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)
My stomach tightens—was that the teacup I broke in the market?
Florentius hesitates, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought finding it was a sign he’d be alright, but . . .” He swallows as he stares wistfully at the pot.
I ask softly, “Why was it left in my room?”
“Because it was his room. Before he was taken away.”
I imagine his brother mid-cup of tea, focussed on his books, when redcloaks invade. “Why? What did he do?”
“He dared to suggest women be allowed to study vitalian arts. He taught the high duke’s daughter in secret.”
My chest feels heavy.
“The daughter saved a life.” Florentius’s fist squeezes around the teapot handle. “The high duke found out. He cast his daughter out of the royal city, and Lucius to that cold, sickly island. I want . . . to save him.”
I slump into his chair with a profoundly touching realisation. I look up at him slowly. You’ve constantly criticised my knowledge, publicly doubted my abilities . . . to shield me.
While also worrying about his older brother, wishing to help him.
“Florentius,” I say on a sigh.
He steps back, brows quirked with sudden discomfort.
I reach out to capture his hand and he rears back like a startled rabbit. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”
I slide off the chair onto my knees before him. “I mean it. You have me as a friend, forever. I will help you however I can. I will—Where are you going?”
He’s a blur of swishing robes as he vanishes through the door. The thunk of it closing jolts through me, and I murmur a fond tsk-tsk-tsk. “Florentius, dearest, this is your room.”
After I’ve discharged my duties for the day, aklos escort me away from the scholarly precinct, and it’s to my shame I don’t figure out where I’m headed until I’m entering the queen’s private chambers. The resplendent tea room. And, waiting before an elegantly laid table, Queen Veronica.
My old friend. Someone I played drakopagon with. Talked to about my frustrations with Father. Secretly practiced vitalian spells on . . .
Once such a pivotal part of my life. A thought of her would refill me with energy, would add a bounce to my step.
My feet drag as I cross the room.
Too much has happened, and I haven’t been a part of it. Too much has happened, and she hasn’t been a part of it.
Even in this royal city, even after the shock of seeing her the first time during the wyvern attack, she’s only been vaguely in my mind. An afterthought. Behind massive tomes of vitalian knowledge. Behind daydreams of a future life with Nicostratus. Behind Quin’s annoyed and annoying quirked brows.
What a friend I am.
She smiles, lips lifting, like she doesn’t share this guilt.
Tea streams neatly into a cup and she slides it to the space next to her. Even surrounded by regal splendour, her eyes sparkle. The warmth in her eyes has me swallowing.
“Forgive me,” I say, and embrace her. “It’s taken me too long.”
She laughs and hugs me back. “Sit, sit. Tell me everything. How you got here, how you came to be close to the prince. To my husband. How is your family doing? Oh, I have things to tell you, too. It’s all quite startling. How have so many years passed so quickly?” She sighs and urges me into the seat beside her. “What’s wrong with your legs? The aklas are whispering.”
“Whispering?”
“I’ve been beside myself with anticipation. Why haven’t you healed yourself?”
I stare at my knees. “To reflect on my actions.”
“Remember to forgive yourself, too,” she says, and I wonder if this is blanket forgiveness, like she’s discerned my guilt and wants me to lay it aside. What a friend she is. “This is your favourite, I had it brought from Hinsard. Drink up. Keep talking.”
Over the delicate tea, I find tendrils of our old ‘us’ and grab on to them. We share the highs and lows of the last years and drink tea in awkward spaces of silence.
He has a wife.
After another silence, aklos inform Veronica dinner will soon be arriving, and her son is brought to her.
A smartly dressed four-year-old enters, following an akla obediently. The fear the boy had during the wyvern attack is masked under polite smiles and good manners—I can’t help but see a young version of the king.
He has a son.
I abruptly stand, wish them a lovely family dinner, and despite stiff and aching legs charge into the courtyard. It’s quiet today. So quiet, memories fill the spaces between shivering plum leaves. Screeching wyverns, blood.
Two brothers fighting to protect their people. One another.
My legs give way and I plonk onto a bench under a tree. I close my eyes briefly on a shudder and reopen them, thankful for a squabbling rustle above. A flash of movement amidst foliage. A golden dove.
It flaps its wings frantically, squawking as it struggles to free itself.