His eyes flick up again, and he closes the book. “I was making an accounting of what Annabeth said, in the event you query it later. Then your offer to Saeth as well, as you had not made your plans with Thorin known. I wanted to remember—”
“I didn’t know I needed to consult with you,” I say sharply.
“You don’t, of course, but now I’m aware. Reed and Sommer are a decent choice. I see no reason to question their loyalty. I was also making note to discuss lodging with Beatrice, because if you intend to bring two more guards here, as well as Saeth’s family, wewill need more than a two-room house.” A line appears between his eyebrows, and he flips the book open again. “On that note, I should also—”
I roll onto my knees and snatch the book right out of his hands. His pencil goes streaking across the page.
It’s possibly the most childish thing I’ve ever done.
For the barest moment, a flare of challenge hangs in the air. I think he’s going to snatch the book back, that we’re going to tussle for it. It’s a weird sense of anticipation, because I can’t remember the last time I ever tussled with anyone for anything. Not even Corrick.
But then he must remember his place, even though I seem to have forgotten mine. He draws his legs up to sit cross-legged, and he straightens to sit upright against the wall. “Your Majesty?”
The light from the lantern flickers off his features, turning his red hair gold. He was always lax about shaving in the palace, and he’s even more so now, leaving a dusting of red to coat his jaw.
I frown and sit back on my heels, then hold out the book. “Forgive me.”
He takes it, but he doesn’t look at it. “It’s not private,” he says. “You could have asked.”
“Don’t chastise me, Quint.”
“I’m informing you. It’s simply palace notes.”
Much like the moment I thought we were going to fight over the book, this quibbling has a weirdly anticipatory feel to it. We would sometimes bicker in the palace, but Corrick would always interject.
“Are youarguingwith me?” I demand.
His eyes glint in the light. “I fail to see how I could be.”
I inhale sharply, but the door opens, and Thorin stands there. He looks down at me, and then at Quint—and then back to me. “Is all well?” he finally says.
And then I realize that I’m kneeling on the porch, glaring at Quint petulantly, and there’s no way to undo it without drawing more attention to my position.
Thorin’s expression doesn’t give away a single hint of surprise or judgment, but I doubt it’s escaped his notice.
“All is fine,” I say evenly.
“The king simply wished to debate semantics,” says Quint. He opens his little book and goes back to writing as if the last three minutes didn’t happen.
Now I want to snatch the book back and hit him with it.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I realize that none of my agitation is with Quint at all.
Thorin glances between the two of us again, then says, “Forgive me,” and he closes the door.
I shift to sit against it, then draw my legs up to sit cross-legged too. Everything inside me is so jumbled up. I shouldn’t be bickering with anyone, but I’m just so angry and sad and worried and a whole host of emotions I probably couldn’t name.
I rub my hands over my face and sigh, then look out at the night. “Lord, I miss my brother.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I do, too.”
I turn my head and look at him. Again, I’m a fool. Of course there’s someone Quint is missing. He’s probably as lonely as I am. He and Corrick were always close.
A part of me envied that, especially once I learned that my brother had Tessa as well. I never had anyone.
“Corrick would be better at all this,” I say.
Quint laughs as if I’ve startled him. “No.” Then he sobers, and his pencil goes still for a moment as he reconsiders. “Well.”
