“Quite, sir,” said Kell, sinking gratefully into a chair at the table. “Only tired.” The queen reached out and brought her hand to Kell’s cheek. Her complexion was darker than his—the royal family bore a rich tan that, when paired with their honey eyes and black hair, made them look like polished wood. With fair skin and reddish hair, Kell felt perpetually out of place. The queen brushed a handful of copper strands off his forehead. She always went looking for the truth in his right eye, as if it were a scrying board, something to be gazed into, seen past. But what she saw, she never shared. Kell took her hand and kissed it. “I’m fine, Your Majesty.” She gave him a weary look, and he corrected himself. “Mother.”

A servant appeared bearing tea, sweet and laced with mint, and Kell took a long drink and let his family talk, his mind wandering in the comfort of their noise.

When he could barely keep his eyes open, he excused himself. Rhy pushed up from the sofa with him. Kell wasn’t surprised. He had felt the prince’s gaze on him since he’d first taken his seat. Now, as the two bid their parents good night, Rhy trailed Kell into the hall, fiddling with the circle of gold nested in his black curls.

“What did I miss?” asked Kell.

“Not much,” said Rhy. “Holland paid a visit. He only just left.”

Kell frowned. Red London and White kept in much closer contact than Red and Grey, but their communication still held a kind of routine. Holland was off schedule by nearly a week.

“What have you come back with tonight?” asked Rhy.

“A headache,” said Kell, rubbing his eyes.

“You know what I mean,” countered the prince. “What did you bring through that door?”

“Nothing but a few lins.” Kell spread his arms wide. “Search me if you like,” he added with a smirk. Rhy had never been able to figure out Kell’s coat and its many sides, and Kell was already turning back down the hall, considering the matter done, when Rhy surprised him by reaching not for his pockets but for his shoulders, and pushing him back against the wall. Hard. A nearby painting of the king and queen shuddered, but did not fall. The guards dotting the hall looked up but did not move from their posts.

Kell was a year older than Rhy but built like an afternoon shadow, tall and slim, while Rhy was built like a statue, and nearly as strong.

“Do not lie,” warned Rhy. “Not to me.”

Kell’s mouth became a hard line. Rhy had caught him, two years before. Not caught in the act, of course, but snagged him in another, more devious way. Trust. The two had been drinking on one of the palace’s many balconies one summer night, the glow of the Isle beneath them and the stretch of sky above, and the truth had stumbled out. Kell had told his brother about the deals he struck in Grey London, and in White, and even on occasion in Red, about the various things he’d smuggled, and Rhy had stared at him, and listened, and when he spoke, it wasn’t to lecture Kell on all the ways it was wrong, or illegal. It was to ask why.

“I don’t know,” said Kell, and it had been the truth.

Rhy had sat up, eyes bleary from drink. “Have we not provided?” he’d asked, visibly upset. “Is there anything you want for?”

“No,” Kell had answered, and that had been a truth and a lie at the same time.

“Are you not loved?” whispered Rhy. “Are you not welcomed as family?”

“But I’m not family, Rhy,” Kell had said. “I’m not truly a Maresh, for all that the king and queen have offered me that name. I feel more like a possession than a prince.”

At that, Rhy had punched him in the face.

For a week after, Kell had two black eyes instead of one, and he’d never spoken like that again, but the damage was done. He’d hoped Rhy would prove too drunk to remember the conversation, but he’d remembered everything. He hadn’t told the king or queen, and Kell supposed he owed Rhy that, but now, every time he traveled, he had to endure Rhy’s questioning and with it, the reminder that what he was doing was foolish and wrong.

Rhy let go of Kell’s shoulders. “Why do you insist on keeping up these pursuits?”

“They amuse me,” said Kell, brushing himself off.

Rhy shook his head. “Look, I’ve turned a blind eye to your childish rebellion for quite a while now, but those doors were shut for a reason,” he warned. “Transference is treason.”

“They’re only trinkets,” said Kell, continuing down the hall. “There’s no real danger in it.”

“There’s plenty,” said Rhy, matching his stride. “Like the danger that awaits you if our parents ever learn—”

“Would you tell them?” asked Kell.

Rhy sighed. Kell watched him try to answer several ways before he finally said, “There is nothing I would not give you.”

Kell’s chest ached. “I know.”

“You are my brother. My closest friend.”

“I know.”

“Then put an end to this foolishness, before I do.”

Kell managed a small, tired smile. “Careful, Rhy,” he said. “You’re beginning to sound like a king.”

Rhy’s mouth quirked. “One day I will be. And I need you there beside me.”

Kell smiled back. “Believe me. There’s no place I’d rather be.” It was the truth.

Rhy patted his shoulder and went to bed. Kell shoved his hands into his pockets and watched him go. The people of London—and of the country beyond—loved their prince. And why shouldn’t they? He was young and handsome and kind. Perhaps he played the part of rake too often and too well, but behind the charismatic smile and the flirtatious air was a sharp mind and a good intent, the desire to make everyone around him happy. He had little gift for magic—and even less focus for it—but what he lacked in power he more than made up for in charm. Besides, if Kell had learned anything from his trips to White London, it was that magic made rulers worse, not better.