“No need to retreat to the rearguard, Miss Devney,” Asherton said with a hint of condescension. “It can’t bite us both, so until Zephyr gets back, you’re safe.”
Cold metal bit Magdala’s hip, and she realized she had backed against a table, gripping it so tightly her knuckles had locked.
“I think it’s safe to say he’s a carnivore,” the prince mused, unperturbed.
“Does it not hurt?” Magdala asked in astonishment.
“What?” He dragged his attention from the plant. “Oh, the bite? Some, yes. If Zephyr doesn’t hurry, the venom will set in.”
“The venom?”
“Don’t worry, once he grows a little bigger, he won’t be venomous anymore. Isn’t that fascinating? The venom won’t set in for a few minutes, though I admit, I’m beginning to lose feeling in my fingers.” He flexed his free hand, shrugged, and returned to studying the plant. “Now, if it were Lewis”—he jerked his thumb at a carnivorous gawper tuber taller than Magdala, watching them from the far corner of the greenhouse—“then I would be in trouble.”
Magdala shuddered. “And what’s keeping Lewis from eating us now?”
“The copper pot. He won’t leave it. Most gawper tubers are rooted, but his genus is ambulatory. Oh, and never, ever”—he looked at her with sudden gravity—“come in with sap from a Lucent Pine on your clothes. Even the copper won’t prevent him from eating you whole.”
Magdala couldn’t imagine how she would get Lucent Pine sap on her clothes, whatever that was. But in this place, anything seemed possible.
“Do you want a tour before my arms and legs turn to jelly?” he asked.
“Not really,” Magala said.
He either didn’t hear her or didn’t care, because he said cheerfully, “Perfect! Come on, then.”
With the plant still clamped to his hand, Asherton stood and strolled from pot to pot. “My brother and I started propagating carnivorous plants a few years ago. They’re being hunted on the mainland, and we wanted to preserve the species …”
Magdala frowned at an enormous hairy-jawed purple flytrap and wondered why anyone would want to preserve it. But Asherton gazed around with the pride of a museum curator.
“I really should wear gloves,” he said absently, tipping his head to the side to observe the purple flytrap’s leaves. “But I forget. I forget everything.”
She glanced at his feet. He was barefoot again. “Did you also forget your shoes?”
“No point in wearing shoes on this island,” he said. “It’s too soggy. You’ll be barefoot, too, soon, after you’ve had one or two fungal infections.”
Magdala’s stomach twisted. Her socks were already sodden from the rain-dampened grass.
“Do you really not remember me?” she asked.
For the first time since she’d arrived, he looked directly at her. His eyes were more green than gold in the foggy light filtering through the steamed glass. He was unshaven, as before, his fingernails caked with dirt. He was absurdly beautiful, but not because of his sun-tanned skin or his full lips or the sharp cut of his jaw, but Magdala refused to acknowledge what exactly kept lighting that bright spark inside her. The more it burned, the angrier she grew.
Asherton fought a smile. “I could never forget Magdala Devney, the Russuli guard with impulse control problems. No, I remember you very well.”
She drew her head back, her eyebrows pinching. “Are we going to talk about it?”
His eyes sparkling, he leaned toward her and tilted up his chin so she could see the light scratch left by her knife. “Both Zephyr and I are staunchly against my mother’s decision to give me a bodyguard. Do you know why?”
Wary, Magdala shook her head.
“Because my mother wants my newborn brother on the throne, and Huxley thinks I killed Julian. Still, the Only must have smiled on me because, of all the people they could have sent, you are the best.”
“But I gave you that.” She brushed her finger over the shiny pink skin.
“Yes, but you didn’t slice my throat, so as I see it, you’re the most trustworthy person on the royal guard. Which isn’t saying much. Zephyr doesn’t know about our little flirtation at the ball, and so he will expect you to do your job. As for me, I don’t trust you.”
“Then why don’t you send me home?”
“Because my mother will send someone else. And if I’m going to be murdered in my sleep, at least the last person I see will be … ” His eyes fixed on her lips. “… very pretty.”
