Evening slowly descends over the palace. I'm back in the library when whispers about the king's return reach me. Ifinish flipping through the book I’ve been taking notes on, steel my nerves, then head out to hunt him down.
I spot Princess Kestrel again during my prowl. She only has two noblewomen accompanying her now, so I decide to risk approaching her for information. The two women she's chatting with go quiet as I walk up to them, then hurry away, giggling and whispering to each other as they disappear around a corner.
Kestrel watches them go with barely concealed irritation. Crossing her arms over her chest, she snaps her head toward me, her long, sword-shaped earrings flashing with the movement. “What do you want?”
“Last night, you mentioned the king was meeting with his high council?—”
“They met earlier this afternoon. I can’t tell you more than this, as I was otherwise occupied during that meeting, and I haven't spoken with my brother since; he left shortly after to deal with more problems in the city.”
“I overheard some people saying he’s returned.”
She shrugs, dismissive.
“Do you know where I might find him now?”
She arches one perfect eyebrow. “If I tell you where he is, you'll go bother him instead of me?”
“That's my plan.”
She considers for a moment, her sharp, painted nails drumming against her folded arms. Those nails are a shimmering sapphire color today, perfectly coordinated to her dress and the dragon-scale accessories on her arm, neck, and shoulder. I’ve yet to see hernotperfectly coordinated; she probably has a servant whose entire job is to make sure her nails always flawlessly match her outfits.
“If I had to guess, you'll likely find him near the kitchens,” she says.
“The kitchens?”
“The Sun Harvest Feast is approaching,” she reminds me. “And we have countless servants to do the work involved in putting the menu together, but Reave can't simply let them do their job. He has to have his hands in everything—particularly when it comes to food. This morning, he was rambling to me about his plans for the dessert course…I’m sure he’s been thinking about it all day, just itching to get back to working on it. As though that idiot doesn’t have anything better to do.”
“Thank you.”
She waves the words away, then leaves without sparing me another glance, heading in the direction of the women who abandoned her.
Her guess proves accurate; after a brief search, I find the king in one of the smaller prep rooms adjacent to the main kitchen.
He’s not overseeing the work of his servants—he’s alone, and in the middle of making something himself. He stands behind a metal table, his hands carefully working a ball of dough, pinching off pieces and shaping them. There’s a tray of already finished goods cooling nearby. The air is warm, filled with a mouthwatering, buttery sweet scent.
He’s so absorbed in what he’s doing that I don’t think he notices me, so I hover in the doorway for a moment, watching him as he finishes preparing the next batch for baking.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him look truly relaxed. Maybe it’s the soft lighting, or the smudge of flour on his cheek, or his slightly askew glasses, or the way his regal outer layers—the heavy embroidered coat, the golden circlet—are carelessly tossed on a nearby chair, leaving him in only a casual linen shirt that isn’t even tucked in.
Strangely, the more casual appearance almost makes himmoreintimidating. Like I've just stumbled upon a wolf without its pack—more dangerous alone, more unpredictable without the rituals of court to bind it
I’m still trying to decide on the best path of approach when his eyes flick briefly up to me.
“Bring me two of those, would you?” he says, pointing to a bowl of some sort of citrus fruit on a nearby shelf.
Cautiously, I do as he asks.
As I place them on the table in front of him, his eyes linger on the string of bruises running up my forearm. He looks like he’s thinking of commenting on them.
Before he can, I pull the sleeve of my shirt down. There’s no hiding the marks on my neck and face, though, so I speak before he can study these too closely. “Even with the turmoil your city has been dealing with this past week, you still think a celebratory feast is in order?”
He picks up one of the fruits and starts to zest it. It smells vaguely like an orange, but one that’s far juicer and brighter than anything we ever had back home. “You know I love a good—how did you put it last night?—wasteful, hedonistic party.”
I bite my tongue, not wanting to revisit our encounter from last night just yet. Instead, I silently note the methodical way he scrapes at the citrus fruit’s skin, the neatly measured ingredients lined up on either side of him, the perfectly crescent-shaped pastries he’s already created.
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” I comment.
“You’re surprised?”
