“You said the staff would be surprised to discover I fancied romance.” I hesitate. “But not you?”
“I wondered at first.” He shrugs. “You were so stoic. So reserved. There’s never been any mention of courtship—official or otherwise. No dalliances. No companionship whatsoever.Nothing.Prince Corrick is a gentleman, and devoted to Tessa, but even he haseyes. But you . . . ?you never seemed to look, never made a passing comment, never lingered. Not with anyone. Which is fine, of course.”
“What changed?” I prompt, because now I’m curious.
“Delegate Plum visited from Mosswell with his husband,” Quint says. “Two years ago. They were sitting in the gardens while the porters unloaded their carriage. You paused to watch them. It was only for a moment, but it was the first time I’ve ever seen you look . . . longing.”
I frown. I remember that. Their visit had taken me by surprise, because we hadn’t been informed that the consul had chosen a new delegate. And there they were, just sitting in the garden in the sunlight, holding hands.
“After that,” Quint says, “I started to pay attention. You might not comment or linger, but sometimes men would pass. You would notice.”
“EvenIhave eyes,” I say.
He smiles—but I don’t.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Quint says.
“You haven’t.” But I move away to sit on the edge of the bed, and I tug at the laces of my boots. I’ve never talked about any of this with anyone, so it’s weird to reveal any of it now. At the same time, it almost feels as if Quint knows—as if he’s figured most of this out on his own. “When I was a boy,” I say, “I was very sick. There was a time when my parents were worried I wouldn’t survive to adulthood.”
“Corrick has told me those years were very difficult.”
I shrug a little, then pull my boots free. “Once I made it into adolescence, I still fell ill often, though not as badly as when I was a child, so my parents would tell me that I should marry young. Create an heir as soon as possible.” I give Quint a knowing look. “But by then, I was already aware that there was going to be a minor problem with that.”
He stares back at me. “You didn’t tell them.”
I shake my head. “No. They had no idea. And I’m not going to swindle a girl into a false marriage.”
“It’s not uncommon.”
“It’s still a spectacle. I won’t do it.”
“You think they would’ve objected to your intentions?”
I frown. It’s something I’ve always wondered, and they died before I found the courage to discuss it. “I don’t know. My illness was disappointing enough. I could hear it in every whisper. No one wants a weak king. It was a constant worry. I wasn’t sure how they’d react to the news that I had no desire to create an heir either.” I pause. “I also wasn’t sure how Corrick would feel, knowing that the pressures of the Crown, the duty of continuing the lineof succession—it would eventually fall to him. He was already looking for ways to escape the palace, and this is just another trap.”
Quint’s eyebrows go up. “So he has no idea either?”
“He’s never asked, and I’ve certainly never told him. You might know better than I would.”
“Prince Corrick all but idolizes you. I’ve only ever heard him say that you have no patience for casual flirtation. Honestly, I believe he thinks you’re guarding your heart—and so he guards his. It’s very likely the reason he’s never courted anyone himself until now.”
I never really considered that.
Quint watches me, but he hasn’t moved from where we were by the washbasin. The distance between us now feels like a mile. I’ve said far too much. He knows more than anyone. And even though it’s all rather useless information, I feel bare. Vulnerable. Exposed.
On a night when I already felt vulnerable and exposed.
The worst part is that I regret this distance. I regret that I moved away. I’m already replaying the slow movement of his fingers across my skin, and I’m worried it’s a memory I’m going to have to hold for another few years before anything like it ever happens again.
Because what he said was true: I do guard my heart along with everything else. I’m the king, and my entire night was just ruined because of an act of betrayal. My entirelifehas been one long string of betrayals chased by pity. The poor king who can barely hold his kingdom together. I have no idea how to trust that anything is genuine.
Quint is studying me. “Ihaveupset you,” he says.
“No,” I say. But that’s a lie, and gooseflesh has sprung up across my arms again. The heady emotion from a few minutes ago is adistant memory, and too many worries are crowding back into my thoughts.
“You pity me,” I say.
“No, Your Majesty.”
