Quint’s dark eyes flitted over the walls of Loriana’s former bedchambers, skipping the dusty furniture, the newly spotless fireplace, and landing on Toran at the desk.
He shifted in his seat. “No, you mean what am I doing here instead of discussing strategy with the King or doing something—anything—related to this holy mission he’s given me.”
Quint crossed his arms. “You want to tell me why you’ve holed up in here?” He eyed Toran dubiously. “You didn’t stash any liquor in this room, did you?”
“No.”
Though Toran wished he had. He wished his self-proclaimed smarter, drunk self had thought further ahead than the next immediate drink. The truth was this room brought him comfort, unlike the way his other memories of Loriana wrecked him.
Quint stared for a long moment. “Then what are you looking for?”
“You,” Toran said automatically, turning back to the desk. “I’m always looking for you, Quint.”
It was something he used to say all the time. Back when people had floated in and out of his life like jettison on the sea, Quint the one person who never left his side. Once, Toran had turned to find Quint nowhere in sight. A panic had filled his veins.
Turning up later, his friend had asked, “What are you looking for?”
Toran had been so relieved to see him again, he’d said, “You.”
“Toran.” Quint sighed. There was a sad weight to the sound, a resignation he knew well. “I’m sorry I didn’t do something sooner. You weren’t you and I just turned my back. I should have helped you.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
Toran let the words flow through his mind, tucking them away for another time. He reached for a book in the stack—all of them prison records—and picked the one dated from the months leading up to Loriana’s death. Flipping through the pages, he turned back to Quint. “Care to place a wager on how many times Kile Pinyak’s name turns up in here?”
Quint frowned but conceded the change in topic. “I thought you didn’t make bets.”
“I saidwager, notbet.”
“They mean the same thing.”
“Fine.” He shut the book with a snap. “Then guess for me. How many, you think?”
“Knowing Pinyak? Nine?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Thirty-nine?”
“That’s right.”
Quint narrowed his eyes. “So you already knew the answer and yet you wanted me to place a wager against you?”
He shrugged. “Educating myself on the odds.”
“You sure you didn’t stash liquor in here?”
“No, you bastard.”
Quint grinned. “Takes one to know one,” he said, striding into theroom at last. He leaned against the far bedpost, knocking his knuckles against the wood. The sound was low and muted, the wood deep and full inside. “So, thirty-nine?”
“The guy’s addicted.”
“To magic?”
Toran nodded. “It’s the only explanation. Why else would a man willingly consume magic—even diluted—knowing it’ll make roses sprout from his hands?” He slapped a palm to the page. “What man wants instant piles of flowers?”
