Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Uh-huh.”
“We drink so much for our job.”
“This stuff tastes good. I dare you not to like it.”
I push him through my door. Candles make little buds of light in the room. “Sit there, I’ll fill the pot.”
When I return, blowing the steam from the teapot out of my face, Florentius rises from the end of my bed, gaze rooted to the pot I’m carrying.
He steps up to me and eases it out of my hands, mesmerised by the floral design.
“Set it down,” I say, passing him on my way to the small cupboard beside my bed. “I’ll get the cups.”
I turn back to an empty room.
Baffled, I chase after him; he’s heading into his own room with the pot. “I meant we should have tea”—his door shuts in my face—“together.”
Well.
It’s a work in progress.
I return to my room, the dark and loneliness of it morphing my brief amusement into stomach-pulling dread.
Transferred.
I yank open a book of case studies, flip pages and stare at the flickering candle beside me. Definitely better this way. But . . .
I sigh. No matter my volatile feelings about Quin, he’s facing a difficult challenge. A lot is on the line for him—for his people.
For the aklos and aklas who will be attending the gala.
An hour after dinner, I sneak into the conservatory to wait, pacing between lemon trees. I cast my eyes up, towards the surrounding windows and the glittering cold night beyond. Please come, please come, please—
I pivot on my heels and come to a halt before my dark-cloaked prince, his eyes hidden in the shadows of his hood, his smile shining in the moonlight.
Thank the heavens for Skriniaris Evander.
“My brother passed a message on to me.”
That’s how—“Quin?”
Nicostratus pushes back his hood, revealing his curiosity in the quirk of an eyebrow.
I stop myself growling and start again. “Turns out I’ve known your brother for some time.” The growling starts again. “Under the name of Quin.”
Nicostratus lets out a confused chuckle. “Some time?” He pauses. “Wait, he’s the one who saved your life in Castorvra? The dance house owner you gave amorous perfume?”
“The very one.”
His voice twists into a mortified rasp.
I flush hard. “I didn’t know he was your king brother!”
He stares at me and blinks, and then a deeply fond laugh bubbles from him. “Serves him right for sneaking out to play around.”
“He certainly played around,” I say tightly.
“What do you think of him?”
“I’m not sure I should say.”
“Between us, you can say anything.”
“He’s bright and bold, but beneath the skin, sharp and sour.”
Nicostratus tugs my fingers, laughing, and spins me into his arms. His gaze twinkles down at me. “He’s a lemon.”
I calm down in his warm hold and slowly pull back. “He needs help though. Your uncle is planning something for Sunday.”
Nicostratus stares hard over my shoulder, eyes narrowing on an invisible image between rows of exotic trees. “He has asked that none of us back him up.”
I look at him sharply. “He’s decided to wrangle the wyverns alone?”
“I’m not sure he can do it alone. After he lost the use of his leg and I lost my memories, Father stopped teaching us how. Then when he died, Uncle made sure we never got a chance to practice again.”
My stomach twists coldly. “He knows he’s got the upper hand. He thinks he can depose the king.”
“My men and I will fight alongside my brother; we’ll have a chance if we work together.”
“You’ll expose his supporters. It’s a death sentence for them.”
“We’re willing to sacrifice ourselves.”
My heart jumps at the passion and loyalty in Nicostratus’s voice. He’s determined to do anything to help his brother. I don’t want him sacrificing himself. Don’t want anyone dying.
“This isn’t just about the battle,” I say, gripping his arm. “Quin needs people who believe in him—beyond titles, beyond fear. I can’t fight like you, but I can heal, and I can rally. Let me help.”
Fat, shiny leaves and perfumed flowers whir under us, Nicostratus’s arm firm around my waist as he lifts us into the air. He glides us stealthily past redcloaks on watch, across the murky canal, around the wall cordoning off the barracks, to the theatre I was at earlier. We halt in the shadows and Nicostratus raises his hood.
“I thought you’d be able to come here openly?”
“Not if I want to keep my whereabouts from Uncle’s spies.”
Drunken redcloaks stumble around the corner. Nicostratus presses me into the wall, his arm firm across my chest as their laughter echoes past. My breath tangles with his, but his sharp whisper cuts through: “Move.”
He steers me to a dog-sized hole in the wall. “Through here,” he orders, urgency sharpening his tone. I crawl through with him close behind.
“Where are we?” I whisper.
“Behind my room.” He keeps us huddled in the shadows. “They’ll only check here at curfew.”
Drunken song comes in bursts from the other side of the wall.