This time, she did drop him. At least it was beneath a tree, onto the last patch of grass before the riverbank sloped downward and crumbled into the water. He groaned as he slid down until he was flat on his back, his head askew. The circlet at his forehead remained perfectly in place.
“I suppose your muscles are much like your crown,” she noted, staring down at him.
He managed to cock his head, a mischievous smile lifting a corner of his lips. “Perfect? Impressive? Rock hard?” His eyebrows waggled.
“Purely decorative.”
A sudden bark of laughter erupted out of him, which he bottled up a moment later with a grimacing hiss. When the pain subsided, his gold eyes sparkled with begrudged amusement. “So long as it impresses the ladies. Or gentlemen. Or anyone with an appreciative eye.”
That ruled her out. Instead, she took stock of herself, covered in a forest vomit of moss, leaves, and twigs. Perhaps even real vomit. Definitely some blood, though it was difficult to tell how much in the silver light. Then she cast a cursory glance at the stream in consideration. It didn’t appear to be made of noxious water.
Prince Javi seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Go get clean. I’m positive bears can smell blood.”
“You’re thinking of sharks.”
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes in defeat. “Let’s hope there are a few sharks in that stream, then.”
“I’m starting to think you know little about animals. But I appreciate your concern.”
The air outside the Bosque was balmy and sticky, hinting thatsummer had just arrived for the rest of the kingdom. Insects droned in the background, loud against the burble of the stream. Critters skittered over the grass about them, and she felt the horror from the night unravel like a spool of thread.
Risa went down the bank and waded into the stream, hoping the water could clear away her guilt. She let her clothes float on the current and scrubbed her face in the hopes of scrubbing away the memories of the camp.
When she returned to the tree, she found that Prince Javi had shimmied out of his pristine doublet and was offering it to her, eyes averted. The Itranian velvet was still warm from his body as she used it to dry herself. She rustled through her bag for the change of clothes she’d packed—ugly, rough-spun cotton she’d thought would be good for an adventure with an old hag but looked sad and dowdy for this adventure with a prince.
“Are you decent?” Gold eyes screwed shut, pain lining the furrow between his brows.
She glanced down at the brown trousers several inches too short for her long limbs and the boxy tunic, several sizes too big, that did nothing for her figure. “Yes.”
He opened his eyes, full of relief. “Now it’s my turn. I need you to fix me.”
She had been halfway to a crouch when the words registered. “Fix you?”
“With your magic.”
“I thought we had established the magic thing—”
“Try.” Long lashes fluttered like moth wings over the tops of his cheeks as he closed his eyes. “The last time this happened, I wasbedridden for a week. I assume you don’t want to risk being stuck with me here like this and getting captured. And killed.”
“I could just leave you here.”
He offered her an impressive glare. “This again? Didn’t work too well last time.”
“Or you could try sayingplease. I know the concept is foreign to you, but as it turns out, not everyone wants to bend to your every whim and fancy.”
“Please.” No argument. Only a desperate, one-worded plea.
Oh. He actually needed help.
The word made her insides feel funny. No one had ever asked her for anything, except to demand that she leave or stop being the worst. (Unless they were her mother, who always begged her to stop antagonizing the town, the gods, and the universe itself with her bad attitude.) But now here she was, being asked to do something good, and she would have to disappoint. Because she wasn’t magical. She couldn’t cast a spell, and she certainly couldn’t help someone with back pain.
She stared at his face. Something twinged in her chest. His discomfort was evident, and he believed she could alleviate it.
Racking her brain for a spell, she came up with an old rhyme her mother used to whisper over her scrapes and bruises. Back when she would still crawl into her mother’s lap after a particularly terrible day.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and started her chant. “Sana que sana, colita de rana—”
“You’re saying it wrong.”
