Page 5

I give up tossing and turning in my bed and get up early.

Blood-transfusing spells, complex-medius—

Blood is extracted from the healthy, filtered through chamomile compatibility adaption, and delivered into the patient...

Quin’s Go! punches through me again, and I slam the book shut. He’s not what I care about most. He’s not why I’m here.

But even after an hour of trying to suppress it, his voice lingers. Thankfully, Florentius knocks on my door. It’s our final day of health checks on King’s Island until next month, and the last thing I want is to arrive as the king is roaming his gardens. Better to get there early and hide myself behind footsore aklas.

Florentius leads the way down the corridor, pristine in his white robes. “Chiron wants to see us.”

I stall and my stomach curdles. Each step forward feels heavier than the last.

At the second staircase, Florentius glances over his shoulder. “You’re unusually quiet.”

This is not the normal bounce I storm up here with, either. “I... met the king yesterday.”

“You acted as you should, I hope,” Florentius says. “No looking, no speaking, no touching.”

I recall every past interaction with Quin. Yanking him away from Frederica. Fondling him for his gold-threaded underwear. Telling him he’s a useless king. Pretending to be a travelling scholar and drunkenly crashing in his bed. Calling him too unlikeable to inspire loyalty in his aklos. Giving him amorous perfume, spilling it, landing in his lap. Covering his mouth several times to stop him speaking. Declaring him ignorable. Flicking his head! Clutching his naked leg while he took a bath!

Slapping him.

Florentius has stopped at the newel post, watching me claw my way to the top of the stairs.

“Um,” I say, hoarsely, “pretty much. No looking, no speaking, no touching.”

I give him a wan smile and follow him into the richly scented apothecary.

Chiron is already there, pacing between shelves of dried herbs, cloak flicking at every turn. He stops sharply when he sees us and jerks a finger at the tables we use for lessons. “Finally. Sit.”

I slink onto a seat and stare at the desk.

Chiron clears his throat. “Why has the king requested you be transferred?”

Transferred.

My stomach feels heavy and I cradle it.

He doesn’t want to see me again.

Florentius says, confused and indignant, “To where?” Then, hopeful, “To the other—”

“You’re deluded if you think you can... This is not the time for that discussion.”

Florentius’s posture deflates beside mine.

Chiron stands in front of me, expectant. “What happened?”

My cheeks burn. The king could have me beheaded for that uncontrolled outburst. He’s only sending me away to another part of the royal city. He’s had enough of me.

My throat aches as I swallow. “It’s my fault. Nothing to do with Florentius.”

“You’re supposed to report directly if one of your spells fails.”

I open my mouth to tell him it wasn’t a spell that went wrong, but the truth will have more serious consequences. “A... hair growth spell went awry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. Your chances of becoming a medius-complex vitalian have decreased dramatically. I’ll have to take this into consideration at your examination. You are already struggling.” He sighs. “Have you given thought to dropping out?”

Florentius’s head swings my way; I can’t tell if he’s hopeful I will, or surprised his father suggested it.

“I say this,” Chiron says, “to protect you. Another mistake might have more serious consequences. Might cost you your medius vitalian status.” I squeeze my soldad, heart pounding. “Might cost you everything .”

Tight silence follows until Chiron breaks it with a pat on my shoulder. “Give me an answer by six tomorrow morning.

“For today,” he continues, “you’re both free unless the others need support. Use your time wisely. Florentius, I suggest you read up on transplantation theory. Get a head start.”

Chiron swishes from the room.

Florentius plucks a spellbook and returns to his desk. I laugh hollowly and drag my chair beside him. “No.”

He stiffens but doesn’t look up.

“You want friends, Florentius. I saw you during the last exam, staring wistfully at everyone. Ask me how I’m doing.”

He brushes my hand off his book. “I know better than to make friends here.”

“And yet,” I press, leaning in, “you’re still here, listening.”

He stiffens. Through his sleeve against mine, I feel the uptick of his pulse.

I say more softly, “I just want us to help one another out when we’re down.”

He turns his head slowly and tired eyes hit mine. “The friendliest thing I can tell you is to take the opportunity: give up and run.”

“If I don’t?”

“People don’t like different, and you’re different.” His voice thickens. He looks away. “It’s dangerous.”

“See, right there. Behind your hard, prettily polished shield, you’re concerned about me. You’ve got feelings.”

“And you have no shield. You let everyone know your thoughts at any moment.”

I haul a deep breath into my achy chest and let it wheeze out again. I force myself to smile. “You’re right. Your shield is quite large though; what about sharing it with me? I can be... your sword in return. If you ever need to provoke someone.”

He huffs a small laugh and smothers it hurriedly.

“Florentius?” I say, and his eyes stop tracking the lines of his book. “We’re going to become friends.”

I pluck a transfusion book from his pile and crack it open. He stares.

Not more than half an hour later, a harried-looking aklo stumbles into the apothecary alongside a redcloak, and Makarios and Mikros glide out of the adjacent room to greet them. “How may we be of help?”

“One of the royal guests has the headache.”

Makarios and Mikros incline their heads. “We can be of service.”

“He insists on a green sash attending him.”

“A green sash?”

“He’s a teacher. He wishes to provide opportunity for the less experienced.”

Mikros hesitates, his gaze shifting between Florentius and me. “Florentius, Caelus, you’ll go together.”

We follow—out of the apothecary, to a garden amphitheatre alive with activity. Semi-circular tiers frame the stage, and aklas are bustling about setting exquisite dishes on neatly arranged tables. The scent of roasted spices drifts on the breeze, mingling with the hum of conversation. The redcloak and aklo lead us to the middle section, where a private booth awaits behind a silk curtain. My breath catches as I spot a familiar figure—white hair gleaming under sunlight, and beside him, a whiter cat nestled in a basket.

My stomach hops. I almost trip as I scurry over.

Skriniaris Evander rises, his warm smile a longed-for comfort as he beckons me to join him. With a whisper, he sends his aklo and the redcloak away.

I sling myself onto a cushioned bench while Florentius stands beside the table. It takes three tugs at his sleeve to get him folding beside me. He bows his head at Skriniaris Evander. “We are here to dispel your headache.”

Evander waves a dismissive hand. “I needed some excuse to get my friend here, that’s all.”

Florentius tries to stand again. “I should—”

I yank him back down, grab a small cake from the platters before us and stuff it into his mouth. Skriniaris Evander strokes his cat, smiling.

“Fancy table,” I say appreciatively, stroking the fine linen tablecloth. “Might be the best here.”

“It is. It’s the royal booth.”

Florentius chokes on his cake.

I also find it difficult to swallow.

I say, tentatively, “You mean Prince Nicostratus invited you?”

“Also a good boy, that one. No, I’m closer with his majesty.” His gaze slides outside the booth and he smiles widely. “Here comes my surprise for you, Cael. Make some space.”

I lurch to my feet as a set of pretty pastel skirts peeks from behind Skriniaris Evander’s aklo, and a young woman launches herself into my arms. She looks pretty, despite the wisps of hair that have fallen out of place, the smudged eye makeup over her cheekbone, the crinkled hem of her dress. Typically Akilah. Her hug is fierce. I look at Skriniaris Evander over her shoulder and he gestures us to sit down. “Eat. The play is about to begin.”

Akilah pulls a small box from her sleeve. “Teas from home. Have you seen Veronica?”

“It’s harder to move about the royal city than you think.”

“What about you-know-who?” she giggles.

“Not nearly enough,” I say with a sigh.

Florentius shifts next to me, looking like he’s about to leap out of his seat and elegantly scamper off. I fuse a hand to his forearm; Akilah glances at him, blinks, and laughs. “If it isn’t you.”

He lifts his chin and looks away. “You don’t need me here.”

I clamp tighter. “Stay.”

Akilah squeezes between us, skirts billowing as she plunks down with a happy sigh. Florentius flinches as her skirts spill over his lap, brushing at the fabric like it might stain his robes.

“Like a cat avoiding water, aren’t you?” Akilah says, laughing.

He huffs and then quiets as the play unfolds below.

It’s about a young woman who keeps falling for and losing the same man, only she doesn’t know he’s the same man, for each time they meet, he wears a different mask. It feels familiar—too familiar—and a quiet unease builds in my lower stomach. No matter how many others come into her life, she always finds herself entwined with him .

Masked figures swirl across the stage, silk and feathers catching the light. The woman hesitates, her gaze darting between them. A villain’s whisper hangs in the air, and she trembles before taking a tentative step forward.

Akilah whispers in my ear, “Who do you think it is?”

I stop swallowing and squint. “The one in the feathered mask?”

“Which feathered mask?”

Florentius scoffs but then mutters, “Under the arch. Definitely. Or... maybe by the trellis.”

His uncertainty surprises me, but I catch the faintest twitch of his lips—amused despite himself.

Akilah finds this hilarious and chuckles, spilling tea over her skirts and, to Florentius’s intense mortification, his lap.

“You!”

She grabs a dry part of her skirt to mop at his lap and he shrinks back from her until he falls of the bench.

Akilah raises a brow at him.

Florentius lurches swiftly to his feet and glares at her. “I’ve never met such a rude mess in my life.”

She delivers him a dazzlingly lazy smile. “If you leave now, you’ll be the rude one.”

Florentius purses his lips and settles on the other side, beside Skriniaris Evander’s cat.

By the end of the play, Akilah and Florentius have traded more contemptuous looks than all the actors combined.

Skriniaris Evander smiles. “What did you think of the play?”

“How did she know it was him?”

“She saw beyond his mask.”

“I hope they lived the rest of their lives without needing to hide again.” Another thought niggles at my mind, but it’s interrupted by a bald official approaching our booth.

Skriniaris Evander rises to greet him, then fans a hand in my direction. “This is Caelus Amuletos.”

The man takes my hand in both of his and shakes. “You have my eternal gratitude.”

I frown, and he chuckles. “You saved my nephew after the earthshakes. Coralus.”

Coralus ! “He has a kind heart. He helped me too.”

He leans in, hands tightening around mine. “If you’re ever in need, I’ll do my best to help. My family owes much to you.” As quickly as he came, he leaves, bidding us a good day.

I stare after him, stunned.

Skriniaris Evander gathers his cat into his arms. “Good, good. You should know the faces of those you can trust.”

My earlier thought surfaces again. I shuffle closer as Skriniaris Evander strokes the ears of his purring feline. “Can you pass a message to Prince Nicostratus?”

“In a roundabout way, I could.”

I let out a relieved breath and speak in his ear.

* * *

After I’ve said my reluctant—and Florentius’s relieved—goodbyes to Skriniaris Evander and Akilah, we trudge the dark corridor to our cells. “You want me to have a cup of tea?” Florentius repeats.

“Uh-huh.”

“We drink so much for our job.”

“This stuff tastes good. I dare you not to like it.”

I push him through my door. Candles make little buds of light in the room. “Sit there, I’ll fill the pot.”

When I return, blowing the steam from the teapot out of my face, Florentius rises from the end of my bed, gaze rooted to the pot I’m carrying.

He steps up to me and eases it out of my hands, mesmerised by the floral design.

“Set it down,” I say, passing him on my way to the small cupboard beside my bed. “I’ll get the cups.”

I turn back to an empty room.

Baffled, I chase after him; he’s heading into his own room with the pot. “I meant we should have tea”—his door shuts in my face—“together.”

Well.

It’s a work in progress.

I return to my room, the dark and loneliness of it morphing my brief amusement into stomach-pulling dread.

Transferred.

I yank open a book of case studies, flip pages and stare at the flickering candle beside me. Definitely better this way. But...

I sigh. No matter my volatile feelings about Quin, he’s facing a difficult challenge. A lot is on the line for him—for his people.

For the aklos and aklas who will be attending the gala.

An hour after dinner, I sneak into the conservatory to wait, pacing between lemon trees. I cast my eyes up, towards the surrounding windows and the glittering cold night beyond. Please come, please come, please —

I pivot on my heels and come to a halt before my dark-cloaked prince, his eyes hidden in the shadows of his hood, his smile shining in the moonlight.

Thank the heavens for Skriniaris Evander.

“My brother passed a message on to me.”

That’s how—“Quin?”

Nicostratus pushes back his hood, revealing his curiosity in the quirk of an eyebrow.

I stop myself growling and start again. “Turns out I’ve known your brother for some time.” The growling starts again. “Under the name of Quin.”

Nicostratus lets out a confused chuckle. “Some time?” He pauses. “Wait, he’s the one who saved your life in Castorvra? The dance house owner you gave amorous perfume?”

“The very one.”

His voice twists into a mortified rasp.

I flush hard. “I didn’t know he was your king brother!”

He stares at me and blinks, and then a deeply fond laugh bubbles from him. “Serves him right for sneaking out to play around.”

“He certainly played around,” I say tightly.

“What do you think of him?”

“I’m not sure I should say.”

“Between us, you can say anything.”

“He’s bright and bold, but beneath the skin, sharp and sour.”

Nicostratus tugs my fingers, laughing, and spins me into his arms. His gaze twinkles down at me. “He’s a lemon.”

I calm down in his warm hold and slowly pull back. “He needs help though. Your uncle is planning something for Sunday.”

Nicostratus stares hard over my shoulder, eyes narrowing on an invisible image between rows of exotic trees. “He has asked that none of us back him up.”

I look at him sharply. “He’s decided to wrangle the wyverns alone?”

“I’m not sure he can do it alone. After he lost the use of his leg and I lost my memories, Father stopped teaching us how. Then when he died, Uncle made sure we never got a chance to practice again.”

My stomach twists coldly. “He knows he’s got the upper hand. He thinks he can depose the king.”

“My men and I will fight alongside my brother; we’ll have a chance if we work together.”

“You’ll expose his supporters. It’s a death sentence for them.”

“We’re willing to sacrifice ourselves.”

My heart jumps at the passion and loyalty in Nicostratus’s voice. He’s determined to do anything to help his brother. I don’t want him sacrificing himself. Don’t want anyone dying.

“This isn’t just about the battle,” I say, gripping his arm. “Quin needs people who believe in him—beyond titles, beyond fear. I can’t fight like you, but I can heal, and I can rally. Let me help.”

* * *

Fat, shiny leaves and perfumed flowers whir under us, Nicostratus’s arm firm around my waist as he lifts us into the air. He glides us stealthily past redcloaks on watch, across the murky canal, around the wall cordoning off the barracks, to the theatre I was at earlier. We halt in the shadows and Nicostratus raises his hood.

“I thought you’d be able to come here openly?”

“Not if I want to keep my whereabouts from Uncle’s spies.”

Drunken redcloaks stumble around the corner. Nicostratus presses me into the wall, his arm firm across my chest as their laughter echoes past. My breath tangles with his, but his sharp whisper cuts through: “Move.”

He steers me to a dog-sized hole in the wall. “Through here,” he orders, urgency sharpening his tone. I crawl through with him close behind.

“Where are we?” I whisper.

“Behind my room.” He keeps us huddled in the shadows. “They’ll only check here at curfew.”

Drunken song comes in bursts from the other side of the wall.

“They’ll be the high duke’s men. No one else would dare.”

When the discordant voices fade into the distance, Nicostratus lets out a whooshing breath.

He takes my hand, his armband bumping against my wrist, and I glance down to fresh bruises. “Nicostratus...”

He pulls his sleeve over them with a pleading look not to ask, and urges me back through the hidden hole. I wouldn’t have minded the time to sneak into his rooms and see how he lives, but I can feel his unease. And there are other priorities.

He dusts my cloak on the other side. “Sorry. I’d have flown us over, but that—”

“Would’ve been a bit conspicuous?”

He chuckles, and whisks us through shadows to the wardrobe where the costumes are stored. The masquerade masks have an entire room to themselves. I turn slowly, taking in the vibrant feathers, shells, silks. There are hundreds.

But not enough.

Nicostratus plucks a bird mask off the wall and presses it to his face. “Explain?”

“How will he know who’s on the king’s side if no one can be recognised?”

The hand holding the mask drops to reveal an expression of comprehension. Like me, Nicostratus spins around the room, taking in the masks.

“A stand at every pier, every entrance to the gala. Encourage everyone to wear one.”

Nicostratus straightens. “I’ll have my men on it. We can use the royal collection, too.”

I glance inquiringly at him.

He smirks. “Want to take a trip to King’s Island with me and see for yourself?”

I jerk my gaze down.

Nicostratus laughs. “Don’t worry, he’s not there.”

The royal collection fills an entire attic in the stone house on King’s Island. Nicostratus sets a lantern on a corner shelf and lights the others spangling the room.

So many colours and soft and prickly textures. I sniff at the heady mix of dried flowers that have been worked into masks on one wall. Another wall displays animal masks, and yet another, monster-like creations.

“Constantinos’s mother used to love masquerades,” Nicostratus says. “She still makes masks every year. She made most of these.”

“They’re so intricate.” I finger a simple mask the colours of river-pearl, blues and greens that shimmer and change. “Beautiful. If they’re his mother’s, can we use them?”

Nicostratus is quiet for a long beat. “We won’t have time to craft enough from scratch. She would want him protected, no matter the cost.”

I swallow and pick up the pearl mask. The same shades of turquoise as the border on my soldad. “Will you tell your brother?”

A smile. “I tell my brother everything.”

“And if he’s against it?”

Nicostratus sidles up to me and whispers into my ear, like a secret. “I’ll fight him; I’ll win.”

“Because you’re stronger?”

“Because he always lets me.”

I shake my head, imagining them tussling in the garden or whipping magic about, clashing to make fireworks and ending their feuds breathless with laughter.

Nicostratus lifts the pearl-mask I’m holding. “You like this one?”

I lift my soldad for him to see. “It matches, don’t you think?” I swallow and meet his eye, speaking softly. “My favourite gift.”

His eyes spark with mischief, but as his face inches closer, the playful glint fades, replaced by something quieter, heavier. My chest pounds, heat pooling in my cheeks as the space between us narrows. His breath brushes my lips, and for one suspended moment, I forget where we are.

And then he murmurs, “I wish it had come from me.”