Gripping the glass, Magdala approached Asherton, but as she reached him, he dropped the jacket onto his knees, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed.
Magdala stiffened. She would have been less surprised if he had leaped onto the bed and danced a jig.
“Are you … are you alright, Your Highness?” she asked awkwardly.
“Look at this,” he said, picking up the jacket and opening it. The inside was stained, front and back. “All the blood … Only have mercy, there’s so much.”
Magdala’s palm fogged the glass. “Whose is it?”
Asherton turned the jacket over and inspected a cut in the back. “Oh, that’s where the sword must … must have …”
Gripping his stomach, Asherton vaulted up from the bed, raced into the washroom, and vomited in the sink.
Magdala stood wide-eyed with shock, squeezing the glass so tightly that her fingers squeaked on its surface.
The door to the washroom stood open, so Magdala peered in. Asherton sat on the floor next to the sink, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. He scrubbed his hands down his face and exhaled slowly.
“Should I go and fetch Zephyr?” she asked. This had not been covered in her royal guard training.
Asherton shook his head. “I’m alright.”
“Would you like some water?”
He nodded. “If you don’t mind.”
Magdala ran her tongue over her lips. Her elbow was locked. She couldn’t give him the amenite. Not now. He was vulnerable, grieving. She would wait until tomorrow—there was no hurry. It was weeks until the coronation. She would find a better time.
Swiftly, Magdala shut the washroom door and searched for somewhere to dump the tainted water. She ran to the window and threw the whole cup out. As the glass shattered on the grass below, the door flew open and Zephyr skidded into the room.
“Don’t let him open the box!” he ordered.
Magdala grimaced. “Too late.”
Zephyr noticed the soiled jacket. His cheeks washed plaster white. “Stuff that horrid thing in the bottom of the armoire. Don’t let him see it again. Is he ill?”
Magdala took the jacket and folded it, her stomach lurching when her fingers brushed the stiff wool. “He’s in the washroom.”
Zephyr turned into the washroom. “I didn’t realize until it was too late,” he said, stern as ever.
“I’m alright,” Asherton choked. “It was a shock, that’s all.”
A silence followed. Magdala shoved the jacket deep in the armoire. As she passed the washroom, she glimpsed Zephyr sitting on the floor, and Asherton across from him, quietly wiping his cheek with his sleeve.
Magdala’s world tilted. The prince was supposed to be a murderer, a traitor, and an interloper, and if all that wasn’t enough, he was irritating and strange. She had no time for pity, and Asherton wouldn’t want it anyway.
Anxious for something to do, Magdala tidied the books beside the bed until Zephyr returned, his hands in his pocketsand his shoulders stiff. He knelt at the hearth. “Bring me the matches. They’re in the bedside table.”
Magdala found them and brought them to him. “The jacket …” she began, but Zephyr cut her off. “It was his half-brother’s,” he whispered. “Tiernan’s son. Ashkendoric, but Ash was very fond of him.”
Magdala’s mood lifted. She’d heard hair-raising stories of the atrocities Ashkendoric men committed in war. Asherton was grieving a murderer, a war criminal. It made sense, since the prince was a murderer himself.
“Did the curse catch up to his brother?” she asked.
Zephyr humphed.
“So you don’t believe in it?”
“It’s self-fulfilling,” Zephyr said. “Marwenna feels threatened by Asherton’s claim to her crown. So, she brings down this dire curse on him, knowing it will frighten the people so badly that they’ll never let him survive to ascend the throne. Curse or no curse, your job is to keep him alive until we can prove to these superstitious idiots that there’s nothing to fear.”
