I look to my right to see Theron peeking over the top of the staircase that leads to the third-floor balcony where I set up camp. A tray of steaming dishes sits in his hands, and my stomach answers with an unladylike gurgle. Theron is the only person who knows about my early-morning sessions—he comes here each morning himself to return books or get new ones, and running into him is an inevitability I don’t mind.
He continues up the stairs, dropping to sit beside me but facing the library below. “I figured you’d be hungry, since you didn’t come to breakfast again,” he says, and sets the tray between us. “My father is appeased that you’re attending those lessons, but your friends are—”
“Deserving of every speck of worry and stress I give them?” I fill in, reaching for a crusty slice of bread from a basket.
Theron laughs. “I was going to say that they’re scaring my court with how often they have whispered disputes behind potted trees, but ‘deserving of stress’ works too.”
“Someone should tell them potted plants don’t keep sound from carrying.” I stuff small bits of bread into my mouth but keep talking, reveling in this small act of impropriety. It’s all too easy to forget that Theron’s a prince, that his station is so far above mine I couldn’t reach it if I was standing on top of the Klaryns, that I should be proper and ladylike and curtsy when he approaches, all things I learned in yesterday’s etiquette lesson. It’s too easy to do a lot of things around him, and I’m still trying to figure out why that is.
Theron nods toward the book still pressed between my legs and chest. “Dare I ask how it’s going, or will you threaten to cut it apart again?”
I groan. “I don’t want to talk about it. This porridge is good. What’s in it, strawberries?”
“You’re still not going to tell me what you’re doing?”
“No,” I say to the food tray. There’s no scenario in which telling someone you’ve been having dreams about a dead queen ends with them not believing you’ve fallen into the dark abyss of insanity.
“I can be helpful,” Theron offers, his voice light. “I am, in fact, trained to help an entire kingdom, so I think I can channel some of that training into helping one beautiful woman.”
I look up at him, my eyes narrow despite the smile that crawls across my face. “That’s not fair, throwing out compliments like that. Do you know how dangerous those things can be?”
Theron shrugs, grinning, his cheeks tinged just the slightest bit pink. He’s embarrassed?
He drops his grin into a pout, puckering his lips and pulling his eyebrows tight over his nose.
I glare.
He pouts harder.
“You’re impossible,” I growl, and rip open the book.
Theron laughs and scoots a little closer to me. “Impossible, endearing. Synonyms, really.”
I mock-laugh and scan the indecipherable pages again, pain instantly pulsing through my head at the sight of all that black, swirling ink. “I’m trying to learn more about magic,” I start.
Theron gasps. “While reading a book called Magic in Primoria? No!”
“Impossible, endearing, hilarious. Also synonyms.”
“So you agree I’m endearing?”
I glare at him and open my mouth, only to find I have absolutely nothing to say. He smiles, waiting, and my gape becomes an incredulous snort.
“As I was saying,” I start again, and Theron waves a hand in surrender to tell me he won’t interrupt. “I’m trying to learn more about magic. The Royal Conduits and where they came from and”—I run my fingers down the swirls of black ink—“and everything. Anything I can learn. Maybe there’s some loophole, something that means we could defeat Angra without needing our locket.”
As I talk, the amusement on Theron’s face fades, and he eyes the pages under my hands. “What have you learned so far?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know. This book is unreadable.” I flip to one of the passages I can actually make out—but just because I can read the words doesn’t mean they make any sense. “Like this, for instance. ‘From the lights, there came a great Decay; and woe was it unto those who had no light. They did beg, thus the lights were formed. The four did create the lights; and the four did create the lights.’” I slam my head back against the railing. “What?”
Theron’s face stays serious. I recognize the expression as his “art” face, the same look he got when we were in his room and he was looking at the painting of Winter. Curious, focused, like the whole case of books behind him could fall over and he wouldn’t even flinch.
His lips move soundlessly, repeating the passage to himself. “Four? It said four twice?”
“Yeah.” I look back at the book. “The same thing twice too. ‘The four did create the lights; and the four did create the lights.’”
Theron nods. “The kingdoms of Primoria. Four and four. The Rhythms and the Seasons. They created something . . . resources? No, something magic-related. A metaphorical light? Perhaps the conduits? So light could be a conduit.” He leans over the book and points at the passage, inserting his words as he goes. “From the conduits, there came a great Decay; and woe was it unto those who had no conduit. They did beg, thus the conduits were formed. The Rhythms did create the conduits; and the Seasons did create the conduits.”
He beams up at me but it flies away when he sees my glare. “What?”
“What?” I stab a finger at the passage. “I’ve been staring at that for three days and you come in here and figure it out in three seconds.”
Theron’s smile returns. “Told you I’m helpful.”
I will not give him the satisfaction of me smiling back. “What does it mean, though, O Wise, Learned Prince? It still doesn’t make sense. A great Decay came from the conduits? But the Rhythms and Seasons created more conduits? But they only created the eight before the entrance vanished. So what, exactly, is the Decay, and why is it capitalized? A metaphorical decay, a literal decay . . .”
Theron leans back, arms resting on his knees, and stares at the library below. “That’s why literature is so fascinating. It’s always up for interpretation, and could be a hundred different things to a hundred different people. It’s never the same thing twice.”
I close the book with a groan. “I don’t need a hundred different interpretations. I need to read a book that says, ‘Here’s how to defeat Spring and restore power to your king, and while you’re at it, here’s how to prove you matter when no one else thinks you do—’”
I stop. I’m staring at the bookshelves and not at Theron, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him again without shriveling up from embarrassment. Which might make the whole marriage thing a bit awkward. I can still hear what I said hanging around me, my weak, weak admission, and I can’t bring myself to breathe, let alone face him.
Theron doesn’t give me a choice. He crawls up onto his knees and moves into my line of sight, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes darting over mine like he’s trying to figure me out the same way he figured out that passage. After a moment of silence, he grimaces.
“You matter” is all he says.
I flinch, cold tingles bouncing all around as he stares at me with that certainty in his eyes. It’s similar to all those tense, lingering stares Mather would give me, yet at the same time not. When Mather looked at me, I never knew what emotions he was hiding behind his seriousness, if he liked me or if he was trying to figure out if he did. But with Theron—it feels more purposeful. Like he’s staring at me because he wants to, not because he’s questioning himself.
Neither of us says anything else, exhaling slowly into the space between us, too afraid to move away, too afraid to move closer.
A door slams below us, echoing up the three floors of the library. I jump, shaken out of my trance. It’s probably Rose—I’m late for today’s lessons. But the voice that fills up the library makes me groan with a different weight.
“Meira,” Sir says determinedly enough to practically pull me over the third-floor balcony.
Theron sighs. “There’s only one door out of the library,” he says as if reading my thoughts.
I groan again. There’s no escaping Sir now. Unless I barrel past him and run as hard as I can into the twisting halls of Bithai’s palace. The mature reaction.
Theron stands and reaches out a hand to help me up. “He won’t yell at you when I’m present.”
I slide the book onto the floor, slip my hand into his, and want to smile. I want to do a lot of things when he pulls me to my feet and we’re so close, so very close, for one short second, and I wonder if marrying him would be such a horrible thing.
Theron leads me down the stairs, still holding my hand. I’m all right with that, in a way that makes me think my answer to the do-I-want-to-marry-him question might surprise me.
We reach the bottom floor of the library and there is—everyone. Sir, Alysson, Dendera, Finn, Greer, Henn, and Mather. All standing in a tight group in the middle of the room, faces in various states of anger or frustration.
Sir steps forward to meet us halfway, his arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes fall to Theron’s and my hands, intertwined, but he doesn’t say anything, and shivers run up and down my arms, spreading through my body the longer we stand there not speaking.
“Prince Theron,” Sir starts, keeping his voice strangely calm. “We need a word with Lady Meira. Alone.”
I stifle the urge to whimper. Not because Sir wants to talk to me—because of how he said it. Lady Meira. It feels so formal. Too formal. I don’t want Sir to be formal with me.
Theron pivots to face him. “I must respectfully decline, General Loren.”
Mather makes a huffing sound from behind Sir. My eyes dart to him, and we’re stuck now staring at each other while I do absolutely nothing to distance myself from Theron. Mather looks at our hands and back up at me, his face constricting into anger, regret, anger, anger, anger—
“Is something wrong, King Mather?” Theron asks around Sir.
Mather starts forward but Sir snaps out an arm and slams it into his chest. Mather stops, panting like he did in the sword ring. I expect some kind of guilt to sweep over me, or at the very least a rising wave of discomfort, at seeing Mather. But all I feel is tired—tired of getting nothing but unreadable emotions from him. Tired of waiting on him. Tired of him.
We don’t need another encounter like the one in the sword ring, though. I can handle this on my own. I always have.
I pull Theron’s hand until he looks down at me. “I’ll be fine,” I promise, though it sounds strange to my own ears. I’ve never had someone worry about me during Sir’s interrogations. It makes me feel both strong and weak at the same time, like I could lean too much on him, on the support he’s offering, and lose myself behind him.
After a moment of considering, Theron nods. He squeezes my hand once and backs away, making for the door while politely acknowledging everyone he passes.
The door closes behind him and I have barely two seconds to inhale before someone rushes up on me. I blink, trying to focus on Sir’s face, but it isn’t Sir.
“It’s one thing to be alone with the prince in the library,” Dendera spits. “I can almost overlook that. But his bedroom? Do you have any idea the kinds of rumors that have been circulating about you? Then you avoid us for a week after—thank the snow above that you’ve been attending those lessons, but that isn’t enough!”
Dendera’s face is flushed, her hair sticking out in frazzled pieces like she hasn’t slept in days. Has she been worrying for this long? Both times I evaded her, she did look flustered, but I assumed it was from my avoidance of her, not from my being in Theron’s bedroom. I can see why it would be improper for normal courtly ladies, but for me it seems a tad silly. I’m still in training anyway, aren’t I? A short while ago I was covered in Lynia’s sewer gunk as I barely evaded capture—I’m lucky I’m alive to even be improper.