Part Nine
THE THREADS THAT BIND
I
WHITE LONDON
NOW
A knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Holland’s hand dropped from Kosika’s shoulder. He drifted past her to the window as she said, “Come in.”
She expected a servant, or perhaps Nasi, but instead it was Lark who entered, holding a tray.
“My queen,” he said. There was a quirk to his mouth when he said it, not mocking, but playful. A reminder that he had known her back when she was a street rat, and he a scrawny thief. Before she’d gained a black eye and a crown. Before he’d gained that scar at his throat. Before his shoulders had grown wide and his bearing tall and his voice had taken on that rich honey lilt.
His eyes scanned the room, passed right through Holland before lingering on the blood-soaked cloak she’d thrown off on her way in. “Good thing you’re not squeamish.”
Kosika shrugged. “Never have been.”
She didn’t realize how hungry she was until he set the tray down and she saw the food piled high on the plates. Thick-sliced meat, and roast carrots, a loaf of bread and a bowl of stone fruit and a pitcher of cider—easily enough for two.
In the beginning, she had been unnerved whenever anyone else stood in the presence of her saint, unnerved by their inability to see him as she could. But now, it gave her a kind of thrill.
“Do you wish they could see me?” asked Holland, and Kosika surprised herself by thinking no. She should want it, she knew, but she liked that he had chosen her. Only her.
Holland’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile.
And she forced her attention back to her friend.
“Eat with me.”
“A soldier, taking from the queen’s plate?” he said, aghast. But she rolled her eyes and split the food between them. She sank into a chair. He perched on a footstool.
“You’re missing quite a feast,” he said.
“And now you’re missing it, too. A servant could have brought this tray.”
“I’m glad for the excuse,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I hardly see you anymore.”
“You see me every day.”
“I see the queen.”
Are we not the same? she wanted to ask. But she knew they weren’t. She would never be a proper queen—a proper queen would be downstairs, smiling and nodding at nobles—but she could not be the reckless, feral girl she had once been.
She looked to the bloody cape. “I wish she were a cloak or crown,” she mused. “Something I could shed.”
“I don’t,” said Lark. “You are changing the world, Kosika.”
The words surprised her. So did the light in his eyes.
“He is loyal to you,” mused Holland. She had almost forgotten he was there until he spoke. She half expected Lark to flinch, to jerk at the sound of the voice. But of course, he didn’t hear it. Didn’t see Holland drift forward, fingers gliding along the trunk of the silver tree.
It took all her effort not to shift her attention, let her gaze follow him across the room, so she was grateful when he passed behind Lark, and stopped there, so she was looking at them both.
“Tell me about it. This feast I’m missing.”
“Well,” said Lark, swiping a plum from the tray. “Half the nobles are drunk, and the other half are fools. Two of the Vir are having an affair and terrible at hiding it, and Nasi is flirting with this soldier—Gael, do you know him? Handsome enough but hollow-skulled.”
“Jealous?”
“Well,” he said, rolling the plum between his hands. “I have heard Gael’s a talented lover.”
Kosika snorted into her cider. Lark rambled on, and as he did, she imagined the castle falling away, imagined them sitting on the edge of a city wall, legs swinging over the side as they shared a stolen meal. And then she yawned, and the room snapped back into shape, and Lark rose, and said he should be going.
“My queen,” he said with a bow.
She rose, following him toward the door. He pulled it open, the sounds of celebration wafting up from below. But he stopped on the threshold.
“Almost forgot,” he said, digging in his pocket. He turned, and held out a small black pouch. “Happy birthday.”
She blushed as she took the pouch, turning the contents out into her palm. Dusty white blocks rattled into her hand. Sugar cubes.
“Stole them from the kitchen.”
“The castle kitchen,” she pointed out. “Which belongs to me. You could have simply asked for them.”