"If you tell anyone about this," Ryne muttered, "I'll kill you."

Isaac grinned. His Captain of the Guard lifted another ladle of tomato soup, looking far too pleased as he dropped some on Ryne's chin. Ryne had resisted being spoon-fed for as long as possible, but his growling stomach won out. It would be several hours before he regained the full use of his arms — even with all the pain-relief tonic that his maid Flora had brought.

"You're loving it," Isaac told him.

"I assure you, I'm not."

"Oops." Isaac slammed the spoon into his cheek. "Sorry. My bad."

"The waistcoat!" Ryne yelped. "Watch the waistcoat." He twisted to protect the green brocade fabric from dripping soup. "This is one of my favourites. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you were trying to ruin it on purpose."

"Of course not. I'm just clumsy."

And Ryne — who'd seen Isaac gracefully somersault off a roof and then strike a moving target ten feet away with a knife — arched an eyebrow.

Still, Ryne couldn't begrudge Isaac a bit of fun; he had seen the panic-stricken look on Isaac's face just an hour prior when Ryne had thrashed about in bed, his insides burning up as if someone had set fire to them. They had moved him to the nearest bedroom. Some sort of guest room on the main floor.

And now he was being spoon-fed soup.

Ryne sighed.

How glamorous it was to be king.

Isaac put the soup down. Afternoon light filtered through the window, making his gray eyes look bright. Ryne had overheard several of the maids giggling earlier about how dreamy they were.

"Like pearls," one had sighed. "So rare and lovely."

Ryne hoped that Isaac never found out; the idiot had a big enough head as it was. "I'm sorry you had to miss the garden party," he said. "Elsie has probably drowned herself in the fountain in despair."

Isaac set down the soup. "She'll live."

"Aren't you out of courtiers to seduce yet?"

"Well," Isaac said, "perhaps you should find more." He jiggled his leg. "Not that you've ever seemed interested in any."

Ryne looked away.

It was well known that he'd had no romantic relationships since his father died; his mother, Brigid, brought it up over breakfast most days, usually accompanied by a speech about how they should invite "that charming Salvatorian princess" to visit soon. But there was a good reason that Ryne refused to dabble with women. Oh, several of them had caught his eye, but he would never act on it.

He just couldn't tell anyone why.

"Perhaps I wish to become a monk," Ryne said. "And remain celibate."

Isaac's lips twitched. "That would certainly throw a wrench into the line of succession."

"I hardly—"

Pain spiked through his skull. Ryne tried to hide it, but it was too late; Isaac knelt beside his bed, his gray eyes wide. "Ry, what is it? Do you need me to fetch a maid?"

"No." Ryne gritted his teeth. "No, don't."

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong," Isaac said. "I wish you would confide in me, Ryne."

"I can't."

"Sure you can," Isaac said. "I accept all forms of explanation. Conversing, lyrical poetry, lewd drawings, interpretive dancing—"

"No, I can't," Ryne said. "You don't understand, Isaac, I—"

The door flew open.

Penny flounced in, resplendent in a floaty green dress. His sister's auburn curls bounced as she curled up next to him on the bed. She smelled of flowers and the garden and summer wine. She was drunk, Ryne realized. But that was hardly a surprise, was it?

"Oh, Ry." Penny lay her head on his chest. "You're in so much pain."

Ryne knew what she was thinking, and he tried to twist away. "No." His voice was sharp. "Penny, don't."

"It's alright, Ry."

"Pen, don't—"

She stripped off her gloves, taking his hand. Soothing heat crept over his skin, delicious and velvety as chocolate. Ryne's eyes fluttered closed. He knew he should protest, but the pain was receding now, replaced by a blissful emptiness.

Penny trembled, but her grip remained firm. Was she in pain? He didn't care, Ryne thought tiredly, and then realized with surprise that his sister must have taken that away from him, too. Ryne had the sense that he would be angry with her later.

How odd.

"Thank-you, Penny." Isaac sounded exhausted. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"I can manage," she said.

"Goodness." The door opened. "I forgot how wild those garden parties can get." He heard shoes hitting the floor. "Did you know that Lady Sarah Tuppenworth is standing on a table with a half-drank bottle of gin and singing And The Lady Ran Away With Her Tailor?"

Someone else climbed into the bed, curling up next to him. Ryne could smell vanilla tea and cucumber. Camille.

"Did she really?" Isaac asked.

"Oh, yes," Camille said. "All three verses. And a healer collapsed."

"She collapsed?" Isaac sounded alarmed. "Is she alright?"

"Yes." Ryne could hear Camille's frown. "Fortunately, a girl at the party recognized her condition. I can't say I've ever seen anything like it before." A slender hand brushed hair out of his eyes. "How is he?"

I'm alright, Ryne tried to say, but he was floating in space. A profound contentment was creeping over him, separate, he suspected, from even Penny's influence. He could die happy right now. He could die right here in this bed, surrounded by the three people that he loved most in this world.

He would never have the joy of being loved — truly loved — by a woman, but that was alright. He had made his peace with that. So long as he had this, he could be happy. This was all he needed.

And to get changed for the banquet tonight.

But he would do that later, Ryne thought, fading back into oblivion. Later. Just as soon as he had the strength to walk back to his quarters.

***

Anna trailed the man to the canopy.

The sunlight was fading, painting the sky with burning embers. Most of the guests were trickling into the palace now, making their way towards the banquet hall for the evening feast. But not her. Not yet, anyway.

The man observed her carefully. "That was an excellent save. You're a talented healer, Miss Holloway."

She inclined her head. "I had an excellent teacher."

"I don't suppose you're from Zarob?"

Zarob. One of the six kingdoms, and the only place with magically gifted healers. She shook her head. "No. I was born here."

Right here, in fact.

At this castle.

The man's face fell. Just a fraction, but she caught it. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." He shifted his clipboard. "I have yet to introduce myself; my name is John, and I'm the queen's advisor. And now, I'd like to offer you a position. At the Castle."

"A position?" Anna kept her voice neutral. "Don't you already have two healers?"

"Melody will be out for a few weeks," said John.

Months, actually. Not that Anna was about to volunteer that information.

"You'll train under June," John continued. "She'll show you how things operate around the castle. I'm not sure how much your— er— previous instructor taught you—"

"My father," Anna interjected. "My father's a healer."

This was something else she had learned at The Mermaid's Scale: always invent a happy family. It made people trust you more. And indeed, John's grip slackened on his clipboard. "Well, the position is yours, if you want it."

She smiled. Held out her hand.

"I would be honoured."

***

Queen Brigid sank into her chair.

It had been a long day, Brigid thought, rubbing at her eyes; Ryne was ill, and the garden party had dragged on for hours. A healer had collapsed. And now, John was going to give her more bad news.

She could tell by the way that her advisor paced around the office, picking up glass paperweights and a silver vase given to them by a Loxian viscount. John always fidgeted when he was nervous; it was a dead giveaway.

"Just tell me, John."

He paused. "Your Majesty?"

"You have bad news." Brigid folded her hands. "I would rather get it over with if you don't mind. I'd like to see my son before the banquet."

The banquet. Brigid winced. Another necessary evil. But she had grown up as a courtier's daughter, and she knew how to smile even when she felt like screaming. To his credit, John didn't waste any time.

"Another Nightweaver has been spotted in Valonde. I'm afraid that this one sound powerful. I've spoken with the Commander of the Guard; he'll ride out tomorrow to deal with the situation himself."

Brigid closed her eyes. "Another one?"

"Yes."

"That makes two this week."

John shifted. "There are rumours flying around, Your Majesty, that Annalise Cidarius is alive. It's emboldened them."

Brigid sighed. A ridiculous rumour, and one that fed false hope. "Well, squash them. The rumours and the Nightweavers."

"Consider it done, Majesty." John turned for the door, and then paused. "Oh, and I hired that healer. The Holloway girl from the party."

"Good." She rubbed at her eyes. "That's good. At least we won't—"

The door flew open, narrowly missing John's left shoulder. A breathless guard stood on the doorstep, sweat clinging to his greying hair. There was blood on his jacket, Brigid noted, her pulse picking up. Blood and a lot of dirt.

"What is it?" She rose. "What's wrong?"

"There's been an attack, Your Majesty," the guard said.

"At the garden party?"

Brigid gripped her desk. Relations were strained, particularly with the Gongo Islands and Zarob; if any of the visiting dignitaries were injured, she would never hear the end of it. But the guard shook his head.

"In the West Tower." He was panting. "A guard went mad, Your Majesty. Hunter. He began lunging with a sword."

Brigid stared at the blood on his jacket. "One of my guards did that?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "No."

"Oh, for gods' sake," John snapped. "Which one is it? Speak sense, man."

"Hunter attacked us," the guard said, his voice grim. "But there's something wrong with him. He kept yelling and flailing his arms a lot. And he was sweating, too. It was as if someone had trapped him in a nightmare, Your Majesty."

Brigid froze. She didn't dare look at John as she gathered up her skirts, hurrying out from behind the desk. "Take us to this guard," she said. "Immediately."