“Or I would’ve gotten you out,” he says stubbornly. “Gotten you free. That’s what matters.”
The fact that he’d even considered it speaks volumes.
He lifts his cup, takes a long draw from it and then says, “Midas wanted to take you along with him on his own caravan to Fifth Kingdom, you know.”
My brow furrows. “Really?”
Digby nods slowly, eyes down in his cup. “I was the one who suggested it would be smarter to send you separately, in case anything happened to the royal envoy. Convinced him that he needed to assess things at Ranhold before he should send for you. To make sure you would be secure there. I gave him a vow that I would protect your travel to Fifth. That you would be safe with the other saddles.”
His face is troubled again, forehead wrinkled in thought, while I just slump against my seat, taking it in.
“But really, I knew after what happened with King Fulke, you just needed time apart from the bastard. He always kept you so fucking tight in his fist.” His own hand curls together as if he’s imagining Midas’s grip around me now. “But I almost got you kidnapped by fucking snow pirates.”
My mind whirls with this information. I had no idea that Digby’s guilt ran this deep.
“If it weren’t for you, I might never have gotten out of that cage. That trip was the catalyst to it all,” I tell him. “And you’re right, I did need time apart. That was my first taste of freedom in a long time, and if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have met Rip that night. I wouldn’t have started to question...everything.” I shake my head, my chest feeling tight. “You can’t keep blaming yourself, Digby. Because all the horrible things that happened to me, they led me here.”
Digby watches me steadily, and I let him see the truth in my face. Let him see that I mean exactly what I’ve said.
“And I’m glad I’m here, Dig,” I add on a murmur. “Despite it all, I’m glad I’m here with you.”
I see him swallow hard, his eyes gone glassy just before he sniffs it away. The two of us, we understand the progression, witnessed the journey from there to here over all these years. So I take a deep breath, and then I shrug off my clinging ache. Because we aren’t there anymore. We’re here.
And I want to make the most of it.
I take the bottle, pouring more wine into his cup. “So, what do you say we finally play that drinking game?”
He blinks at me, letting out a husk of a laugh as he drags his cup toward him. “Alright, Lady Auren. You can have your drinking game.”
My lips curve up, and I hold up the bottle in a toast. “No longer live the king.”
His mouth curves in a rare smile that I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. “No longer live the fucking king. And may you kick anyone’s ass who ever tries to hurt you again.”
I think it’s the perfect way to start our game.
I clink the bottle against his cup. “My thoughts exactly.”
CHAPTER 22
QUEEN MALINA
The man sitting across from me is polished and poised, as if he’d grown up in royal court all his life. In actuality, he’s been a rootless nomad. He’s traveled all over Orea doing odd jobs, helping the poor, chasing away thieves and raiders.
Why he decided to come to this frozen edge of the world, I don’t know. But he showed up to visit Highbell, and when I saw him appear at court the first time, our eyes locked. He’s been here ever since, though I still can’t quite fathom it. He seems to have just dropped from the sky.
“You are very beautiful.”
My lips curl up at the compliment. “I know.”
I’m certain that my reply catches him off guard, because his brown eyes widen a fraction before he gives off a small laugh.
But it’s true. I do know I’m beautiful. Any beautiful person who says otherwise is lying. Sometimes, it’s to fish for compliments. But mostly, it’s because they have been taught by society—men, in particular—that we have to downplay our beauty, to only let them determine it. To seem humble. But I don’t have to be humble.
I’m a princess.
Of course, being a princess has its downsides too. Right now, for instance. Instead of being able to have this conversation privately, there’s an audience. Three of my ladies-in-waiting are embroidering by the window. Though even I can tell they’re more interested in eavesdropping than making their stitches. I should walk over to the fireplace that’s tucked into the corner of the tea room and toss their hoops into the flames, letting them balk. Yet my mother taught me to never let my temper burn hot. Rashness, fiery tantrums, outbursts, those are never well thought out.
Punishment is best served cold.
