The next day is more bleak than the ones we’ve been having of late, with gray clouds blocking the entirety of the sky. The air is full of moisture and constantly threatening rain, though no drops have surfaced just yet.

Despite the weather, I’m in a fine mood after the most recent letter from my father.

Alessandra, what did you do! Lord Eliades just withdrew his marriage proposal. He said rumors were abounding about you and the king. What happened?

You know we were depending on this after your failure to secure marriage with the king. Now I will have to start from the beginning to find someone who will have you. Why must you be so trying?

I suppose word of my naked swimming adventure with the king got back to Orrin. I’m so delighted to be rid of him.

I wrap a thick shawl about my shoulders and head outdoors, thinking today to be the perfect opportunity to sneak away for some air. No one else is likely to be outside. Not in this weather.

I take a fresh sketchbook with me and go in search of the gardens Kallias mentioned his mother maintained while she was alive.

As I round the stables, an arm snakes through mine. I’d think it Hestia or Rhoda if I didn’t feel the distinct muscles hidden beneath a copper-colored jacket.

“Alessandra,” Leandros says, “I thought I saw you disappear outside.

You aren’t planning on abandoning us, are you?”

I adjust my grip on my shawl so that I might more easily hold on to the arm of the most narcissistic man in the palace.

“With naught but my sketchbook?” I ask.

“Fair point. What are we to be drawing today? It must have slipped your mind to ask me to model.”

I let out an unladylike snort. “I don’t draw people. I draw designs.

For me to then sew.”

“And we’re out in this chill because…”

“Well, I’m here because I thought the gardens might be a lovely place to draw inspiration from. I can’t fathom why you’re here.”

“I saw an opportunity to finally catch you alone. Any other time I try to approach you, Kallias shoots daggers at me with his shadowy glare.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I admit.

“That’s because you’re so taken with him. But he’s not here now,” he says in a naughty tone. “Tell me, when can I take you away from here again for another night of fun?”

A sad smile rises to my lips. I like Leandros. He’s ridiculous at times, but fun and kind. Not to mention handsome. His manners run a bit short, but he has to be at least a thirteen by Rhoda’s ranking.

But he can’t make me a queen.

I’m about to open my lips, but Leandros turns and places a fingertip against them. “No, don’t say whatever you’re thinking. I can tell I won’t like it. Take some time. Wait for Kallias to do something to upset you. Then come find me with your answer.”

We come to a stop before an iron gate, through which I can see rows and rows of flowers. Leandros halts.

“I’ll leave you to your sketching. But do come find me if you decide you’re in need of a model. Nude or not.” He gives me a wink before striding off.

Such a little devil, but I find a wide grin on my face as I let myself through the gate.

Brick-lined trails wend through patches of flowers. First, I pass by the roses. Each row varies by size and color. Some are all one shade, while others are tipped with pinks and yellows. They’re cared for immaculately, with not a dying bloom among the plants.

Farther along, I see beds of other species. Chrysanthemums and daffodils and tulips, but I don’t go exploring just yet. I stop before one of the rosebushes, the petals a sun-bright yellow. They flare to the most

stunning red-orange at the tips, and I can’t help but stare at the individual blossoms. How they remind me of the flickering colors of fire. One flower hasn’t quite yet bloomed. With just a few orange tips peeling away, it looks like an ember slowly extinguishing. Growing smaller, rather than larger, as I know the blossom will do.

A dress takes shape before my eyes. A yellow gown with orange tips about the hem, individual petals pulling away from the skirts. Finding a nearby bench, I seat myself, flip open to an empty page, and move my pen rapidly against the parchment, letting the dress take shape.

“May I join you?” a deep voice asks. His voice.

I look up, and I can hardly believe that Kallias has entered the garden. He looks so out of place with the black attire he’s chosen for today, with the shadows surrounding his person. They don’t seem to belong in a colorful garden.

Demodocus trots along beside him. But, as some idea gets in the beast’s head, he takes off like a shot through the garden, jumping over a nearby hedge of flowers and giving out a loud yip.

Probably spotted a rabbit.

I turn back to his master.

May I join you? he’d asked. Such manners. Leandros assumed he would be welcome. And whether Kallias actually has any intention of leaving if I were to tell him so will remain unknown. I can’t ever see myself turning him away.

Not just because I need to win his heart.

But because I like him, and I want him near me.

“Please do,” I say, and turn my nose to the empty space beside me. He sits, keeping an appropriate two feet between us on the bench. “How did you know I was out here?” Or perhaps he didn’t. Maybe he wanted to go for a turn about the gardens, seeking the outdoors and potential solitude as I was.

“I saw you out the window.”

“And you followed? Were you not in a meeting?” “I was.”

I look up from my sketch, giving him an inquisitive look.

“I decided I’d rather be out here with you, and I cut it short.” Pleased, I return back to my sketch.

“Are you designing a new outfit?” he asks.

Again, I find myself pleased. Pleased that he would know exactly what I’m doing, because he knows what I like. “I feel at a disadvantage,”

I tell him. “You know my hobbies, but I have yet to learn yours.” Leandros mentioned fencing and riding when we went out together,

but surely there is more.

Kallias cups his hands in front of him and leans his elbows on his knees. “I used to enjoy fencing above all else, but since I became king, I have been unable to have a partner who wasn’t made of straw.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that.

“I do like riding and spending time with Demodocus. I’ve always been fond of animals, but even more so of late.”

As if hearing his name, Demodocus comes bounding back over, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. He sits before me expectantly, waiting for a scratch behind the ears. I oblige him.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I can’t touch another human, but my abilities aren’t affected by animals. Demodocus is the only companion I can have. Some days, I even spoil him and let him in the bed.”

I hadn’t even considered that. That he would seek out contact in other ways.

With his turned-down head, a lock of hair sweeps over his brow. If he were any other man in the world, I would reach forward and smooth it back.

“I used to play the piano,” he says more quietly. “Most everything I learned how to do, I learned from a tutor, but not the piano. My mother taught me herself. She loved music.”

I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat. Is that sympathy? For him? Even softer than his utterance, I ask, “Would you play for me sometime?”

“Do you like music?”

“I think I would like your music.”

He turns toward me, and just like on the first day we met, a jolt goes through me at the connection of our eyes meeting.

The breeze flutters now, sending that lock of hair brushing against his brow.

My fingers twitch, and I look down at my gloved hand. Slowly, so very slowly, I raise it.

Moving as carefully as I would toward a startled horse or a frightened child, I let my hand drift toward Kallias, toward that lock of hair.

His gaze shifts to my glove, and I can’t begin to guess the trail his thoughts take.

But I move at a pace that gives him what feels like all the time in the world to stop me.

Instead, his shadows disappear. He solidifies before me, so that when my finger touches his brow, it doesn’t go through. It meets warm resistance and brushes that lock back.

Oh, but how I wish I could feel the exact texture of his hair.

When done, I let my hand fall back into my lap. But our eyes are still trapped upon each other.

Finally, Kallias looks down at my sketchbook. “What are you making? A day dress? Something with pants?” His voice is deeper than it was before, I note, and it almost rambles, as though he’s making up the words just before he says them.

After a lengthy pause in which I’d forgotten that I’d held anything in my hands at all, I manage, “A ball gown, actually. I was inspired by your mother’s roses.” I look up at the blossoms in question.

“We must throw a ball, then, so you may show it off once it is finished.”

“Could we? Oh, I’ve never organized a ball before.” “Would you like to?”

I nod.

“You name the date, and we will make it happen.”

All of a sudden, I don’t feel as though I need the shawl wrapped around my shoulders. I’m so very warm and light.

Once, there was another boy who made me feel this way. One who made me feel full and seen and loved.

Now the bugs of the earth have feasted on his flesh.

But I won’t let Hektor ruin this moment I’m having with the king.

Something moves out of the corner of my vision. I turn, thinking perhaps it is only a flower stem swaying with the breeze.

But it is much bigger. Much sturdier. Much more alive. “Kallias!”

I throw myself forward, but too late.

A shot sounds before I can move, filling the garden’s quiet. Ruining its peace.

Striking the king.

Kallias falls backward, his back hitting a patch of grass first, before his legs follow, slipping over the sides of the bench.

I’m paralyzed to the spot, staring in horror at where Kallias lies, his vest a deeper black right in the middle of his gut, where the fabric has become damp with blood.

Demodocus leaps after the king. He whines lightly when Kallias doesn’t move after he nudges him with his nose.

My hand shakes as I reach for Kallias, but what am I to do? I don’t know anything of healing.

Help. I should go for help.

I stand abruptly, but then I notice a man running toward us. I don’t process anything other than the fact that he’s holding a semiautomatic handgun, which he returns to a holster on his side, and reaches for the rapier at his waist to replace it.

The assassin is coming to make sure his mark is dead.

I plant my feet before the bench and stare the assassin down. He comes to an abrupt halt before me and points his sword out in front of him.

“Out of the way, or I’ll run you through.”

All I can hear is my breathing in my ears. All I can feel is the rise and fall of my chest. But I don’t move an inch to let the man by.

My single night of failed boxing comes to mind. Unhelpful.

Words are my only ally in this situation.

“You hit him square in the chest,” I say. “Now go before the guards come running to investigate the sound of the shot.”

With his free hand, he shoves me away. I hit the ground hard, but I don’t register the pain as I rise to a sitting position, reaching for my boot.

The rubies around the hilt of my dagger gleam as I bring the blade down in an arc, sinking it into the man’s thigh.

He howls and backhands me with the hand not holding his rapier.

I go sprawling on the ground again, really hating the bricks that take the skin off my knees.

The assassin reaches down for my dagger. With a grunt, he pulls the blade from his skin and tosses it away.

His murderous eyes are turned to me now, but before he can take a step in my direction, we both snap our necks toward the dark shape rising from the other side of the bench.

Kallias is off the ground, standing firmly on two feet, swathed in shadows. He walks right through the bench, and as he does so something metal plinks onto the brick walkway below us.

The bullet.

Though his clothes still bear the stain of blood, he holds himself without a hunch or anything else to show signs of him being in pain. He

takes one glance at me on the ground, at the red outline of a handprint on my cheek, before turning back to the assassin.

“You’ll die for that,” Kallias says, his voice a deep rumble.

“It’s you who will die today,” the man says, and he steps forward, thrusting the tip of his sword through Kallias.

The assassin nearly loses his footing when his sword doesn’t meet the expected resistance, instead going clean through Kallias’s shadow form.

“What the—?”

Kallias steps right through him, and a shiver goes through me, as I remember the smoky sensation of Kallias’s shadow form all around me.

The assassin whirls, facing Kallias now that he’s on the other side of him. He draws his gun once again, and this time deposits the entire round of bullets into Kallias’s chest.

But of course, they go right through him.

He drops the gun as the king pulls his own sword from his side, the shadows disappearing from around the blade and hand that holds it.

And then they duel.

Indeed, Kallias hadn’t lied when he said he knew how to use that blade. He sends out a series of quick thrusts that the assassin deflects just in time. He’s slower with the injury I dealt him, but he just manages to evade each one.

After a time, I realize Kallias is toying with him. Though the two swords meet in the air with metallic clanks, every time the assassin attempts to make his own jabs toward the king, they go right through him.

Like he’s dueling a ghost. Unkillable. Untouchable.

Eventually, the assassin tires of the game. When the swords of the two men come together, he hurls his weight into the connection, sending Kallias stumbling backward.

Then the man takes off at a run, his steps hitching with the leg I stabbed. Kallias runs over to one of the flower beds, bends over the ground, and comes up with my dagger. He barely takes aim before the weapon goes twirling out of his hand.

It hits the assassin square in the back. He goes down.

Kallias whirls on me, bending at the knees on the bricks beside me.

His shadows are gone.

“Are you hurt?” he asks. “I’m fine.”

But either he doesn’t believe me, or he doesn’t hear my answer at all, because his gloved hands sweep over me. First touching my cheeks and neck, then sliding down my sides, over my abdomen, down my legs. Checking for injuries.

But because I have none, my breathing hitches at the contact. And even though his hands are gloved, the heat of them reaches through my pant-clad legs.

By the time he finishes, he lets his gaze return to mine, and he freezes at what he sees there. His hands are wrapped around my ankles. They tighten their grip when his eyes latch on to mine, and a rush of heat steals up my spine.

His hands move to my knees, spreading them apart so he can settle there. We’re close. So close. Too close. Closer than we’ve ever been before and—

“Sire?”

We startle apart at the same time, the two of us not having even heard the sound of the guards approaching. Kallias’s shadows return in a flash, safely encasing his whole body.

Five men bearing the king’s crest on their tunics stand before us, rapiers and pistols drawn.

Kallias stands and holds out a hand to me, the shadows about the offered limb disappearing as he hauls me to my feet. He releases me once I find my balance.

“There was an attacker. I felled him over there.” Kallias points, and three of the men go in search of the body while the other two begin sweeping the area. “Take the assassin to the dungeons. If he doesn’t die from his wounds before then, send for a healer to attend to him. And also send a healer to the queen’s suite. Come, Alessandra.”

Kallias and I walk side by side to the palace. Demodocus leaps over the bench to amble along beside us, the fur about his lips wet from lapping at the king’s blood.

“Useless mutt,” Kallias says, but he looks down at his dog fondly. “He’s a lover, not a fighter. That’s for sure.”

Touching. So much touching. And heated gazes. And assassins with swords and a gun and—

“You were shot,” I say, stopping in place. “How are you uninjured?” When Kallias stops beside me, I reach out a hand to hover over the bloodspot on his coat.

“If I have time to shift into shadow before an injury kills me, the shadows will heal it.”

“I thought—” I can’t even voice aloud what I thought. It’s far too terrible.

“You placed yourself between the attacker and me.” I did? I hadn’t been thinking. I’d just acted.

“Thank you,” he says. “But do not ever put your life on the line for mine. I can heal. You cannot.”

He resumes walking, and I stumble to follow him. I can’t seem to focus a single thought in my mind. It just replays what happened over and over again.

“What did you notice about the attacker?” Kallias asks.

Notice? I try to bring his image to mind, thinking everything through.

“He was male.” I silently curse myself. Obviously that hadn’t been what Kallias meant. Why am I struggling to remember a person I just saw minutes ago? “He wore dark clothing.”

“What kind of clothing?” Kallias prompts. I wonder for a moment why he bothers to ask me all of this when he saw the attacker for himself as well. But it feels important to answer, so I do.

“It was made of leather. The hems were lined in furs. It was … Pegain.” An assassin from the kingdom Kallias most recently conquered. The weather is cooler there. That’s why the women wear pants. The cold can’t climb up their legs.

“Good,” Kallias says, as though my answer pleases him. We enter the palace, and Kallias remains right at my side as we climb a set of stairs.

Something niggles at the back of my mind. Something wrong.

Something off about the assassin. “I spoke with him,” I say. “Yes, I heard.”

“His accent wasn’t Pegain. It was Naxosian.” “What does that tell you?” Kallias asks.

“The assassin is from here, but someone wanted to make it look as though the killer was a foreigner. He didn’t shoot me. Only you. He was supposed to be seen before he got away.”

“Very good,” Kallias says.

“Why are you praising me like I’m some daft schoolgirl?” “You’re in shock, Alessandra. I’m trying to keep your mind busy.”

I realize then that my hands are shaking. Kallias looks down at them as I do. He takes one of my hands within his own, not missing a step.

Kallias is like a specter as he moves through the palace, all flickering shadows floating from place to place. Though his feet still make the imitation of steps, I wonder if they need to. It looks as though his feet hardly touch the floor. The potted flowers sitting on tables in the corridors don’t rustle as he walks by. The black carpet doesn’t indent with his steps. The drapes around the windows don’t whisper with movement as he brushes past them.

I follow beside him, fascinated by everything about him. From the way the muscles in his back flex as he walks, still visible through the shadows, to the way servants press themselves flush against the walls to let us pass. Everything about him exudes power.

We stride down a corridor leading … somewhere. I’ve never been in this part of the palace before.

Wait, what was it Kallias had ordered to the guard? Something about sending a healer to the queen’s suite?

A couple floors up, Kallias stops in front of a door. A potted ivy plant rests upon each of two tables placed on either side of the doorway, the vines growing up the walls and connecting at the space above the doorway. It’s easy to imagine a magical garden lying hidden on the other side.

Kallias, seeing me stare at the beautiful plants in wonder, says, “My mother loved plants. Roses were her favorite. I’m sure you’ve noticed them detailing all the woodwork throughout the palace. She’d grow them in her garden and paint them black.”

“Black? Why?” I breathe.

“Because then they reminded her of my father. Of the shadows.” “Is this—?” I start, unable to finish.

Kallias walks through the solid door, leaving me alone in the dark corridor for a moment. Then I hear a latch clicking, and he opens the now unlocked door from the inside for me.

“These were my mother’s rooms,” he says. Though his hand must have become corporeal to open the door for me, it is already encased in shadow once more as I brush past him.

In the greeting chamber, a large table rests, fresh roses blooming in a vase. A grand piano sits against the far wall. And the wall behind me, next to the door I just stepped through? Stained glass covers every inch of it, little pieces of color forming together to make the picture of a flourishing forest. A deer drinks from a flowing lake. Butterflies hover below the leaves of a tree. And everywhere along the bottom, flowers bloom. The door was made to look like the trunk of a large tree, not

detracting from the opulence in the least. Candles throughout the room cast the whole magnificence of the design aglow, the inner facets smoldering as though the flames live within the individual glass pieces.

“The whole palace has been fitted with electricity, but my mother preferred the way the candlelight made the glass shimmer. I still have servants light these. I think she would have liked that.”

Kallias opens another door, which leads into the bedchamber. The bed sits high off the floor, so heaped with downy blankets and plump pillows, I wonder if I’d have to jump to reach into the expansiveness of it. Red bed hangings have been tied to each of the four posts around the bed, and I suspect they perfectly block out the light when let loose.

Red rugs cover the black carpet, making each step even softer. The wardrobe is massive, a design of rose thorns cut through the wooden sides. A vanity takes up nearly half the wall, an assortment of jewels and cosmetics heaped upon it.

Seeing where my eyes have landed, Kallias says, “They belonged to my mother. Use what you will. Anything else, you can have the servants remove.”

“What?” My mind tries to wrap around everything. Assassin.

Kallias’s blood. The queen’s rooms. “Why are we here?” “These are your new rooms.”

“What?” I ask again stupidly. “Why?”

“You saved my life by distracting the assassin and giving me time to heal. And I have never feared so much for your safety. You’ll be sleeping right next to me now.” And then he adds, as though it pains him to say it, “Unless you find that disagreeable?”

I’m speechless for a moment. “No,” I say at last, my face softening. “No, I’ll stay here. And I’d be honored to use your mother’s things. Don’t have them removed from the room.”

Though his face doesn’t change, I can tell he’s pleased. Perhaps by the way the shadows about his face lighten.

“That door at the end of the room leads to the washroom. And this one”—he points to a door I hadn’t noticed near the bed—“leads to my chambers.”

My throat feels a little tight, and I can’t quite think why. Because I’m so pleased? Humbled by this gesture? Perhaps even a little afraid by the intimacy of it?

Kallias rushes to say, “Also, keeping you in the queen’s suite further helps our ruse. You can also barge in on me, if you like, as I have so

rudely done to you several times.” His eyes are still trained on the door leading to his own rooms.

“I don’t know what to say,” I say at last. The large windows set all the finery to near sparkling. The small potted trees in the corners of the room strain toward the light.

I feel like a woodland princess. No, not a princess, I amend.

A queen.

I am in the queen’s rooms.

“You could say whether or not you like it,” Kallias offers. “If there’s anything displeasing about the accommodations.”

I smile, turning to him. “I don’t find anything displeasing. This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“I’m glad,” he says. Then he looks down to my hands. I realize they’re still shaking.

Kallias gently pushes on my shoulders to get me in a sitting position atop the bed. He grabs a blanket from an ottoman near the foot of the bed and wraps it around my shoulders.

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“You will be, but it’s fine if you’re not.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen death, Kallias.” I wish I could call back the words. I don’t need him asking me questions about Hektor.

“Seeing me kill a guard is far different than watching me kill a man intent on killing us. Your life was in danger.”

Oh, right.

“Why are you so collected?” I ask, glaring up at him. “You’re the one who was shot, for gods’ sake.”

“Because I’ve known for a while that someone is trying to kill me.

I’ve come to expect it.”

Kallias doesn’t leave me until a healer arrives. Some old woman who fusses over me, insisting she look at the red welt on my face. Unsurprisingly, she prescribes rest as a treatment.

“Do you have someone who could stay with you tonight?” the old crone asks.

“Why?”

“After such an encounter, some find it difficult to sleep. Another body in the room might help.”

“I’m not a small child. I don’t need someone to check my closets for monsters.”

“Not monsters. Assassins. Men who would use you to get to the king,” she remarks unhelpfully.

“Get out,” I snap.

The healer gathers her things before quitting the room and leaving me in blessed quiet.