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They startle, then look over. The older one looks a bit mollified. “Sorry, Captain.” His Ostrian accent is thicker than the people who joined us at dinner. He gives me a nod. “Miss.” But then he turns a glare on the other man and grabs hold of the crate. “Try not to break my foot this time, Brock.”

Brock takes hold of the other side and snorts derisively. “Once these crates are loaded, I have a mind to break your face.”

All right, maybe noteveryonelikes working together.

The captain looks at me, and his eyes are bright, but his voice is sedate. “Forgive my crew. They can be a bit rough-spoken.”

I notice that he has a hint of their accent, too. I didn’t hear it at dinner. I wonder if it’s stronger now that he’s back among his shipmates. Something else he picked up in his six years in Ostriary, I suppose. “I grew up around the docks,” I say, waving off his concern. “I’m no stranger to the mouth of a sailor.”

The ship rocks hard against the dock, and my fingers dig into Captain Blakemore’s arm until I catch my balance. But then a second gust tilts the deck in the opposite direction, and I stumble forward, right into his chest.

He catches me easily, keeping me upright, seeming to have no trouble with the motion of the ship. I inhale sharply, because it puts us very close. His eyes are so dark in the shadowed moonlight.

At my back, Kilbourne clears his throat.

I struggle to right myself. “I’m sorry. It’s windy.” Another gust tugs at my skirts, and I nearly do it again. I wish I’d had the good sense to wear trousers. “What—ah, what were we saying?”

The captain smiles. “You were saying that you’re no stranger to the mouth of a sailor.”

In a second I’m going to have to throwmyselfoverboard. “Imeant—”

“I know what you meant.” He’s still smiling, but his gaze has turned a bit appraising. “So you’re familiar with a ship then.”

“Oh! No. Well, a little. I was raised here in Artis. My father was an apothecary, though. We used to treat the dockworkers.” I shiver. “I’ve seen it all. Sun poisoning, the Rose Rash in the winter, the Saltwater Cough in the summer months, the rope burns from the—”

The ship sways, nearly knocking me right into his chest again. Even Kilbourne staggers sideways with my trunk.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I’m sure I’ll find my sea legs in no time.”

Captain Blakemore catches my arm, but this time he glances at the sky, then frowns. The easygoing look vanishes from his eyes.

The two men from earlier are emerging from below the deck, and the captain looks to them. “Brock, check that rigging.” He looks across the deck, then whistles. “Gwyn!” he calls. “Drop that main sail. I want to shove off as soon as the prince is on board.” Without missing a beat, he looks back at me. “Come, Miss Cade. Let’s get you under cover.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Corrick

For all the memories I have of my brother sneaking out of the palace as a boy, I don’t have any recent ones. The king can go where he likes, do what he likes, see who he likes. There’s never any need tosneakanywhere.

But tonight, he’s in the back corner of my carriage, wrapped in a cloak. I’m so keyed up about the journey that I almost shout for a guard before I recognize him.

“Don’t make a fuss,” he says quietly.

My heart is pounding so hard that I can’t speak for a moment. I’ve stopped short in the doorway to the carriage, and a porter behind me says, “Your Highness?”

I force air into my lungs. “Yes. We should be on our way.” I give my brother a look as I climb into the carriage, then tug the door closed behind me. “You’re lucky I didn’t pull a weapon,” I murmur.

Outside, rain begins to patter on the roof of the carriage, andthe driver clucks to the horses. As we begin rattling over cobblestones, I wait for Harristan to talk, but he says nothing, so I say nothing. The carriage bounces along forever, until I finally say, “What are you doing?”

“I wanted to see you off.”

“You just did that.”

And he did. It wasn’t very grand, as we’re leaving earlier than expected, but he said his goodbyes in the salon in front of the few courtiers in attendance. He said something appropriately regal and clasped my hand, but I was barely listening because my thoughts were screaming at me about the fact that any of this was happening.

“No, Cory,” he says, and his voice is low and quiet. “I didn’t.”

The sentimentality of that strikes me. I can’t believe he did this. I can’t believe he’shere.