Page 35

He uncrossed his arms and straightened, his gold-brown hair catching the light. “Ready to go?”

I nodded. “You’re sure you want to come with me?”

He raised one brow. “Do you not want me to?”

“No, I—”

“No?” Keil’s brow arched higher, a more roguish smile now pulling at his lips. “You certainly know how to injure an ally, my lady.”

Though I gave him an exasperated look, my nerves settled. Because this teasing felt natural—a return to the dynamic I was most accustomed to, free of longing or expectation, or the tender ache I’d experienced during the carriage ride.

Choosing to play along, I said, “I just assumed a prince would have more pressing things to do with his time.”

“And what do you suppose we princes do?”

“Study world languages, sample the summer varieties of peeled grapes.” I shrugged. “Lounge on daffodils while servants fan you with golden feathers?”

His grin widened. “Are you mocking me, my lady?”

“If you have to ask, I’m clearly not doing a good enough job.”

He chuckled under his breath, and I ignored the way my specter fluttered at the sound. “In that case,” he said, “I should inform you that I know three languages, I’ve already sampled this season’s grapes—unpeeled, you’ll be disappointed to hear—and I prefer to be fanned with palm leaves rather than with feathers.”

My mouth twitched. “And I thought nobles were demanding.”

“Well, I wouldn’t absolve them too quickly. I once heard a fanciful rumor that the lady of Vereen bathes in a malachite bathtub.”

He’d spoken playfully, without insinuation, remaining behind the boundary I’d drawn between us. Yet my cheeks suddenly flamed with all the heat he hadn’t put into the words. Because they implied that he must have, at some point, thought of me bathing.

“Besides,” he said, either oblivious to my flush or willing to overlook it, “I know many of Rheya’s guards personally. If they catch you outside the estate, I can reason with them.”

“And if they’re immune to your charms?”

“Then I shall congratulate them,” he said, winking, “for they would be the first.”

I rolled my eyes and turned toward the arched front door, the compass weighing against my hip. “So where exactly are we—?”

“Your hair,” Keil said abruptly, making me halt.

I glanced over my shoulder. “What about it?”

Keil swallowed, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “You—” He winced, tried again. “You may wish to wear it down.”

If he’d said it suggestively—as though declaring his own preference—I might have given a dry reply. But his tone had been concerned in the way of someone about to impart difficult news.

Dread crept over me. “Why?”

Keil slowly approached, his expression shadowed. “May I?”

I nodded without knowing what he was doing, my heart drumming.

His warm hand curved around my shoulder, and he gently turned me to face the mirror above the hallway table. I followed his movements in the reflection as he reached around me, retrieving a handheld mirror from the drawer. He angled it to reflect the back of my neck.

I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. Couldn’t understand why it appeared as though thin black roots had been inked into my nape.

Then my stomach sank with a slow, quiet horror as I realized what this was. And realized, too, that the dense root-like tattoos I’d seen on Valeria and Goren hadn’t been tattoos at all. They had been scars.

Dullroot scars.