Page 49 of Scars and Crowns

I'd simply smiled and walked away before she could interrogate me. Now I'm standing beside the car outside the palace entrance, checking my watch for what must be the third time in five minutes.

I already know what it says. She's late. Of course she is. Some things never change.

A smile tugs quietly at the corner of my mouth as I glance toward the empty doorway. I've spent half my life waiting for Anamika. As children, it was because she'd stop every few minutes to rescue an injured bird, pet someone's dog, or get distracted by a book she'd somehow discovered in the most unlikely place.

Today . . . Apparently she's still exactly the same. I only hope she hasn't walked into something. That possibility is never entirely unreasonable where she's concerned. For reasons I'll never understand, her mind has always travelled three steps ahead of the rest of her.

Her body simply . . . tries to keep up. Which explains the endless collection of bruises she accumulated throughout childhood.

Scraped knees. Stubbed toes. A spectacular tumble down three garden steps because she'd been too busy explaining why butterflies probably recognised colours.

And my personal favourite . . . The afternoon she walked directly into one of the marble pillars near the west courtyard while passionately arguing that dogs definitely dream. She'd insisted it was the pillar's fault. I still don't know how she survived growing up without permanently breaking something.

"There you are." She appears around the corner almost at a run. Breathless. One hand pressed against her side. The other trying unsuccessfully to smooth back hair that escaped its clip.

"I'm sorry . . . " She stops in front of me, taking a deep breath. "I lost track of—"

"It's alright." I laugh softly before she can continue apologising. "I expected as much."

She narrows her eyes. "That sounds suspiciously insulting."

"It wasn't."

"It definitely was."

I open the car door before she can continue arguing. As she steps closer, my hand finds the small of her back for the briefest moment, guiding her toward the seat. The touch lasts barely a second.

Nothing anyone watching would notice. Nothing that should matter. Yet every time I touch her like this . . . Something inside me quietly settles. As though my heart still hasn't quite accepted that she's really here. That I'm allowed to stand this close. That she's no longer disappearing onto trains. She slides into the passenger seat before turning immediately toward me. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"That's not an answer."

"It is."

"It's a terrible answer."

I smile despite myself. She folds her arms. "I'm not speaking to you."

"You'll last approximately four minutes."

She lasts three. "So. . . " She glances out of the window. " . . . are we at least leaving the palace?"

"Yes."

"Market?"

"Maybe."

She sighs dramatically. "I married an impossible man."

I don't answer. Mostly because I'm trying very hard not to smile too much. The drive itself isn't particularly long. Yet my thoughts refuse to stay still. I keep looking out of the window instead of at her. Not because I don't want to. Because I'm suddenly not entirely sure I've done the right thing.

I turn the same worry over and over in my head. Anamika has always guarded her independence with quiet ferocity. It's one of the things I've admired most about her. And one of the things I've accidentally hurt before.

I'd meant love. She'd heard pity. It took me so much time to convince her I'd never intended to make her feel small. I still remember how relieved I'd been when she'd finally forgiven me.

What if today feels like that all over again? What if she doesn't see this as remembering her dream . . . What if she sees it as me trying to buy one? The doubt sits heavily inside me all the way through the drive. The car finally slows. Then stops. "We're here."