His eyebrows rise slightly, and then he smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and that grin transforms his face. “Most people don’t know that.”
He studies me, his head tilted the same way Louis tilts his when he’s trying to figure something out. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Cross. Not the artist. You.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Whatever you’d like to share.” He picks up his teacup and cradles itin both hands. “I find that people reveal the most interesting things when they’re not asked specific questions.”
I think about what to say and what matters.
“I’m the youngest of three,” I tell him. “Two older brothers. Both athletes. They’re super protective and convinced they know what’s best for me. My best friend is in love with one of them. They’re going to get married and start a family, probably.” I smile. “That’s my only regret about being here. I won’t get to see my brother’s son grow up like I would if I were back in the city. When they’re little, there are too many precious moments.”
“Your friend and your brother,” he says. “How long did it take them to figure it out?”
“Six years.” I laugh. “They circled each other forever. Everyone could see it except them.”
“What changed?”
“They stopped fighting it.” I pick up a sandwich. “My brother spent all that time convincing himself he didn’t love her. Turns out, he was the only one who believed it.”
The king goes quiet, and when I glance up, he’s looking at the fireplace with an expression I can’t read.
“That sounds familiar,” he says softly.
I wait, sensing he wants to say more.
“When I met the queen, my advisors wanted someone else for me. Someone softer. More agreeable.” He sets down his teacup. “Margaux was sharp and difficult and didn’t fawn over me like everyone else. She challenged me at every turn. Made me work for her attention.”
“And you chose her anyway.”
“I chose her because of it.” He meets my eyes. “That’s rare when you’re a prince. Most people tell you what you want to hear. She never did.” He pauses, thinking on it. “She still doesn’t.”
I recognize what he’s doing.
“The people who push back are usually the ones worth keeping,” I say carefully. “Anyone can agree with you. It takes someone special to tell you when you’re wrong.”
He nods slowly, watching me. “My wife believes she’s protecting Louis by controlling his choices. I’m not convinced control and protection are the same thing.”
The words hang between us.
I take a breath. “Can I be honest with you, Your Majesty?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“I think people deserve the chance to choose their own mistakes.” I hold his gaze. “Even princes. Everyone else gets to be human. Why shouldn’t he?”
Something changes in his expression. Not surprise. Recognition. Like I just confirmed something he’d suspected.
He rises from his chair and crosses to a small table near the window. There’s a portrait there I didn’t notice before, simple and unframed, leaning against a stack of books. He picks it up, studies it, then turns it toward me.
It’s Isabella. Younger than in the gallery portraits, with her hair loose and her expression unguarded. The brushwork is raw and intimate, nothing like the formal paintings I’ve been studying.
“My mother,” he says. “Painted before she was queen.”
“Henri Beaumont?”
He nods. “She understood what it meant to love someone when the world made it impossible. She never stopped.” He sets the portrait down gently. “I didn’t understand that until I was much older. By then, she was gone, and I couldn’t ask her how she survived it.”
I file this away, not entirely sure what it means, but feeling its weight settle into me.
