Kell frowned. “You’ve never struck me as a very pious man, Your Majesty.”

The king crossed himself. “Better safe than sorry. Besides,” he said, looking around, “I am the King of England. My legacy is divine. I rule by the grace of that God you mock. I am His servant, as this kingdom is mine at His grace.” It sounded like a recitation. The king tucked the cross back beneath his collar. “Perhaps,” he added, twisting up his face, “I would worship your god, if I could see and touch it as you do.”

And here they were again. The old king had regarded magic with awe, a child’s wonder. This new king looked at it the way he looked at everything. With lust.

“I warned you once, Your Majesty,” said Kell. “Magic has no place in your world. Not anymore.”

George smiled, and for an instant he looked more like a wolf than a well-fed man. “You said yourself, Master Kell, that the world is full of cycles. Perhaps our time will come again.” And then the grin was gone, swallowed up by his usual expression of droll amusement. The effect was disconcerting, and it made Kell wonder if the man was really as dense and self-absorbed as his people thought, or if there was something there, beneath the shallow, self-indulgent shell.

What had Astrid Dane said?

I do not trust things unless they belong to me.

A draft cut through the vault, flickering the candlelight. “Come,” said George, turning his back on Kell and the old king’s tomb.

Kell hesitated, then drew the Red London lin from his pocket, the star glittering in the center of the coin. He always brought one for the king; every month, the old monarch claimed that the magic in his own was fading, like heat from dying coals, so Kell would bring him one to trade, pocket-warm and smelling of roses. Now Kell considered the coin, turning it over his fingers.

“This one’s fresh, Your Majesty.” He touched it to his lips, and then reached out and set the warm coin on top of the cold stone tomb.

“Sores nast,” he whispered. Sleep well.

And with that, Kell followed the new king up the stairs, and back out into the cold.

* * *

Kell fought not to fidget while he waited for the King of England to finish writing his letter.

The man was taking his time, letting the silence in the room thicken into something profoundly uncomfortable, until Kell found himself wanting to speak, if only to break it. Knowing that was probably the point, he held his tongue and stood watching the snow fall and the sky darken beyond the window.

When the letter was finally done, George sat back in his chair and took up a wine cup, staring at the pages as he drank. “Tell me something,” he said, “about magic.” Kell tensed, but the king continued. “Does everyone in your world possess this ability?”

Kell hesitated. “Not all,” he said. “And not equally.”

George tipped the glass from side to side. “So you might say that the powerful are chosen.”

“Some believe that,” said Kell. “Others think it is simply a matter of luck. A good hand drawn in cards.”

“If that’s the case, then you must have drawn a very good hand.”

Kell considered him evenly. “If you’ve finished your letter, I should—”

“How many people can do what you do?” cut in the king. “Travel between worlds? I’d wager not many, or else I might have seen them instead. Really,” he said, getting to his feet, “it’s a wonder your king lets you out of his sight.”

He could see the thoughts in George’s eyes, like cogs turning. But Kell had no intention of becoming part of the man’s collection.

“Your Majesty,” said Kell, trying to keep his voice smooth, “if you are feeling the urge to keep me here, thinking it might gain you something, I would strongly discourage the attempt, and remind you that any such gesture would forfeit future communication with my world.” Please don’t do this, he wanted to add. Don’t even try it. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his last escape. “Plus,” he added for good measure, “I think you would find I am not easily kept.”

Thankfully the king raised his ringed hands in mock surrender. “You mistake me,” he said with a smile, even though Kell did not think he’d been at all mistaken. “I simply don’t see why our two great kingdoms shouldn’t share a closer bond.”

He folded his letter, and sealed it with wax. It was long—several pages longer than usual, judging by the way the paper bulged and its weight when Kell took it.

“For years these letters have been riddled with formalities, anecdotes instead of history, warnings in place of explanation, useless bits of information when we could be sharing real knowledge,” pressed the king.

Kell slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat. “If that’s all …”

“Actually, it’s not,” said George. “I’ve something for you.”

Kell cringed as the man set a small box on the table. He didn’t reach for it. “That is kind of you, Your Majesty, but I must decline.”

George’s shallow smile faded. “You would refuse a gift from the King of England?”

“I would refuse a gift from anyone,” said Kell, “especially when I can tell it’s meant as payment. Though I know not for what.”

“It’s simple enough,” said George. “The next time you come, I would have you bring me something in return.”