Page 9 of The King’s Man #5

W hen I enter the courtyard, Megaera throws me an arched brow and pauses in her step. She’s carrying a steaming bowl of...

“Is that my scription for inflamed sinuses?” I recognise the sharp scent.

She nods in the direction of the west bedchamber. “See how the mighty have fallen.”

There’s some background groaning at this, and Megaera’s lips twitch.

“Both?”

“Felled by a sore throat.” She gestures to the bowl. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I come closer and take a whiff. “Excellent.”

“Praise yourself. I follow instructions to the letter.” She eyes me.

I stiffen, but she strides off, calling over her shoulder. “Don’t end up hurt.”

Megaera is spoon feeding uncle and nephew when I’ve changed into fresh clothes and repacked my bag, and she does it with such tenderness I shiver guiltily. That I ever once hesitated.

I take her spot at the bedsides and read their pulses. “Mild. With rest, they’ll recover in a few days.”

“Mild!” Lykos says indignantly, and Megaera holds out her wrist for me to read.

“You’ve the same thing.”

Megaera’s sly blow-kiss has Lykos spluttering as he tries to sit up. He palms his forehead against a headache, but behind his forearms he’s smiling.

Zenon, on the next bed, groans loudly and declares it feels so bad he can’t do any lessons today. The naughty side-eye to his uncle has me shaking my head.

“Quite the handful you have here.”

Megaera lifts a bowl of herring porridge—Zenon’s least favourite food—and comes over, smiling. “Of course you can’t study today. Don’t worry, I’ll look after you. Eat up. There’s more for lunch, and I’ll make a fresh batch for dinner, too.”

Zenon springs into a sitting position. “Actually, I could do some studying from the bed.”

She pats his head, to Lykos’s burst of laughter. “And if you suddenly feel better, we can check out the parade.”

I leave them to their familial banter and head to my aunt, who embraces me with a herb-scented hug and another letter from home. “It just arrived, I haven’t opened it yet. She doesn’t usually send them so close together.”

I sit on the bench behind our herb grinding table and stare at the paper. “You read it. ”

My aunt pushes it back to me. “Call it a sixth sense. This news is for you.”

I open it nervously. The letter is short, and it does seem like my mother’s hoping I’m here. Like she wants me to know .

Since I last wrote, something has happened.

Florentius and some other vitalian scholars have been sent to participate in the Medicus Contest. Apparently, this contest was delayed due to some leadership instability in Hinsard, and it’s been big talk in the capital because this year, anyone under the age of twenty-five may enter—no matter if they are non- or par-linea.

Hearing this, Akilah finally rediscovered her spirit. She begged Florentius to stay, or if he must go that she go with him, but he told her it was safer here.

This morning we woke to find Akilah gone. She packed her most precious things and left. I just know she’s following him, and I pray if he’s unable to send her back that he is able to keep her safe.

I will write again when I have news.

All my love .

I hand the letter over for my aunt to read.

“I’m right,” she murmurs. “It was for you.” She tucks the letter into my belt. “The regent must have an agenda.”

I grimace. “I’m sure he believes it a chance to put us in our place again. Prove we should stop chasing after chances we’re not qualified for.”

Had losing Eparch Valerius in Hinsard been the reason he’d lashed out on the island? Is it part of the reason he’s changed the rules for the contest? Why he insists on sending his best vitalians to represent the linea?

And now Akilah—spirited, stubborn Akilah—is heading straight into the heart of this. I picture her clinging to Florentius, begging him not to go, and my stomach knots.

The weight of my helplessness churns all day, until it crashes into my other pressing worry: Quin. He may heal faster than most, but he’s still fragile, trapped in this precarious situation. What if his condition worsens? What if...

By the time the moon rises, my worries are all tangled together. I’m so caught up in them that I don’t realise I’ve dragged myself back to the temple and into Quin’s space.

I plunk myself on the end of the bed, sigh, and flop backwards until I’m frowning at the same ceiling I woke up to this morning.

“By all means, make yourself at home.”

His voice cleaves through my worries and I spring up, clasping my curacowl.

Quin is at the table, eating the meal sent to him with a bottle of wine to wash it down. I immediately move to him and check he hasn’t overdone the drinking. I feel his pulse, and he murmurs, “More concerned about me taking a few sips than yourself downing a whole bottle.”

“I’m not injured.” I let him go. “But I won’t drink again.”

He inclines his head thoughtfully, as if he’s mostly happy with this, but also... disappointed? “Whatever you want.”

“What I want...” I laugh and try a morsel off his plate. It’s a hard ask to swallow. “Is this the quality of food you’re getting every day?”

“I am a prisoner.”

I growl and clear the food away while Quin studies me.

“Sit,” he says. “Talk to me.”

“I’d rather you strip,” I whip back, with the intention of salving his wounds, but the exaggerated way he freezes has me wishing I’d phrased that differently, and with far less intensity. I try again, softly this time, “I mean, ready yourself and lie on the bed.”

I whimper and hope he hasn’t heard it.

Quin uses his broomstick and positions himself beside the bed. He quietly peels off his top layers, and before he lies down and makes my veiled—thank all the Skeldar gods—flushing worse, I tell him to stay there and scramble behind him with the creams.

His skin ripples in shivers as I gently apply them, but it’s the sound of his breath that gets me. In the silence of the room, it’s so loud. And so is my own. Loud and uneven. My fingers tremble as I finish tending his back.

I quickly—too quickly—pull his shirt back into place and feel him jerk at my roughness. At his collar, my hand stills and his shoulder-length hair skitters over my glove. “Sorry,” I whisper. I start to drag my hand away but he snags it—and quickly releases.

He clears his throat. “My hair. It keeps falling into my face. Can you...”

His hair is still short, but I’ll do my best.

I remove my gloves and he stirs at the flash of their material dropping onto the bed. I start shifting onto my knees, but Quin rises with the aid of his broomstick cane and settles himself on the floor.

He becomes a wall of heat between my legs as I slide them either side of him. My nail drags along his scalp, eliciting a tremble that I feel echo up my arms.

“How shall I thank you,” he says, “if I’m freed? If we meet again?”

“We won’t meet again.”

He’s quiet.

I mess up and have to start over.

“If I insist on a reward?”

“Chicken. Roasted. It’s all fish here.” Blast, I lost the thread again.

I shove up my veil so I can see better. “You know, the chuckling is not helping me.”

He calms under me, and finally I manage the first braid. But —

I tug a pouch off my belt and toss it into his lap. “Pass me a fastening?”

Quin opens the string and pulls out a plain fastening, holding it up over his shoulder. I take it and clasp the end of the braid.

“Why do you have a pouch full of fastenings?”

“Hardly full. There are only twenty-four.” Aaand, I got the perfect amount of hair this time.

“Precise number,” he says on a murmur, and I almost drop the braid.

“They were... sold by the dozen. I grabbed two sets.”

“Sold by the dozen in a country whose fashion does not include braiding.”

“The store owner was part Lumin.”

“Ah, I see.” A pause. “And of course you happened to go in to buy some.”

“I thought you’d need them soon, with your hair growing so fast, so...”

“You think about me during other parts of your day.”

“It’s hard not to.”

Quin tries to turn his head but I steer his face back with a warning tsk.

He laughs.

I click my fingers for another fastening, and he presses one into my hand.

One by one, I plait a thin braid for each year of his life and clasp them. When I’m on the last one, Quin hums. “When you said Prins Lief wants you to be his...”

I pause .

He shifts his head slightly and stops himself from looking back. “He wants you to be his what?”

I fasten the last braid. “His healer.”

“Are you sure?”

“What else?”

Quin coughs, and I quickly pull down my veil. My hand bumps his shoulder and he clasps the back of it. His skin against mine has lightning bolting through my middle.

He spreads his fingers, finding the grooves between mine.

“What are you...” It comes out half-formed and barely audible.

Quin squeezes our fingers like a fan.

I’m squeezing back too. Involuntarily. Like a momentary spasm.

“My hand feels cold, don’t you think?” He closes his fingers down, slotted between mine. “Particularly between my fingers?”

I yank his hand under my veil and nip him angrily. What are you doing to me?

“You bit me.”

My mouth is still lingering on his knuckles!

I hurriedly shake free of his hold. “S-skeldar technique. To promote bloodflow to the area. Help warm them.”

His laugh has me hurtling off the bed, yanking on my gloves.

I clamp my teeth down against the shaking in my body. “ You’re feeling cold because you don’t move. Let’s take a walk. Fresh air will help.”

He laces his shirt over his flutette and looks at the broomstick for a long moment. His lips turn up slightly at the edges, then flatten again as he curls a finger at me to come closer.

I do, hesitantly, and help him up when he clasps me.

“I don’t want stormblades to see me using the cane,” he says.

“Then—”

“I’ll lean on you.” He hooks his arm through mine.

“For a prisoner, you’re quite demanding.”

“I’m not asking as a prisoner.”

My heart pounds and I swallow thickly.

He keeps watching me. I quickly unfurl my clenching hands.