The queen mother rose also, going to stand beside her son with a coy smile. ‘The king has a gift for you.’
‘A gift?’ That was the one possibility she had not considered. ‘How thoughtful.’
‘This way,’ Borin said, marching away.
He never offered her his arm or gestured for her to go ahead. He was forever in a rush in her presence. She always felt like an inconvenience. But she followed dutifully, glancing once over her shoulder at Astin, who remained at the edge of the terrace.
‘Down there,’ Borin said, pointing over the balustrade.
She approached slowly, peering over the edge. Below was a one-horse wagon carrying a dead cow. Its throat was cut, and its tongue hung out. The head dangled over the back at a strange angle.
‘Oh. It’s a… dead animal.’
‘Bled out and ready for butchering,’ Borin said. Registering her confused expression, he added, ‘For your charity work. Mother told me you like to feed the poor.’
He said that like it was an unusual leisure pursuit of hers. ‘Yes, I’m quite partial to keeping people alive.’
The joke blew past him. ‘Well, do with it as you wish. You are free to go to the merchant borough. The kitchen staff should be able to assist you with whatever you need.’
It was the nicest thing he had ever done—even if it was his mother’s idea. He appeared to be trying, so she took the olive branch he was offering her. ‘Perhaps you would like to accompany me.’
He snorted. ‘Do you honestly expect the king of Chadora to ladle soup into bowls for the poor? I do not even ladle soup into my own bowl.’
She had dined with him enough times to know that was true.
‘Oh, and I have invited your uncle to dine with us tonight. He is keen to see how you are getting on.’
Lyndal tried to keep her face neutral.
‘You will join us for dinner this evening,’ he said. It was an order, not an invitation. ‘And make sure the plebeians know where the meat has come from. Credit where credit is due and all that.’
Her smile seemed to have frozen on her face. ‘I shall sing your praises from their eroding rooftops, Your Grace.’
With a curt nod, he strode off in the other direction.
Queen Fayre walked over to Lyndal, looking rather pleased with herself. ‘He is a better man already because of you. Someday, he will be a better king.’
Lyndal peered over the edge at the ox again. ‘A generous gift, yet he’s no fonder of me.’
‘Give him time. His pride is likely wounded from the dinner you shared the other night.’
Lyndal looked back at her with a questioning expression.
‘When he asked you to join him in his bedchamber,’ the queen mother explained.
Lyndal felt the colour drain from her face. ‘He told you about that?’
Fayre’s eyes shone with amusement. ‘He does not take rejection well, and he needs to be reassured that he is not the problem.’
‘Does that makemethe problem?’
The queen mother suppressed a smile. ‘You were the perfect lady, but you must learn to say no in a way that does not wound his fragile ego. It is an art form, one I can teach you.’
That would be a fun lesson.
‘Fletcher,’ Fayre called.
Astin made his way over to them. ‘Yes, Your Majesty?’
