The king tilts his head straight back so that he might lean it on the headboard. Even so, one of his horns scrapes the wood. “Tilly, you cannot burst into someone’s bedchamber and demand to know if they like parties, especially first thing in the morning.”
“But we’ve been introduced now,” she says, spotting my cat friend for the first time. She reaches out to stroke him, and though he doesn’t look overly eager, he doesn’t complain either. “And it’s hardly first thing in the morning anymore.”
“She hasn’t even eaten breakfast yet,” the king grouses.
“You mean that you haven’t eaten breakfast,” his sister says. She gives me a long-suffering look. “I do hope you can whip him into shape, Serah.”
My mouth twitches with a smile at the king’s exasperated sigh.
Perhaps I’m taken up with the spirit of the moment, or perhaps this little sister has made me think of my own, loosening my tongue. Whatever it is, something possesses me to say in a grave tone, “I hope so as well.”
The king actually looks tempted to laugh.
Someone knocks at the outer door this time. The king lets out a long moan.
“Must the whole kingdom come visit?” he demands.
“It’s probably that breakfast you were whining about,” Lady Tilanthia says, and standing, she bustles to the door and opens it.
What waits on the threshold isn’t breakfast.
It’s Minister Abely.
15
When I saw Minister Abely yesterday, he was inebriated but well-groomed, boisterous but reasonably collected. Now?
I’ve never seen a man look so haggard in my life.
The clothes are the same, but the embroidered Vasnan overshirt and loose trousers are rumpled and sweat-stained. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looks as if a typhoon took hold of it.
This is when I remember his reaction upon seeing the king at the port. The minister’s jovial composure had melted away in an instant, and he disappeared soon after. One look at his paling face tells me he wasn’t expecting the king to be here for this reemergence.
“Your Majesty,” Abely stammers, plunging into a bow. “Your Highnesses.”
The king is silent. Even Lady Tilanthia appears taken aback, and to my surprise, she looks to me, as if for direction. I hesitate. Isn’t this the king’s place to speak first? Do I really want him to when he’s threatened to kill the man?
As usual, I fall back on politeness.
“Minister Abely,” I say. “Please comein. How may we help you?”
I can’t believe I’m inviting this man into my room when I haven’t even risen from bed, but I don’t know what else to do. When Lady Tilanthia’s eyes dart toward the door and back, I give a slight nod to let her know she should escape while she can, and quick as a fox, she flees from the room, which is exactly what I want to do, not only to escape this encounter but the stifling heat.
When did it become so warm?
The man comes trembling forward. He wrings his hands a moment or two. Then, to my shock, he crashes to his knees.
Oh dear.
“Your Highness,” he says, glancing up at me once before dropping his head, “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.”
Before I can think how to respond, he bows even lower, pressing his forehead to the floor. I start to protest, but he’s already speaking again. “I shirked my responsibilities,” he says, “shamed my country, disgraced my king and my future queen. I am a wyrm, Your Highness, a wretched wyrm.”
I blink at this strange addendum, and at the confession itself. The man certainly owes me an apology, but groveling isn’t necessary.
“I should never have set foot in the tavern,” he continues, as if he’s the lowest soul on the continent. “I told myself it would benefit you if I better understood Vasnan culture, but I didn’t realize…I should have known—”
His words break off in a sob.
