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He exhaled, wincing a little. “Still a while to go, I think.”

As he strolled to the pantry, rolling up his sleeves, I realized he’d been trying to unpeel his specter from the dullroot still running through his system. My own power shuddered at the thought.

Then, from the pantry: “Salt or sugar?”

I frowned and replied without context, “Sugar.”

“Excellent choice.” Keil emerged with a jar of white sugar and began moving around the kitchen, first washing his hands, then gathering eggs, flour, and a yellow swirl of butter that smelled as though it had been whipped with lemon zest. I watched, entranced, as he portioned the ingredients into a glass bowl.

“You cook?” I asked.

He gave a dimple-creasing smile. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Most courtiers I know couldn’t peel an apple without a set of directives and an hour to kill. Lord Rupert once burned his fingers trying to crisp chicken skin over a candelabra.”

“Poor Rupert.”

“Poor chicken,” I muttered.

Keil chuckled, and the sound eased the tautness in my shoulders.

Remembering the abundance of food carts on the mainland, I leaned forward, my chin sinking into my palm. “Food is important in Ansora.”

“It’s what happens when you amalgamate the tastes and cultures of multiple kingdoms over centuries. Now cooks are often considered the most important members of any household.”

“Is that why you pursued the skill?” I raised an eyebrow. “For the accolades?”

Laughter twinkled in his eyes as he beat the ingredients into a batter, the aroma of sugar and lemon making my mouth water. “Actually,” he said, “I was a fussy eater as a child. My mother believed that teaching me to cook would encourage a more varied appetite.”

I glanced down, curious but not wanting to push. Keil had never mentioned his mother—although, judging by his easy tone, it sounded as though time had soothed the grief and left him with only the fondest memories.

I wondered if time would do the same to my grief, or if the circumstances of my father’s death were too entwined with blood and pain.

“Go on,” Keil said, with the air of a private joke. I looked up to find him smiling. “Ask me.”

I gave him a sardonic look but softened my tone as I asked, “When did she die?”

“Ten years ago, when Val and I were eleven. She died on the battlefield.”

“She was a soldier?”

“A highly decorated one.” Pride warmed his expression. “It’s how she met my father; her battalion went to receive knighthoods at the estate, and apparently it was love at first sight.” He lit the stove, eyes distant with memory. “My father never loved anyone as fiercely. Not even—” He hesitated, sighing. “Not even Rheya.”

I sat up, startled. “Rheya and your father?”

“It was before Val and I were born. Before Rheya ascended the throne. But even then, Rheya never wanted marriage or children. And afterward, her duty to Ansora came first.”

Because the heir to the empire wasn’t determined by bloodlines; they simply had to be chosen before the death of their predecessor, or else elected by those left in authority, as had happened after Saxon’s demise.

Conversely, only the legitimate children of monarchs could reign in Daradon. It was why we’d never had an unwed ruler. Why Erik needed a wife to continue his legacy.

I pushed past an internal shudder as Keil spooned butter into a pan, the dollop sizzling on impact.

“Rheya was never bitter toward my mother,” Keil went on. “She and my father always remained friends. He was the first person she invited into the Ansoran Gallery.”

So there it was: all four of Rheya’s invitations accounted for.

“Did he accept?”