Page 34 of Sharpest Court

She shifted on her feet, suddenly hesitant. “Did you think your group of refugees was the first to cross those waters?” Yes, I had, though I didn’t say as much. “Why are you even asking?” she demanded.

I swallowed, remembering the overseer’s eight-year-old niece, who’d braided my hair on the ship when I couldn’t lift my arm. “I just wondered if they were all right.”

“They’re fine. I’m making sure of it.”

I wanted to thank her, but she wouldn’t have taken well to that. So I nodded and began walking toward one end of the double staircase.

“Did he do that?” she asked, making me pause. She glanced from my bandaged arm to the fading bruises on my throat. “The king?”

“Not all of it,” I said.

Her gaze met mine again, still untrusting. But now contemplative, too.

Then she strode off, leaving me staring after her. Sighing, I turned—and jumped.

Dashiel was standing at an adjacent corridor, watching me.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, immediately apologetic. “I was—”

“Eavesdropping?” I drawled, wondering why Keil hadn’t just paraded me around on a litter if every member of his group was going to gawk at me like I was a rare fish in a bowl.

“Ensuring everything remained civilized between you,” Dashiel corrected, bashful. “Osana doesn’t mean you harm. The knowledge that you are a Wielder . . . unsettled her.”

“Well, the multiple kidnapping attempts unsettled me, so I suppose we’re even.”

As quiet amusement danced in his eyes, I remembered what he’d said to Rheya. How he’d traded this softness for fervent conviction as he’d come to my defense.

“Thank you,” I said, “Sir Gilliam.”

He breathed a laugh of surprise. “You may call me by my first name, my lady.”

“Then you should call me by mine.”

Dashiel dipped his head in agreement, and I descended into the foyer—a grand, glorious space, sunlit and sparkling in white and gold.

But I faltered as I saw Keil leaning back against a hallway table, his white shirtsleeves rolled up around his elbows, his muscled arms crossed.

Keil had always stood apart in Daradon, a figure of gold against a cool silver backdrop. The effect had been disarming. Intriguing.

But glowing in the honeyed light of his empire, soaked in the contentment that could only exist in the haven of one’s own home . . . Keil appeared more devastatingly beautiful than I’d ever seen him.

I must have paused too long, because his gaze landed on mine.

I shook off my sudden warmth and continued moving.

He glanced over me as I approached, and I knew he was cataloging my injuries. Probably determining whether he needed to convince me to take another day of rest.

At last, he exhaled with quiet relief. “My lady,” he said in greeting. Though he sounded as charming as ever, my chest twinged at his use of the honorific. The return to our polite formality. “Feeling better?”

I cleared my throat, reminding myself why this distance needed to exist between us. Because Rheya had demanded it. Because I couldn’t risk her calling off our deal.

Because the last time I had chosen Keil, it had almost cost me my freedom.

“I am,” I said. Then added, quieter, “The food helped very much.”

Keil’s smile softened; he’d understood my silent thanks. “It was more likely the work of those tonics. Our Winker works miracles.”

Winker. That must’ve been the mysterious W who’d left the medicines. The family physician, judging by how fondly Keil had said the name.