Page 105 of Reign

His strong brow furrowed. “Your eye,” he muttered, rising from his seat and stepping around his desk to meet me.

As he reached for it, I ducked, avoiding his touch.

“Everyone’s seen the bruise. You cannot heal it—people would suspect magic.”

That was true, but mostly I wasn’t finished making my brother feel guilty.

Fitzroy sighed. “I warned you that your tongue was tiresome. Which man did this to you? Was it the carpenter you’re always pining after?”

“I did it to myself,” I admitted, my voice laced with self-pity.

His expression softened to deep concern—a look I rarely saw him wear.

“Smith,” he said gravely, shaking his head. “There are enough people in this kingdom and beyond who wish to hurt you. Don’t punish yourself as well.”

His self-satisfaction was unmistakable, as if he believed he’d just delivered a morsel of wisdom to set me on the right path.

“It was an accident,” I replied curtly. “Save your sagacity for someone else.”

But my words were wasted. Fitzroy’s attention had already shifted to the flowers in my hand.

“Is that a gift?” he asked.

I nodded, hiding them behind my back. “Close your eyes,” I instructed, and he complied without hesitation.

I carefully placed the daisy crown upon his head. It suited him well—though I doubted a man as dashing as Fitzroy could look awful in anything.

Then I lifted the hand mirror from his desk and held it before him. “Open.”

Fitzroy peeked, a grin spreading across his face at the sight of his own reflection.

“How do I look?” he asked, producing his signature smolder.

“Like a king,” I replied, admiring how great he looked in a crown.

Fitzroy smiled. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

My chest warmed, enjoying his appreciation.

He removed the flowers and set them aside on his desk. It was stacked high with festive items—mistletoe, symbolizing peace; holly and ivy decorated candles, heralding the return of light; and a silver plate holding what appeared to be a mound of mud.

“When I lived in Albion, it was tradition to share figgy pudding with those you hoped to remain acquainted with in the coming year,” Fitzroy said, picking up a knife and cutting a slice of cake. “I thought I’d ask you to share it with me.”

“You want to be friends?” I asked mockingly, though I guessed we were already treading that line.

He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I never said that—I said stay acquainted.”

It was only ever a matter of time before Fitzroy’s short temper reared its head and soured my mood.

“All right,” I replied, uncertain if he was teasing—irritated by his tone either way.

I was surprised he didn’t have whiplash from seesawing between hot and cold.

The tradition felt novel, but I sensed it meant something to Fitzroy—his hazel eyes gleaming as he prepared the cake—so I played along.

He held the slice out toward me, yet as I reached for it, he moved it away with an admonishing tut.

“I have to feed it to you, and then you to me,” he explained, clearly annoyed I hadn’t grasped the precise proceedings of this newly learned ceremony.