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“Iamsurprised.”

Mistress Woolfrey bustles over hurriedly. She’s a tall, portly woman with light brown skin and fuzzy braids wrapped on top of her head. I’ve always liked her, so I smile, but like everyone else here, she’s only got eyes for Prince Corrick right now. Some of the people are terrified of him—but others are in awe. The king and his brother might not be well liked, but they are very definitely well respected, even if it’s a respect born of fear. Stories about the King’s Justice sitting down in a common shop will feed the rumor mill fordays.

I’ll admit that once you get past his reputation, Prince Corrick isn’t difficult to look at. Vibrant blue eyes sit well in his face, which is full of angles, with just a sprinkling of freckles to steal some of his severity—though a narrow scar over his eyebrow adds it right back. It’s late enough in the day that a shadow of beard growth has slightly darkened his jaw, too. The silver buttons on his brocade jacket glisten in the light, and the jeweled hilt of an ornate dagger is revealed at his waist. I’ve learned that he spends a number of hours training with the man-at-arms at the palace, so he’s no stranger to physical exertion, but his hands are clean, with long, elegant fingers, his palms smooth and free of calluses. He looks so out of place among the laborers and dockworkers who have stopped in for a sweet treat after a hard day at work.

“Your Highness,” the shop owner says in a rush, dropping into a curtsy herself. “Allow me to have one of the girls make you a fresh drink.”

“No need,” he says.

“Oh, Iinsist,” she continues effusively, already reaching for the mug.

His eyes flick up. “I insist that you not.”

His voice isn’t forceful, but Corrick never needs to be. He has a cool confidence that always seems unflappable. An expectation that things will go his way. The king is no different.

Mistress Woolfrey’s hands go still, and she jerks them back against her body. Her mouth works like she wants to say something, but she isn’t surewhat.

“We’ll alert you if we need anything,” Corrick adds.

“Ah … yes. Of course.” She bobs another quick curtsy, then returns behind the counter. Conversation in the shop resumes quietly.

Corrick picks up a spoon and stirs at his chocolate cream like he’s completely unbothered. “Why so surprised?” he says easily, as if we weren’t interrupted.

“This is hardly the place anyone would expect to find the King’s Justice,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You’re giving everyone enough gossip for aweek.”

“Just a week?” He lifts the mug and takes a sip. His eyebrows go up. “Thatisrather good. Perhaps the King’s Justice should make this more of a habit.”

“I’m not sure Mistress Woolfrey would survive the shock.” I haven’t touched my own drink. “Why didn’t you want her to make you a new one?”

“Because I felt rather certain the one she made for your friend Karri wouldn’t be poisoned.”

He says this as equably as everything else he’s said, but it makes me hesitate before reaching for my own cup. I know thegoodside of Corrick, the man who wants to help his people. I forget that everyone else still sees him as Cruel Corrick, one of the most terrifying men in all of Kandala.

“Right,” I say weakly. Now I’m worried about the cup Lochlan placed in front ofme. I let go of the handle.

“Here,” says Corrick, and there’s a gentle note in his voice that no one will hear beyond this table. He slides his cup toward me.

I meet his eyes and see the warmth there. The kindness. The awareness.

Thisis what he never allows anyone to see.

This is what people like Lochlanneedto see.

“Thank you,” I say, and I’m not quiet about it at all. I take a sip.

It’sdivine.

“Lochlan was right, you know,” Corrick says. “You shouldn’t be leaving the palace without protection.”

“I’m no one of importance,” I say.

“I beg to differ. He’s lucky I didn’t have one of the guards put an arrow in his back for standing over you like that.”

I choke on my next sip. “Well. That would have made for an interesting second meeting.” I ease the cup onto the table, but as I lift my eyes, a slight movement beyond Corrick catches my attention. A man and woman are sitting near the window, but the man is glaring at the prince. He’s older, with thinning hair and a thick gray beard, but his arms are heavily muscled. His shirt bears sweat stains and a few threadbare spots along his shoulders. His skin is sun-darkened and weathered like a dockworker.

His hand is in a tight fist on his knee.

Corrick takes a lazy sip. “You look concerned.”