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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Corrick
Quint is sprawled in a chair in my quarters, eating strawberries while the sun sets in the window behind him. He’s been talking about nothing for at least twenty minutes, and usually I don’t care, but my nerves are so on edge that I’m ready to have my guards drag him out of here.
“And then,” he’s saying, “Jonas told the guards that the girl was his niece, if you can believe that. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.”
I fight with the gold buttons on my jacket, then jerk it off my shoulders to toss onto the bed alongside the others I’ve tried and discarded. “I feel like there must be a matter somewhere in the palace that needs your attention.”
“More than likely.” He picks up another strawberry and twists the stem free. “Try the black one again.”
I frown. That’s the jacket Geoffrey first pulled from my wardrobe—and likely the one he expects that I’m still wearing. I yanked it off when I realized it reminds me too much of what I do for my brother, which makes me worry it will remind Tessa of what I do for my brother. I reach for the red one instead.
“Absolutely not,” says Quint.
I sigh and set it aside, then run a hand across my jaw.
Quint sets the strawberry down and walks past the pile on my bed, heading for my wardrobe. “Honestly, Corrick. The girl has seen you in wool and broadcloth.” He surveys the contents for a moment and pulls a garment free. “Here.”
The jacket is a deep-blue brocade, with a faint pattern of leaves in a slightly darker shade, with a black silk collar and silver piping. The buttons are burnished silver. It’s soft and simple and I’ve never worn it—it’s nothing I would normally wear.
“No,” I say.
“You don’t want to be the prince. You can’t be the outlaw. Shall we come up with another identity?”
“Quint.”
He holds open the jacket like a valet. “You know the salon will be packed with courtiers at this hour. Do you want to leave your girl to the vipers?”
No. I don’t. And he’s right: it doesn’t matter what I wear. I can’t be who she wants me to be. I sigh and slip my arms into the sleeves. “She still hates me.”
“She hates that you lied. There’s a difference.” Quint steps around to face me. He bats my hands away from the buttons, then takes them up himself.
“I had no idea you knew how to button a jacket,” I say, feigning wonder.
“Hush.” He finishes the last button, brushes invisible dust from my shoulder, and steps back.
I tug at my shirtsleeves and realize that he’s studying me. This is what most people miss about Quint: he seems scattered and shallow, but underneath, he’s a keen observer who sees everything and forgets nothing.
“What?” I say.
“I heard what happened in the Hold today. With Consul Sallister.”
“How I banned him from the palace?” I grunt. “Harristan had a few words about that.”
“No. About how you ordered that the prisoners be fed and treated.”
I frown. “Sallister had most of them beaten half to death, Quint. If he wants to find out who’s behind the raids on his supply runs, he needs to leave me someone to question.”
He says nothing.
I roll my eyes and turn for the door. “Now you have nothing to say?”
“Tessa may be safe, and she may not like the truth,” he says quietly. “But here, you can only be Prince Corrick.”
“I know.”
“You can only be the King’s Justice.”
