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“I know it feels easier,” I say, “but I’ll be much more able to help you if we have some other people on our side, I promise.”
He straightens his collar. “I liked you better when you were afraid of me,” he grumbles, and it tugs a laugh out of me, partly because I myself am not sure if I’m more afraid of Ruskin or afraid for him now. It’s an odd situation to be in.
Before we leave his quarters, he stops me.
“Here.” He gently pulls at my hair, then smooths out what I can only assume was lingering evidence of our activities in the library. My hand follows his, running it self-consciously down to my neck, but I stop worrying about how I look when he kisses me.
It’s like the fire of our last encounter is reawakened in an instant. I cling to him as his lips capture mine, moaning at the press of his body, which pushes me against the arch of a doorway.
“On second thought, maybe Destan and Halima can wait.” I sigh when he pauses to let me breathe. I’m only half joking, my knees weak and the hunger in my body plucking my insides. Ruskin chuckles and brushes his thumb over my mouth, which I’m sure is pink and swollen from his attentions. The idea that I might look even more in disarray than I did a moment ago sobers me, and I straighten from where I was leaning eagerly back against the wall.
“Come on,” I huff, tugging him by his hand down the corridor. He sighs with what I like to think is disappointment.
Destan and Halima watch us with bewildered expectation once we have them together in my workshop. Destan fidgets, an elegant figure in a deep violet coat today, leaning up against my work bench. Halima stands, as usual, sturdy and primed.
“It’s important for you to know the full reason why I’m here,” I say, glancing at Ruskin, who says nothing. If he’s too reluctant to get things started, I’ll just have to do it for him. “You already know I’m working on something critical for Ruskin, but you also need to know that it’s related to these recent attacks.”
Halima’s brow furrows. “What does metalwork have to do with feral animals?”
“There’s a curse that’s making them feral,” I say, assuming Ruskin will stop me if I go too far. But Destan and Halima have gone so long without any answers I hope they’ll accept just the shape of things now, rather than all the details. “It’s infecting them with gold—and the plants, too, thanks to Cebba.”
“Cebba?” Destan asks, his voice alert with anxiety. “She’s responsible for this?”
He directs his question to Ruskin, who nods, slowly.
“It’s been a long time in the works,” I say. “And it’s hurting Ruskin too.”
The moment I tell them, I feel a rush of relief. I’m not in this alone now. There are others invested in keeping him alive, and I know they’ll be as dedicated as I am—if not more.
As I predicted, Halima and Destan’s eyes snap to their prince.
“How? If this is harming the plants and animals, and thus you too…that would mean…” Destan’s eyes widen, his quick brain putting things together.
“That I’m actually High King,” Ruskin finishes. “It was the only way. Mother—Queen Evanthe—she wasn’t strong enough after the attack. It would’ve left the realm adrift. Someone had to step up.”
I’m puzzled at the way he rushes to justify himself—so sure that his leadership isn’t what his friends would choose. I suppose a lifetime of being told you’re wrong for the role will convince you. But all I see now in Destan’s face is awe. Meanwhile, Halima immediately drops to one knee and inclines her head.
“Your Majesty,” she says, her voice solemn.
“Enough of that,” Ruskin snaps. “I know you call me Dawnsong behind my back, Halima.”
“That was before I knew you were High King.”
“On a technicality. My mother is still queen.”
His voice is firm, and no one argues.
Destan shakes his head. “I can’t believe that all this time…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence—doesn’t need to. He’s obviously considering the scale of everything Ruskin’s hidden from them. And he doesn’t even know all of it. I decide it’s up to Ruskin to choose if he wants people to know what Cebba did prior to casting her curse. I haven’t asked him why he hasn’t exposed her for the matricidal maniac she is, but that’s a conversation for another time.
Rather than seeming betrayed, Destan is looking at me now, a different kind of wonder on his face.
“How exactly did you get him to admit all this?” he demands, seeming curiously pleased rather than jealous, as one might expect.
“I…have my ways.” I’m sheepish and it shows. Ruskin’s face, usually so stoic, must give away something too, because Destan looks between us and then chuckles knowingly, an annoyingly smug look on his face.
“Oh, I see.”
