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His eyebrows go up. “You do?”

“The king asked me to speak with the royal apothecaries and physicians.”

“Ah.” He says this graciously, but his eyes search mine, and I can tell he knows there is more that I’m not saying. My thoughts are too complicated to put into words.

Maybe his are, too, because he says nothing more.

I pick up the small purse of coins and toss it back to him. He nimbly snatches it out of the air.

My fingers curl around the dagger, though, and I keep my eyes locked on Corrick as I tuck it into the side of my boot, then let my skirts fall to cover it. “You’re not getting this back.”

To my surprise, he smiles, his eyes lighting with challenge. “Consider it a gift.”

In the center of the Royal Sector sits the Circle, which isn’t really a circle at all, and is instead a dais constructed of marble and granite in the shape of an octagon, stretching at least fifty feet across. Hundreds of years ago, it was used when the king wanted to hear from his people personally. Then Corrick’s great-great-great-grandfather took a dagger in the neck, and it was decided that requests from the people should be made in writing and left at the sector gates.

Over time, the Circle became a convenient location for merchants to sell their wares. As the story goes, twenty years ago, an enterprising tavern owner at the edge of the dais set a few tables and chairs out and outfitted his serving girls in fancy dresses. Within a year, he’d taken over the entire space. Now it’s turned into a place where the richest elites gather to gossip and be seen spending their coins on things they don’t need.

I’ve only ever seen the Circle in the early hours of the morning, and only when I’m sprinting through the deserted streets of the Royal Sector with stolen petals in my pack. In the dark, the dais is gray, the tables and chairs unremarkable, the pots of flowers drab and lifeless.

When Corrick leads me out of the carriage, I’m jolted by the difference.

Now, yellow and white roses spill from massive pots set among the tables, filling the air with a rich aroma. Stained-glass lanterns hang suspended on wires strung above the patrons, casting a flickering multicolored glow across the crowded space. No walls separate those dining from the cobblestone streets, but dozens of carriages line the way, bored attendants waiting with the horses. In the Wilds, it’s rumored that the elites would spend a week’s worth of silver just to dine here.

I look around at the painted faces, the elegant finery, and I think it might be true.

Every eye follows us from the carriage to our table.

Our presence here must have been prearranged, because our table is at one end of the dais, set apart from the others, with room for the guards to stand between us and the other diners. Wine has already been poured, and a basket of steaming bread sits between us. It’s simultaneously private yet not at all. If the guards were steel bars, this would be a cage. Conversation is loud in the night air, but the space between us hangs heavy with silence again.

Corricksits in his chair as comfortably as he lounged on the velvet seat of the carriage, and he takes a lazy sip of wine.

I’m perched on the edge of my chair, and I want to drain my entire glass and ask for a dozen more.

The prince is watching me. “Second thoughts?” he says.

“Quint said it would be public, but . . . ?I didn’t realize it would be like this.”

He lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “We could have dined in the palace, but that would have been worse.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Worse?”

“Here, few people will dare to approach our table.” He takes another sip of wine. “In the palace, we wouldn’t have had a moment of privacy.”

“And you think we have that now.” I pick up my glass and limit myself to a sip.

“Not as much as I’d like, but Quint wants people to see you as a potential ally to the throne.” His voice turns dry. “Not the outlaw who, according to rumor, slipped into the palace to assassinate the king.”

I cough on a sip of wine. My rash decision to enter the palace feels like a nightmare I wish I could shake off. “Of course.”

He glances past the guards, and his expression goes still. “Lord.” He downs the rest of his glass.

“What’s wrong?”

“Our evening is about to get less private.”

I follow his gaze and see a man weaving between tables.

Corrick looks at me, and his eyes spark with devilry, reminding me of Wes. His voice drops, like we’re co-conspirators. “If you want to throw a drink at this man, you have my full permission.”