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She couldn't make herself lift her head, couldn't look him in the eye. Even pushing the question to the tip of her tongue was enough to make her hands tremble.
His fingers brushed her cheek. “Thea, speak to me.”
How could she ask? How could she livewithoutasking? She shook her head and made herself focus. She was supposed to be pushing magic down the needle. She'd forgotten entirely.
“Healing,” she murmured, blinking hard to clear her vision and gathering her strength. She willed power to gather in her chest, to push through her shoulder and down her arm. It prickled, white-hot, as it spilled into the needle between her fingers. “Health, wellness, whole—”
“Thea, please,” Gil pleaded, curving his hand to cradle her face. His other hand rose to join it. His hands were warm, skin callused from all the years he'd spent gripping the hilts of blades. Or the handle of...
She tried to breathe and almost choked on the air, but once she found her voice, the words spilled free like pins strewn across the floor, sharp and small. “Lucan's headsman,” she gasped. “Were you—Did you—” And then it was tears that choked her, instead.
Understanding dug a furrow in his brow and his thumbs moved to wipe the first tears from her skin. “Yes.”
Everything within her shattered, a million razor-sharp shards of glass to cut her soul to pieces.
No denial. Not even hesitance. Just a simple answer, the brutal truth, the one thing she'd hoped from the beginning might be untrue.
Don't look.
Why did it matter? She couldn't see. The needle in her hand was so small it vanished as the first sob racked her shoulders.
Again, Gil's thumbs stroked her face, sweeping away the only part of her sorrow he held power over. “At the end, I was... the only one he trusted,” he whispered, “and so I have done many things that shame me.”
“My brother,” her voice cracked. “He was all—all I had—” She couldn't finish. All speaking did was make her cry harder.
He shifted, drawing himself up to his good knee so he could lean forward and wrap his arms around her shoulders, cradle her head so her face was nestled against his neck. “I know my apologies can never be enough, but you have them. I never wanted this, and I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
She wanted to sink into him and let herself be held. His arms should have offered comfort. Instead, they'd torn the last shred of happiness out of her life. She shook her head and pulled away.
He didn't try to stop her.
Thea wiped her own eyes and strode out the door into the cold night.
Rilion stood beside the horses. He put out a hand and said something, but she pushed past without stopping to see what he wanted.
She didn't know where she was going, but anywhere was better than this.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Thea listenedto the crunch of hooves on gravel without lifting her head. She sat with her arms folded atop her knees, her forehead resting against them. The first rays of sunlight had been welcome. Company was not.
The hooves stopped and for a time, the soft breath of the horses was the only thing she heard. Eventually, her visitor spoke.
“You left your coat.” Rilion. She'd hoped and feared that it might be him. “And your bag, and...”
And everything she'd thought she loved. The thought was hollow now. She didn't have any tears left.
The prince cleared his throat. “I'm going back to Danesse. It may be difficult to manage two horses on my own. I hoped you might help me manage Molasses.”
She slowly raised her head. Her eyes burned and her cheeks were raw from tears in the cold, but he didn't flinch when he faced him. “And in Danesse?”
“I suppose we'll continue with our arrangement. A shop for a Threadmancer to conduct business, within the spectrum of what Ranorsh laws governing artisan magic allow.” He extended the mare's reins and her eyes drifted to the horses. Her bay mare and his dappled gray gelding. The red one was gone.
Rilion offered a tentative smile. “He's gone ahead. There is... much to be done.”
And coming for her hadn't been part of it. She shut her eyes and scolded herself. Finding comfort in the arms of a king was a foolish fantasy. Even if she wanted him to come for her—she wasn't positive she did—it wasn't as if it could mean anything. The kisses they'd shared had set her heart afire, but Gil, the assassin, had never existed. He was Gaius, the merciless king, and the lives of kings held no space for disgraced nobles.
Thea pushed herself up and took the reins. “I'll need help obtaining things. Fabrics, thread. Fibers for spinning.”
