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It’s the same to the night patrol.

Idry his arm carefully and tear long strips of muslin to make a bandage. “No matter what you say, if your actions are cruel, those who act on your behalf will do the same.”

I expect him to deny it, or to offer some kind of rebuttal, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “So I’ve seen.”

I meet his eyes. Cool blue stares back at me, no deceit or cunning in those depths.

“You make me want to do better,” he says suddenly, and his voice is thick with emotion, so I go still. “You make me wish Weston Lark was real, because you will never look at me the way you look at him. I don’t know how to fix everything I’ve done wrong, Tessa. I don’t even know if I can. But I want to try.”

I don’t know either. And no matter what he does as King’s Justice, it won’t cure the fevers. It won’t fix access to the Moonflower. It won’t stop the cries for revolution. He and Harristan have set things in motion that may never stop. Or maybe the execution of their parents did. Either way, the people of Kandala will never go back to the way they were before all of this happened.

But then I realize he’s not just talking about fixing everything for the people of Kandala.

He’s talking about fixing everything for me.

I tie off the bandage, but my fingertips linger on the muscle of his bicep.

“Does it hurt?” I whisper, and I’m not entirely talking about the wound to his arm.

“Very much.”

Neither is he.

I lift a hand, pressing it to his cheek, and his breath hitches, just a little. His skin is warm against my palm, just a little rough. My thumb brushes along the curve of his lip, and I swear he stops breathing. My fingers tease at the edge of the mask the way I’ve done in the past.

I wait for him to duck away, to hide, but he doesn’t move. My fingertips slip under the edge of the fabric. It lifts by an inch, then two, then reveals one blue eye smudged with kohl.

His gaze never leaves mine. His lips part, and a breath escapes.

And then he reaches up to tear the rest of the mask away, and I’m left facing Prince Corrick in the tight warmth of our workshop.

The mask drops on the table beside the crossbow. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and his hands look like they want to reach for me, but he’s waiting. For me.

I’ve spent so much time wondering how a terrible man like Prince Corrick could spend hours secretly helping the people of Kandala, when I’ve been looking at it backward all along. I should have been wondering how a man who wants so badly to be kind and good, to do right, would be able to hide the truest parts of himself away to support his brother and protect his people.

“Hello,” I say softly. “Corrick.”

A light sparks in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say my name before.”

“Corrick,” I say again, and his eyes close for a moment while he takes a long breath.

I press a palm to his cheek again, and now there’s no mask between us. His eyes flick open, and he’s closer suddenly. I don’t know if that’s his doing or mine.

“Corrick,” I whisper.

His hand lands on my waist, very lightly, very gently. The other strokes a line across my cheek, and I remember I’m still wearing a mask.

He gives it the slightest tug. “May I?”

I hold my breath and nod.

He’s slow and delicate and it’s torture. We’re close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. He unties the knot, and my mask slips away.

He leans in to pull the cord that keeps my braid in place, and my hair slips across my shoulders. His breath caresses my ear. “Say it again,” he whispers.

“Corrick,” I exhale. His thumb strokes across my lower lip, and my breath shudders.