“It’s supposed to be.”
“What, is he standing with his hand on his hip like some sassy wench?” Scythe’s words came muffled, her mouth full of pastry.
I snorted. She choked, spraying powdered sugar across the bed. I yelped and fanned at the sugary cloud, shoving the sheet higher over our heads. Her laughter turned into a cackle as she struggled to swallow, flinging her book aside.
“I can just see him!” She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “‘Now, Nienna, don’t look at me that way, or we’ll do something improper.’”
“He doesn’t talk like that!” I whacked her arm with my sketch pad and she giggled.
Earlier, when I retreated to my room, Scythe left to forage for food and returned with two bowls of stew and a plate piled high with pastries. We ate by the fire until the shadows stretched long, then set up a makeshift tent of thin linen over my bed. Moonlight filtered through, faint and silvery, making the space seem private and safe.
She read while I sketched, the cool glow illuminating my work. I shifted on the pillows, tracing lines across his chest with my pencil, smudging edges with the side of my finger. I focused on his scars from the foothills.
“How does a king talk before he kisses you?” she teased, peeking over her book with a smirk.
“I’m not telling you,” I said, laughing as I worked faster, lines dancing under my fingers.
“Better than, ‘Kiss me or I’ll dump milk on you,’ I hope.”
I cast her a sideways glare. “Aye. Who told you such nonsense?”
“Gregor.” She sighed, snapping her book shut and staring at the swaying sheet. “The milkman’s boy doesn’t know how to woo a Draconis woman.”
“And how did he react to your refusal?”
“I kneed him in the balls.”
I threw my head back, laughing until my ribs ached. Edith would scrub her mouth with soap for a week if she overheard that.
“He’ll walk like a reformed man for days,” I said, grinning as the last sweet bread disappeared into her hands. “Don’t let Edith catch wind of it. She’ll put you on chamber pot duty.”
“She already has.” With a groan, she shook her finger at me. “You’d best avoid the blasted bean soup these people serve every other night.”
“I’ll avoid the soup when you keep your hands off the pastries. I swear you’ve doubled in size since we arrived.”
Her mouth fell open. A pillow flew at my head, and I squealed, returning fire with one of my own.
A clatter stopped us. We froze mid-motion, clutching pillows, our gazes locking.
Holding our breath, we waited. And waited.
Edith wouldn’t intrude—not during Scythe’s shift—unless something serious had happened. Rumors about Kallias or, gods forbid, Tallon hadn’t reached her, had they?
Scythe peered down at the plate. It tipped and tapped the bedframe. She grabbed it with a quiet laugh, then set it on the floor.
“Thought we were done for,” she whispered, curling beside me with her book. “If Edith catches me ‘being a rascal’ again, she’ll send me back to Draconia.”
“She doesn’t have that power,” I said, shifting to hold the sheet aloft with my knees. “But I could.”
“Aye, but she could write to your mother. If the Dragon Queen demands my return, I’m as good as gone.”
“Mother wouldn’t. You’re my only friend here.”
“Besides Fyrn.”
“She’s different.” I sighed, shading the curve of his thigh. “I need noble friends in court. You? You’ve been at my side since we were babes. No noblewoman could replace that.”
“I’m irreplaceable.” She grinned and flipped her page with a flourish.
