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But then King Harristan drains the cup and his coughing ceases. The room is abruptly so silent that I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears. The guard hasn’t moved, and he’s still partially blocking me from the king, but his expression isn’t quite as severe as it was a moment ago. He’s still tall and imposing, though, with light brown skin and close-shorn hair and arms so muscled that he could probably crush my skull one-handed.

As soon as I have the thought, I realize he hasn’t moved because he’s waiting for the king to tell him how to proceed. Corrick just walked out of here to execute the other prisoners. From what he said, few people suspect the king is sick, and I just witnessed his coughing fit. Maybe this man will crush my skull one-handed.

Much like the night I woke in Corrick’s quarters, I’m simultaneously filled with fear and fury, but the fury takes over.

I glance between the king and his guard. “I was trying to help,” I say in a rush, my voice hot with anger that has more to do with Corrick than the man in front of me. “Nothing more. I don’t gossip, and I don’t know anything. You can kill anyone you want, so I guess you can kill me too, but I’m just one person, and killing me isn’t going to—”

“Enough.”

King Harristan doesn’t say it forcefully, but there’s enough authority in his tone that my lips stop working. The guard’s posture has turned from standing into looming.

I swallow and force myself to stand my ground.

“Rocco,” says Harristan. His voice is slightly rough, just a bit weak, like the cough took something out of him but he doesn’t want to reveal it. “Stand down.”

The guard falls back to loom against the wall, and I’m left facing the king of Kandala in his shirtsleeves.

I felt a little more bold when there was a guard between us. Maybe he and his brother took lessons in being intimidating while just sitting there, because they both manage it effortlessly.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says.

I’m not sure what the right response is to that. “Thank you?” I hesitate. “Your Majesty?”

His eyes flicker with something that’s either irritation or amusement. I hope it’s the latter, but I suspect it’s the former, especially when he says, “Sit.”

I drop into the chair closest to me, and he picks up the now-empty teacup. “One of your remedies?”

“It’s just—” I have to clear my throat. “It’s the vallis lily petals. They’re very expensive—but they’re good for a cough. Better than turmeric, even.”

He’s just looking at me, so I start babbling. “In Artis, a lot of the shipbuilders get a dry throat from their woodworking, so it’s a quick remedy. Sometimes that can cause an inflammation that mimics the fever sickness, so there’s always a lot of worry around the docks, but a little ginger and turmeric will usually draw it right out if there’s no high fever.”

He glances at my hand, and I’m embarrassed to realize that I was reaching for the king’s forehead.

“Ah . . . ?sorry.” I jerk my hand back down.

“Do I have a fever, Tessa?”

I go still. What a loaded question.

Is he mocking me? It doesn’t sound like it.

Do I touch him? Do I feel his forehead to see?

And what if he does have a fever? Do I say yes? Do I say no?

I lift my hand again, and there’s a spark of challenge in his gaze.

Myfingertips gingerly graze his brow, but it’s not enough to tell anything at all.

Mind your mettle, Tessa.

Shut up, Wes. Corrick. Whatever.

I grit my teeth and flatten my hand against the king’s forehead.

No fever.

I’m so shocked that I rotate my wrist to use the back of my hand. Still cool. And I’m struck by how vulnerable he looks, sitting in the chair half-dressed, my hand against his face. I’ve been so awestruck by the fact that he’s the king that I forgot he’s a man only a few years older than I am.