllable as he writes. “Tenacious . . . determined . . . very pleasing to—”
I snatch the book right out from under his pencil. This time, when he comes after it, I don’t let him tussle. I let go of the book, take hold of his shirt, and kiss him. He yields immediately, his mouth softening under mine. No tension, no uncertainty. Just simple ease, simple comfort. There’s something so gratifying to that.
“Ah, Quint,” I whisper when I draw back.
He smiles when I say his name. “I knew you’d break first.”
I brush a thumb along his lip and don’t smile back. There’s so much I want to say, but I’ve spent too many years trapping every sentiment behind a thousand walls in my head.
You’re so much more than pleasing to look at. You’re brilliant. You’re flawless. You’re exquisite. Have you not noticed the effort it takes to summon words when I look at you?
But the words stall on my tongue, proving exactly that.
“I wish I could have met you when I was escaping the palace as Sullivan,” I say instead.
His eyes flare in surprise, but then he smiles mischievously. “Instead of your stable boy?”
That makes me blush. “Well.”
But I say nothing more, because I’m imagining it now: meeting Quint years ago, finding him toiling over books and records in some mill somewhere. He would’ve been chattering endlessly to everyone, I’m sure, somehow managing to preserve his core of kindness despite the way his family treated him. Red hair and sparkling eyes and just enough wild defiance to drive me crazy.
I remember what I was like before my parents were killed, before I was forced to rule a kingdom that seemed determined to tear itself apart. I very likely would have fallen for him on the spot.
I don’t know what he sees in my face, but the mischief slips out of his eyes. “Why do you wish you could have met me as Sullivan?”
Because if I’d met you then, I don’t think I ever would’ve gone back.
I can’t say the words. It would’ve meant leaving the palace. Leaving my brother. And nothing would’ve changed. My parents would still be dead. Kandala still would’ve fallen to the fevers. The consuls would still be running roughshod over the people.
And it would all be my fault anyway, just in a different way.
The impact of it strikes me harder than I expect, tightening my throat before I’m ready, and I can’t even answer.
Quint must see a flicker of my distress, because he rescues me—as usual. “Wait. Let’s imagine it together. I presume with your love for horses that you would’ve played the role of the stable boy. What reason could you have had for visiting the mill?” He taps at his lip, thinking.
He truly is the kindest man I’ve ever met. I cannot believe anyone ever made him feel useless. I stare into his eyes. “I spied the captivating young man writing ledgers, and I was transfixed.”
“Captivating! I really must write these down. And then what would you have done?”
I slip my hands to his waist and pull him against me. I’m pleased to earn a gasp from his throat when my fingers find his skin.
I lean close, speaking low. “Here. Let me show you.”
