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“Quint will stay in my quarters and periodically call for food and wine until we return, so it will give the impression that I’m toiling away over those reports. My brother retires early, so he’s probably asleep.”

“What if someone insists on speaking to you?”

“The only person who can truly demand my presence is Harristan, and that’s rare.” There’s a note in his voice that belies how casually he answers. “Quint has a cache of answers anyway. I’ve been called to the Hold, I’ve been asked to review a funding request before it’s submitted to the king, I’ve been asked to mediate something that doesn’t need mediation . . .” He shrugs.

I glance at him. “Why does Quint cover for you?”

“In the beginning, I think it was because I convinced Harristan to let Quint have his job. He’s young for his role as Palace Master, and you can already tell my brother doesn’t suffer fools. But Quint is more savvy than he lets on, and he took me by surprise when he caught me sneaking back into the palace. I’m not sure what he thought I was doing, and at first we were both a little wary about it, but gradually I started to take him into my confidence.” He pauses. “Quint is a good friend.”

That heavy note is back in his voice.

“Something is wrong,” I say softly.

“No.” He glances at me, then gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, not any more than usual.”

“Tell me.”

He says nothing for so long that I begin to think he won’t answer, and when he does speak, he only says, “Look. The gate.”

It’s exactly as he described, and it’s smaller than I expected: only about three feet high, barring the way to what appears to be a dark tunnel. As promised, there’s a wooden trunk that appears to be decaying with rot, but when Wes—Corrick, I sheepishly remind myself—throws open the lid, the interior is dry and clean.

The tunnel is black and our breathing echoes, and I’m glad for his company, because this narrow space would be terrifying alone. Something skitters over my boot and I gasp, but he grabs hold of my hand to steady me, and I continue on.

“This used to be a spy tunnel,” he whispers, but his voice is loud anyway. “A hundred years ago, there were a dozen, all over the Royal Sector. Some have caved in, but there are a few, like this one, that prove useful for any princes-turned-outlaw.” He pauses. “Harristan and I used to use them all the time.”

“He did this too?” I say, surprised.

“No. When we were children.” Another pause. “Harristan was often unwell, and our parents would dote on him. He was never allowed to do anything. It drove him crazy. He’d convince me to sneak into the Wilds with him. It would take him twice as long to scale the sector walls, but he’s the one who taught me how to do it.”

I imagine the king and the prince as boys, sneaking through this tunnel, eagerly whispering, daring each other, challenging order and rules the way Corrick does now. It’s harder to imagine Harristan as a sickly child, but I consider his coughing fits, and my apothecary brain wonders if he has some lingering illness that’s masquerading as the fever.

That note is back in Corrick’s voice, but for the first time, I can identify it. Longing. Loss. Sadness. Regret.

“Something has happened with King Harristan,” I whisper.

“He thinks I’m working with the smugglers,” he says simply.

“Wait.” I wish I could see his eyes, but the tunnel is pitch-dark, and his expression is a mystery. “What?”

“You heard me.” Corrick takes a long breath. “They’ve been pointing fingers since we first learned of the Benefactors, but I never expected anyone to suspect me. Allisander suspects that you’re a part of it, too. That’s why I couldn’t come to you today. Harristan all but accused me this morning. His guards are reporting to him on my movements. He tried to get Quint to talk.”

My chest is suddenly tight. “But—but you’re not! You’re—you’re—”

Ibreak off. He might not be the kind of smuggler Harristan is imagining . . . ?but Corrick isn’t completely innocent either.

“Tessa. I know.”

We walk in silence after that, our feet scraping against the walls of the tunnel, until we eventually burst free into the woods. It’s misting rain now, and I don’t recognize where we are, but I’m sure we’re nowhere near the workshop. He wouldn’t have been that careless. Not to keep this secret for so long.

My chest is still tight. His brother accused him. The king accused him.

And still he’s here.

“I don’t have a lot of petals,” he says, “because I couldn’t risk someone alerting Harristan to my request. But Quint was able to gather enough for one round of doses.”

I bite my lip. “This . . . ?this is treason.”

“It always was, Tessa.”

I think of all the times we spoke ill of the king, of the cruel prince, of the way people were executed for doing exactly what we’re doing. I swallow.

“You’re risking yourself,” I whisper.

“Yes. So are you.” His eyes hold mine. “Let’s make it worth it.”