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The question betrayed an urgency he hadn't expressed before. Something had changed. News he'd heard while checking in? Or had the festival's presence driven home just how far behind they were?
“I don't know. A few. I can finish by morning.” Or, she thought she could. She didn't know how far off morning was.
His face turned toward the shuttered window as he considered. Did he know the time? His expression told her nothing. “I don't think we will have time on the road.” The statement was soft, apologetic.
She understood. “Or the light.”
“Or the light,” he agreed. “But I'll need buttons up the front.”
And buttonholes took time. Maybe she could speed up the process by using loops instead. “What for?”
“Peeling off a tunic overhead after sustaining an injury is remarkably inconvenient, and uncomfortable, as well. My shirts always button.” He touched his chest, drawing her attention to their presence.
Thea was surprised she'd never noticed. Button-front shirts were not popular in Kentoria and had not been for some time. But then, his boots were Ranorsh, and she'd asked questions about those. Maybe she'd seen the style and unconsciously decided it wasn't important. “Buttons,” she said with a nod. “I'll need to fit you for it when it's partway done.”
“Whatever you need.”
What she needed was rest and a good night's sleep, but she wasn't about to tell him that. She pulled a piece of dark fabric from the sewing basket to check its size. She'd packed more than necessary, unsure what else would be needed. The first piece was too small. She chose another, this one a soft cream. Ordinary, befitting the disguise she was meant to make. The dark colors he wore were flattering, but they stood out. “I wish I had a good gray,” she said as she spread the cloth on the floor and took her scissors, chalk, and measuring tape from the basket. “It would suit your eyes.”
“No one will see my eyes when I'm wearing it,” he said.
Thea pursed her lips. “That's true. Stand, let me take measurements for this.”
He rose and spread his arms.
“You've had things custom made before,” She said as she fitted the tape across his shoulders.
“What makes you think that?”
“Just an observation. You know how to move.” She worked out the shape of the pattern blocks in her head as she noted each number.
“I have had practice.” He turned appropriately for her to measure the length of his spine and the width of his sleeve. “I don't know that I've ever worn anything that wasn't made for me.”
Thea motioned for him to rotate in place so she could draw the tape around his chest. “The king outfitted you well.”
“Kentoria did. The king wanted little to do with me, aside from choosing for me to exist.”
“And then you killed him.” She raised a brow as if to ask him to elaborate.
He offered a tight smile in return. “Not that king.”
Of course. Gil told her he'd been trained young. That meant Garren Rothalan had to have occupied the throne when he received his first assignments and the equipment to go with them. “The old king, then.” It was strange; no one had called him that when he still ruled. It was only after his death that his age became relevant. None of his sons had been given the opportunity to age.
None that she'd known.
The few secrets Gil shared about his mission floated through her mind, mingling with the numbers she needed to remember. She tried to chase them away, but they wouldn't go. Somewhere out there, a king remained. What would change when Gil found him? How did he know where to look? Maybe that was part of what distressed him. If a meeting with his contact had been delayed, and that meeting had been arranged before she was in the picture, maybe it meant they risked losing vital information. If that was the case, she'd just have to sew faster.
“He was a capable ruler, if not a kind man. But his eldest, Calem... Calem would have been a great king.” Gil's eyes grew wistful as he spoke and Thea looked at him in surprise.
“You knew him?” she asked.
“I knew all of them. But Calem was my friend.”
Thea's hands grew still. There was such weight in his words that her own heart sank. “I'm sorry. The plague took my mother, too.”
His brows knit and he closed his eyes. “It was not the plague.”
This time, her pause was not from sympathy. Everyone had mourned that tragedy. Garren Rothalan's eldest son had ruled no more than five months before illness swept Kentoria. The magic-fueled apothecaries couldn't work fast enough; many had been lost. The newly-crowned Calem Rothalan had been one of them. She couldn't help her frown. “What?”
