He’d managed to put on weight, his shoulders broadened from the months at sea. His pale skin, where it showed at his open collar and his wrists, had become a tapestry of scars. Rhy had felt every one, though his body never held the marks for more than a day or two. But those scars were nothing against the deeper wound. Even in the dark, Rhy could see the bruises beneath Kell’s eyes, the long-term toll of so much suffering.
And he knew better than to ask, but he must have been drunker than he thought, because the words came out anyway. “What does it feel like?”
And Kell must have been drunker than he seemed, because he answered honestly. “It feels like my heart is breaking in my chest. Like I’m coming undone.”
Rhy looked down at the bottle. “I would take it from you, if I could.”
“I know.”
“It isn’t right,” he muttered. “We are bound together. Everything that hurts you, should hurt me.”
“This pain lives somewhere else,” said Kell. “And I wouldn’t wish it on you. Besides,” he added with a grim smile, “someone once told me that pain is a reminder that we are alive.”
Rhy shook his head at the memory of those words, spoken at a time when he was trying to convince himself. “Sounds like a fool.”
“Or an optimist.”
“An arrogant prince,” said Rhy.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Kell with a smirk. “You were also stubborn. And vexing.”
Rhy felt the laughter bubble up inside his chest. And with it, the air between them loosened.
“Well,” said Kell, lifting the bottle of summer wine to his lips. “What have I missed?”
And so they traded stories, of the queen’s inventions, and the Grey Barron, and of Lila, and Alucard. Kell regaled Rhy with tales of life at sea, and Rhy told him of Ren’s animal menagerie and Kell smiled, and Rhy laughed, and for a little while, at least, it was easy to ignore the things they left unsaid. For a little while, at least, Kay was gone, and so was the king, and the two brothers drank and spoke of everything, and nothing.
* * *
Lila Bard stood over the world.
She ran her fingers down the coast of Arnes, skated her nails across the sea, splayed her hand over London, the tiny points of the palace spire pricking her palm. The model was massive, the land carved from a block of marble, the water made of stained glass. It was a wondrous thing, cities and port towns sculpted from colored stone. Tiny boats floated on panes of blue, or sat like matchsticks in their ports, and the glass of the Isle even turned red as it wound its way upriver from Tanek into London.
Lila took up a miniature ship and balanced it on the end of her finger, as across the room, Alucard drew two short glasses from a gilded cabinet, along with a bottle of wine.
The chamber was nearly as large as the king’s, or Kell’s, but where theirs were pale marble interrupted by gold silk and polished wood, Alucard’s retained the spirit of the Night Spire, dark-walled and cluttered with finery. There was no bed—no need, she supposed—but there was a large wooden desk, like the one he’d left in the captain’s quarters of his ship—now hers.
Only the ceiling belonged to the palace. Skeins of fabric billowed high overhead, unraveling into a gossamer sky, as they did in every chamber—only it was not sunrise, like Rhy’s, or dusk, like Kell’s, but the kind of night you found on open water, the blue almost black, the clouds lit by moon.
“I thought you didn’t miss your life at sea,” she mused, setting the tiny ship down in a port.
“It’s not that I don’t miss it,” explained Alucard, pouring the wine. “I’ve simply found something worth staying put for.” He joined her at the model’s edge and handed her a glass. “Compliments of the royal cellar.”
The wine inside was the color of pearls, and littered with little flecks of light, and when Lila drank, it tasted like moonlight. If moonlight could get you drunk. She held the glass up, studying the tiny bubbles that rose to the top.
“Tell me,” said Alucard, rounding the model, stopping on the other side so the empire lay between them. “What brings the captain back to London?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear? I need a ship.”
The color drained from his face. “What happened to the Spire?”
“You mean the Barron?” She shrugged. “Afraid I sunk it.”
He choked on his wine, looked at her in horror. “You didn’t.”
She shrugged, said nothing. The silence drew thick enough to cut. Until, at last, she cut him free. Her lips twitched, and Alucard collapsed back in his chair, the air rushing from his lungs.