Out of habit, Olivia’s fingers unclasped the flask from her belt and lifted it to her lips for a deep swig. The wine warmed her throat and belly. The dream petal and bitter root numbed her at the edges, making the world a little more palatable again.
“Olivia,” Sir Dacre murmured from where he chased after her—her own personal shadow. Ever since his return from Coreto’s ducal court with news of the coup, he just…refusedto leave her alone. “That’s enough.”
His hand lifted, fingers gently cupping hers, trying to take her flask away.
Again.
She wrenched back her hand and spirited the flask beneath her cloak. “I am not a child, Tristan,” she snapped. “Stop treating me like one.”
The knight winced and looked away, his eyes clenching, brow furrowing.
She recognized pain when she saw it.
Her irritation dissipated like smoke. “Another headache?” she asked, closing the distance between them in the next breath. Her gaze scanned his face, noting each muscle twitch. Each shallow inhale.
She frowned. “You have not been taking the medicine I made for you.”
“I am all right,” he whispered, lying. Again. His headaches were getting worse. They had been for weeks.
Forcing his eyes back open, he smiled for her—a weak expression. It did little to distract from the way that vein in his temple throbbed, the way his lips grew pale.
Her jaw worked. They did not have time for this. She had to find Seraphina. But…
Scowling, she grabbed the man’s hand and slung his arm over her shoulders.
His eyes flew wide. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping you from fainting right here in the hall, you idiot,” she snarled, wrapping her arm around his waist and tugging him in close. He was an uncomfortable man, armored, solid. “You need to start taking your medicine.”
He thinned his lips, refusing to lean his weight on her. “I will start taking my medicine when you stop drinking.”
She barked out a laugh.Drinking. He thought she was a drunk.
Better that than the truth, she supposed.
She half-walked with, half-dragged Sir Dacre down the hall, their steps stilted, out of sync, as if they were a strange, four-legged creature that had never learned how to properly walk.
Every courtier they passed stared openly. Every servant ducked their head and hurried off, no doubt eager to spread the gossip. Olivia set her jaw and ignored them all. She knew what they must look like.
Ridiculous.
But she was choosing not to care.
She veered right, charging off in the direction of Seraphina’s personal quarters. That was as good a place to start looking as any. She was probably in her study, fretting over her map again.
A flash of white fur bounded toward her from the direction of the queen’s chambers, tongue lolling, tail wagging.Rogue.
The varhound was supposedly full-grown, but he was all puppy when he slammed against her ruined leg with his full bulk and started nosing at her pockets, hunting for a treat. Olivia gritted her teeth, wobbling off balance.
Without a word, Sir Dacre dropped his arm from her shoulders to snatch her about the waist, steadying her against his steel-clad side, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Olivia swallowed hard, doing her best to ignore the strange flutter in her stomach, too.
“Olivia!” Ol’ Percy’s voice rang out over the telltale clack of his cane striking the floor.
She breathed out a relieved sigh and untangled herself from Dacre. Percy would know where Seraphina was.
But when she turned to face the Lord Chancellor, she frowned, seeing he wasn’t alone. At his side bustled Duchess Edith, poorly masked worry smoldering in her eyes. And then there was Sir Arkwright, looking equally grim.
