So, if she can’t leave with the coat, she’ll have to get him to leave her in such a hurry he won’t think about it.
She makes her way toward the library ladder, sliding it over to the poetry section and beginning to climb. She doesn’t need to go too high—just a few rungs should be enough. When she’s four feet off the ground, she takes a deep breath before rolling onto her tiptoes, pretending to reach for a book just an inch too far away.
Then she lets herself fall onto the carpeted stone below, holding out her left arm to break her fall. At least the agonized scream she lets out when her wrist snaps against the ground isn’t fake. The pain jolts through her body, turning her vision white for an instant. When she opens her eyes, the king is beside her, holding her arm out. Even though she prepared for this, was ready for the pain, it still sends shock waves through her. As gentle as the king tries to be, she still lets out a cry when he touches her wrist.
“I think it’s broken,” he says, getting to his feet. “Don’t move, Daphne, I’ll send for a vial of stardust to fix it.”
When King Bartholomew is at the door, she reaches with her right hand into the pocket of the coat, bringing out the seal and setting it on her lap before pulling out the bottled stardust as well. It takes some effort to unstopper it with only one hand, while the other sends jolts of pain whenever she moves it, but she manages, pouring the glittering gray dust onto the skin of her injured hand.
“I wish this seal were doubled,” she says, enunciating each word clearly.
Time turns to molasses, the air going still around her. When the sensation passes, there are suddenly two seals where before there was one.
She tucks the duplicate into the same pocket of the king’s coat before picking up the original and the empty vial. The door opens and she hastily shoves them into her pocket, wincing in pain as she moves her injured hand.
When she looks up again, though, it isn’t the king standing there, it’s Bairre. The way he’s staring at her, brow furrowed, mouth turned downward, eyes suspicious, tells her that he saw her with the seal.
“I fell,” she tells him.
His expression doesn’t change, but he holds up his hand, showing her the vial of stardust, identical to the one she just used.
“I saw my father talking to the guards, but I happened to have this on me,” he says, then pauses. “What did you put in your pocket?”
“My pocket?” she asks, frowning. “Oh, when I fell, your father’s seal fell out of the coat he lent me. I just tucked it back inside. It didn’t look like it was hurt in the fall.”
She reaches back into the coat pocket to pull out the duplicate seal as proof.
Bairre doesn’t look entirely convinced. “I saw you put something into your pocket, though,” he says.
Daphne ignores her thundering heart and lets out an annoyed sigh. “I know you don’t like me, Bairre,” she says, clenching her teeth in a not-entirely-fake pained way. “But if you’d like to accuse me of something, can you at least heal me first so I can properly defend myself without being distracted by pain?”
Bairre frowns, crossing the room and dropping down by her side. He unstoppers the vial and pours the stardust onto the back of his hand before taking hold of her broken wrist.
“Ow,” she snaps.
He winces. “Sorry,” he says, his voice soft. His touch is soft too—softer than she expected it would be, though the pads of his fingers are roughly callused.
“I wish these bones were set,” he says before glancing at Daphne again. “Sorry,” he tells her.
“For wha—” she starts before the pain in her wrist swells to an unbearable agony. She can feel the bones moving, feel them fusing together, and it hurts like nothing she’s ever experienced.
After a moment, the pain fades, though it doesn’t disappear completely. A sharp ache remains, throbbing beneath her skin, which has turned a mottled blackish blue.
“It still hurts,” she says, looking down at her wrist. He’s still holding it, his thumb resting against her pulse point.
“Yes, it will for a few days, more than likely—have you never been healed by stardust before?” he asks.
Daphne shakes her head. Beatriz and Sophronia both have plenty of times—Beatriz after being reckless and Sophronia after being clumsy—but Daphne has always been too cautious. Oh, she’s had her fair share of scrapes and bruises, but those have always healed the natural way.
“Ah, well, healing something like a broken bone requires a lot of magic—often too much for stardust. The bones are set now, but it’ll take another few days for it to heal entirely and for the pain to subside. I don’t think a thank you would kill you.”
Daphne jerks her hand away from him. “Thank you, Bairre,” she says in a saccharine voice. “For following your father’s orders, though not before calling me a thief.”
He frowns. “I saw you put something inside your dress,” he says. “If I’m wrong, I apologize, but—”
“If you want to see inside my dress so badly, you’ll have to wait,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “We aren’t married yet.”
A scarlet flush works its way over his cheeks. “That isn’t what I meant—”
The door to the library opens again and the king comes in, holding a bundle of cloth in one hand.
“I could hear the bickering from outside the door,” he says. “What is the matter?”
Daphne bites her bottom lip and flashes King Bartholomew her most innocent eyes. “Bairre thinks I stole something,” she tells him. “But here, check your coat, everything is there, I promise.” She shrugs off the coat, wincing as the sleeve goes over her wrist.
The king frowns. “I sent you in here to help the girl, Bairre, not interrogate her.”
“Just check it,” Bairre says, passing the coat to his father. “I saw her take something, I swear.”
King Bartholomew sighs but takes the coat, feeling the pockets. “Everything is here,” he says to Bairre. “Now, apologize.”
“But I saw—”
“Apologize,” the king repeats, his voice firmer.
Bairre cringes but forces himself to meet Daphne’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tells her.
“I accept your apology,” Daphne says with a smile she hopes is more magnanimous than smug. “And thank you so much for healing me, my prince.”
He holds her gaze for a moment longer, searching for something, but she closes herself off, giving him nothing but a blank slate.
That afternoon, Daphne sits down at her desk with the king’s seal, the letter he’d sent requesting her presence at tea, and a blank piece of parchment. The king’s handwriting is more difficult to master than the writing on the marriage contract. Though it’s neat enough, she can see his humble roots reflected in the drifting dots above the i’s and the tilting stems of the letters.