“Is that what we’re calling them?” The guards down below must be reporting in to him. Does he ask for daily accounts from them too?
“And what would you call them?”
“I don’t know, but they’re feeding and fucking, and they’re not exactly discreet about it.”
Amusement gleams in his eyes, but I don’t miss the flash of heat as well. “Islorians aren’t known for our discretion.”
You are, I want to say, but bringing up his late-night visitor yet again would definitely send the wrong message. “It’s amazing, the way the fighters move in the sparring court. I’ve never seen—I mean, I can’t remember watching anyone fight like that. I wish I knew how.”
Maybe Tony wouldn’t have so easily wrestled my knife from my grip. But then what? Would I have stabbed him? Do I have it in me to stab a person? I’ve always prided myself on not getting lured down the path of violence and drugs that so many other kids on the street travelled down.
“You were semicapable with a blade before.”
“I also knew how to ride a horse, didn’t I?” I found an outfit of breeches, a tunic, and leather boots tucked in my closet, suggesting Princess Romeria sometimes donned something other than silk and lace.
“You were proficient at riding.” A secretive smile makes me wonder if his thoughts are somewhere far less wholesome. “And now apparently you are an artist.” He nods toward Sofie’s face. “It’s almost like you’re a different person.”
I take a deep, calming breath, struggling to steady my heart rate as I meet his penetrating stare, my panic threatening. “I am a different person than the Romeria you used to know. She’s gone.” At least for now. What will happen to her when Malachi pulls me out of Islor? Will this body crumble like an empty shell, or will the sadistic, evil version return? I hope not the latter, for everyone’s sake.
“Yes, that is becoming more apparent with each day that passes,” he says quietly. “But, as talented an artist as you may be, it won’t protect you. You should join the children for their staff lesson next time.” Humor laces his voice.
“With Abarrane? She’s almost scarier than the daaknar.”
He chuckles. “Perhaps with a different teacher, then?”
“And who would that be? You?”
His gaze touches my bare shoulder before meeting my eyes again. An expression passes across his face that I can’t read, but it reminds me that we have a past, full of heated looks and intimate promises that I don’t remember but he does, no matter how much he may not want to. The bit I do remember—in the tower, pressed up against the wall—is enough to make my cheeks burn now. Knowing he can sense lustful thoughts makes them flame even brighter.
I swallow. “What did Wendeline want to tell you?”
“That’s between the priestess and me.”
“But you were talking about me.”
“Yes.” No hesitation in admitting that.
“You seemed bothered by something.”
“You and I held hands and whispered in each other’s ears in front of a crowd yesterday, and you think you know me deeply now? That you’re privy to my thoughts and conversations?”
“You’re right. I’ve changed my mind back already. You’re an asshole.”
He responds with a deep laugh, unbothered by my insult, and I find myself grinning.
He hauls himself out of the chair and moves toward my terrace.
I feel the unexpected twitch of disappointment that comes with the realization that he’s leaving. “When is that royal repast happening?”
“The fair begins day after tomorrow and runs for ten days. We have a tournament of skill within the square during this time. Adley and the others have propositioned ending the day with the royal repast. A grand finale of sorts. I do not see us avoiding it.”
“Can’t wait. The naive princess will have a new dress for it and everything,” I say with mock excitement.
His attention drifts to the flames in the hearth where it lingers a moment, a pensive look on his face. “I am willing to release you once we’ve uncovered the traitor who aided in killing my parents. You will be free to leave Islor and return to your kind, if that is what you wish. I will even attempt to coordinate a peaceful transfer across the rift for you.”
“You’ll let me go? Just like that? After what I’ve done?”
“Now who is thinking in angles?” He smirks. “You have my word. Good night.” Zander strolls onto my terrace and disappears into the rain.
I had big plans to scour every corner of my rooms again, but I take a moment to curl up in the settee and watch Zander’s flames dance as I pick through the decidedly civil conversation between the king and me.
And that is where sleep claims my body.
“Smells of soot in here!” Corrin marches into my bedchamber with a breakfast tray, waking me from a deep slumber. I groan and struggle to orient myself as she draws the curtains and pushes open the terrace door. Blinding sunlight streams in. It looks like it will be another sunny, warm day.
“What in the fates are you sleeping in?”
I look down at my peach dress, the one I wore yesterday. It takes me a moment to remember—I drifted off in it, on the settee.
And yet now I’m beneath the covers in my bed.
I do not remember getting up in the night.
“Never mind. I’ll find you a proper gown,” Corrin mutters. “You are to walk the grounds with Annika today. Make yourself known. Ideally without causing trouble.”
“I don’t cause trouble.”
“You’ve caused nothing but trouble since you arrived.” She pulls a roll of paper from beneath her arm and holds it up. “I managed to scrounge up four more sheets to keep you busy. And some fresh graphite.”
Warmth spreads through my chest. “Thank you. That was kind of you.” And unexpected.
“It’s the king’s kindness. Thank him. I ran around half the castle trying to find it. They’ve been sending out so many messages lately that our supply is dwindling. Paper takes time to make. It cannot simply be churned out …”
Corrin prattles on about paper and pigeoneers and spies, and my eyes dart over to the settee where I fell asleep, to the table where I left the sketch of Sofie.
It’s no longer there.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Must you keep looking at me like that?” Annika says crisply. She twirls the vibrant pink cosmos between her fingertips before tucking it into her curls to join the others. She looks especially radiant today, in a silk gown of deep fuchsia that matches the shade of the petals precisely, her hair flowing loose down her back.
“Like what?” I feign innocence, which earns me a flat glare.
Like she drinks human blood.
My awareness of this fact comes in ripples—a little voice that speaks up now and then, a strange disquiet along my spine that flares every so often. But then I remember I am safe from those hidden fangs, and besides, these Islorians aren’t anything like the parasitical creatures of fiction.
We’ve ventured to a different section of the royal grounds on our walk today, to where paths amble through endless beds of cutting flowers. Workers are clipping spent blooms and yanking thistles that have wormed their way between the dense foliage while servants fill baskets of freshly cut roses and dahlias and a dozen flowers I do not recognize. Some of those will no doubt find their way into my room before tonight.