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I seem to have misplaced my coin.
“Did you know Jack?” she asked.
For a moment, Hawthorn was quiet. “I did.”
“What about Bree’s brother?”
“We’ve met.”
“Lucky he came into that money when he did.”
“Indeed.”
Hawthorn was rarely so elusive. It irked her more than it should. “Be quite the coincidence if he was the one that came into your misplaced coin.”
“Quite the coincidence indeed. But a fortunate one which works out best for all involved, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh, certainly.” She stopped for a moment, pursing her lips. “Prince?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever glamoured someone for their own good?”
Hawthorn smiled, but he did not meet her gaze. “Maybe once or twice.”
Juliana bit the inside of her cheek, resting her hand against Briarsong’s hilt. “You’re infuriating.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but sometimes I think you rather like me that way.”
At the inner gate, Juliana and Hawthorn were met by Kieran, Maytree’s personal guard. He was reed-slim and silver haired, a creature of lakes and moonlight. He’d been in Maytree’s service for close to a century, and was as solemn and serious as stone. Juliana quite liked this about him, and respected his prowess as a warrior.
“Her Majesty requests your presence in the council room, Your Highness,” Kieran said.
Hawthorn groaned, but Juliana elbowed him and he diligently marched ahead. She moved to follow him, but Kieran cut across her.
“I can escort him,” he told her.
Juliana frowned. There’d been precious few times she wasn’t allowed to follow him into the council chambers. “Why can’t I—“
“Your father has returned,” Kieran said, with a merest hint of a smile.
Juliana’s heart jumped. He’d been gone for over a month. Rarely did missions take him so long. She knew better than to worry—or perhaps had grown used to it—but still…
“Where is he?”
“Down by the training ring. Arrived maybe an hour ago.”
Nodding in thanks, she tore away from the gate and headed down to the training ring. Trust her father to go straight there rather than to his lodgings in the barracks.
She spotted him immediately, sparring in the ring with a young squire—a small, spritely boy not yet fourteen by the name of Ian. Despite his size, Ian’s swings were decent, but his footwork was clumsy at best.
Markham hit the side of Ian’s left calf with the flat of his blade. “Turn, boy. Tighten your stance. Be less of a target.”
Someone in the stands jeered he was hardly a target at all at his current size, which made his cheeks redden, and his swings worse. He missed his next attack, tumbling past Markham and landing poorly. He let out a sharp cry.
“On your feet, boy, walk it off.”
Ian climbed unsteadily to his feet, wincing on his wounded ankle. Not broken, but maybe sprained or twisted, an injury easily fixed with faerie magic. Juliana had pushed through dozens of injuries when she’d had no other option, and not thought much of it, but this was only training, and the boy was only young.
