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Henrik’s eyes match the storm, more gray than blue in the dim light. They crinkle at the edges with his amusement. He still has my hand, and I don’t try to take it back. He can have it for as long as he wants.

“This is very unlike you, soldier,” I tease.

“I won’t be a soldier much longer,” he murmurs.

“Sir Henrik.” I imagine it, and then I shake my head. “I’ll still call you soldier. Habits are hard to break, you know.”

His eyes darken, and they drop to my lips. “You can call me whatever you want.”

My heart races as he leans down. But just before his lips meet mine, Bartholomew calls again, “Henrik!”

He’s found our fountain, and now he stands on the other side of our sanctuary.

I press a finger to the commander’s lips, telling him to keep quiet. He playfully nips at it, and I grin.

“I thought they went this way,” Bartholomew says to whoever is with him.

“They must have taken a different path,” a girl answers.

Realizing it’s his sister, Henrik’s eyebrows wing together.

I shuffle around quietly, peeking through the trees’ heavy boughs to see if they’ve moved on. But Brielle sits on the fountain’s edge, and Bartholomew joins her. They’re both dressed in heavy cloaks, and they don’t look like they’re in a hurry to be on their way.

If we don’t want to sheepishly emerge from the trees—and I’m quite certain we don’t—we’re trapped.

“Is your shoulder sore?” Brielle asks when Bartholomew raises his hand to rub it. “You sparred with Henrik for hours yesterday.”

“You were there?” Bartholomew asks, sounding both surprised and pleased.

“I like to watch you train,” she says shyly. “You’re almost as proficient with a sword as a bow now.”

I cringe and look at Henrik, feeling like an eavesdropper. The commander stands very still with a pained expression, the picture of discomfort.

“Henrik is an excellent teacher,” Bartholomew answers. “I’m thankful my uncle was kind enough to place me with him.”

His voice is wistful, a little sad too.

“I’m sure King Algernon would be proud of your hard work and the progress you’ve made,” Brielle says gently.

“Do you think?” Bartholomew asks. Then he laughs softly. “He worried about me, though he was always careful to hide it. I was never very coordinated, and I wasn’t good at fighting when I was young. The knights are an intimidating group—loud, often crass, and always boastful. I didn’t fit in, nor did I want to. If it weren’t for your brother, I don’t know that I would ever be able to accept the title Father left to me.”

Bartholomew will become the duke marshal when he’s old enough, a role I admit I find difficult to picture him in. But one day in the near future, he will lead the entire royal army.

“If it weren’t for Henrik?” Brielle asks.

“He’s shown me what a knight can be, and he doesn’t even carry the title yet,” Bartholomew answers. “He’s strong and proficient, but he’s kind. Though I know I was a nuisance, especially at first, he rarely lost his temper with me. He respects Clover, never saying lewd things behind her back, and he treats all people as if they have value. I admire him greatly.”

Henrik frowns at the ground, shielding his thoughts.

“You’re kind, and you treat all people as if they have value too,” Brielle points out. “You’re already like him.”

Bartholomew doesn’t respond, but knowing him as I do, I’m sure his face is bright red.

“And any girl you favor will be lucky to have you as well,” she none-too-subtly points out.

Bartholomew sighs. “I’m not sure most girls would agree with you.”

“I’m a girl.” She sounds exasperated now. “I would know, wouldn’t I?”