“Is he not the king’s advisor?”
“Neither he nor the king are your friends, sir.”
“But you are.” The boy’s eyes dance, despite his weariness.
“I work for someone who will treat you fairly. They can offer you freedom. Or passage back to your homeland if that is what you desire.”
“What I desire …” The boy’s mouth twists. Howard has the strangest feeling that she is looking into a mirror; not that the two of them look alike, but that theyarealike. Like her, this boy is untethered. Like her, he can no longer see the path ahead.
Howard kneels beside him. Beneath her sleeves, she fingers the golden bangles concealed there. The boy watches her. He is still lying down, but he is attentive. Relaxed but respectful. Then his eye catches upon the cut on her collarbone. He sits up, mindless of his own extensive injuries.
“You are hurt,” he says. He scrambles along the table beside his bed. “The physician left some bandages …”
He finds a stray piece of cloth and some rubbing alcohol, and turns back to her. He hesitates. “Would you prefer to tend to yourself?”
Howard feels as though she has been struck. It is akin to the moment at the Moon Ball when Cleves spoke to her in the midst of her panic. Sometimes only a few words can make one realise a falsehood that one has carried for so long it is part of your skin.
With one question, this stranger has exposed the lie of Henry’s love. For he has never sought permission to touch her. She takes the cloth and bottle of alcohol and mutely cleans her wound. Then, impulsively, she slips one of her bracelets from her wrist and hands it to him. Theboy’s eyes widen at the sight of the gold. He presses it gently in a way that tells her he understands precious metals. His fingers leave a faint print on the jewellery.
“I am Queen Howard of Plythe, sir. I am working with Queen Seymour against my husband. He is not a good man. I ask for your help.”
She is surprised that her voice is more certain than she feels, as though simply taking action has lent her confidence.
The boy begins to laugh. Howard stands. She doesn’t know why it matters so much to her that he believes her.
“I don’t care that you don’t believe me,” she says.
“Oh, I do,” he replies, wiping tears from his eyes and leaving bloody streaks on his cheeks. “I do believe you, Your Majesty.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“You would not get a queen in my country who would break a prisoner out of their gaol. But I should have known. You Elbenese royals are a different breed altogether.”
Of course. He was on board the Dowager Queen’s ship. The way he says it, full of admiration, makes Howard’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
The boy hesitates only a moment longer before nodding.
“Fescesta, I will help you,” he mutters, in a way that makes Howard think it is some Perfugian curse. He swings his legs painfully slowly to the floor.
“I am not going to be as fast to make an escape as you may like, though.” She wedges her shoulder beneath his arm and helps him to his feet.
The sound of voices echoes down the gallery. A moment later, someone attempts to open the door and finds it jammed.
The goddess’s favour has run out. Their easiest exit is blocked.
“The window is big enough, I think,” the boy says.
Howard peers through it. He’s right: it is big enough and she should be able to smash it, but it opens onto the road below – cobbles and stones.
“The drop would kill us,” she says.
“Then – can you fight? Because otherwise I think we may both be about to be tortured.”
They cast around the room for possible weapons and both seize upon a candlestick. The boy relinquishes his grip at the same time as Howard relinquishes hers, and the stick clatters to the floorboards.
“Please, you,” he says.
“No, you should …” she says.
