At last they reached the palace steps, strewn even now with frost-dusted flowers.

“The king?” Kell asked as they strode through the entryway.

Staff led the way to a chamber where King Maxim stood near a blazing hearth, in conversation with several ostra. When he saw Kell, he dismissed them. Kell kept his head up, but none of the attendants met his gaze. When they were gone, the king nodded him forward.

Kell continued into middle of the room before spreading his arms for Staff and Hastra in a gesture that was as much challenge as invitation.

“Don’t be dramatic,” said Maxim.

The guards had the decency to look uncertain as they came forward.

“Rhy must be rubbing off on me, Your Majesty,” said Kell grimly as Staff helped him out of his coat, and Hastra patted down his shirt and trousers, and ran a hand around the lip of his boots. He didn’t have anything on his person, and they wouldn’t be able to find anything in his coat, not unless he wanted it to be found. He sometimes worried that the coat had a mind of its own. The only other person who’d ever managed to find what they wanted in its pockets was Lila. He’d never found out how she’d done that. Traitorous coat.

Staff withdrew the Grey London letter from one of the pockets, and delivered it to the king before handing the coat back to Kell.

“How was the king?” asked Maxim, taking the letter.

“Dead,” said Kell. That caught the man off guard. He recounted his visit, and the Prince Regent’s—now George IV’s—renewed interest in magic. He even mentioned that the new king had tried to bribe him, taking care to emphasize the fact that he’d declined the offer.

Maxim stroked his beard and looked troubled, but he said nothing, only waved a hand to show Kell that he was dismissed. He turned, feeling his mood darken, but as Staff and Hastra moved to follow, Maxim called them back.

“Leave him be,” he said, and Kell was grateful for that small kindness as he escaped to his rooms.

His relief didn’t last. When he reached the doors to his chamber, he found two more guards standing outside them. The men were Rhy’s.

“Saints, I swear you just keep multiplying,” he muttered.

“Sir?” said Tolners.

“Nothing,” grumbled Kell, pushing past them. There was only one reason Tolners and Vis would be stationed outside his door.

He found Rhy standing in the middle of his room, his back to Kell as he considered himself in a full-length mirror. From this angle, Kell couldn’t see Rhy’s face, and for a moment, a memory surged into his mind, of Rhy waiting for him to wake—only it hadn’t been Rhy, of course, but Astrid wearing his skin, and they were in Rhy’s chambers then, not his. But for an instant the details blurred and he found himself searching Rhy for any pendants or charms, searching his floor for blood, before the past crumbled back into memory.

“About time,” said Rhy, and Kell was secretly relieved when the voice that came from Rhy’s lips was undoubtedly his brother’s.

“What brings you to my room?” he asked, relief bleeding into annoyance.

“Adventure. Intrigue. Brotherly concern. Or,” continued the prince lazily, “perhaps I’m just giving your mirror something to look at besides your constant pout.”

Kell frowned, and Rhy smiled. “Ah, there it is! That famous scowl.”

“I don’t scowl,” grumbled Kell.

Rhy shot a conspiratorial look at his own reflection. Kell sighed and tossed his coat onto the nearest couch before heading for the alcove off his chamber.

“What are you doing?” Rhy called after.

“Hold on,” Kell called back, shutting the door between them. A single candle flickered to life, and by its light he saw the symbols drawn on the wood. There, amid the other marks and fresh with blood, was the doorway to Disan. The way to Windsor Castle. Kell reached out and rubbed at the mark until it was obscured, and then gone.

When Kell returned, Rhy was sitting in Kell’s favorite chair, which he’d dragged around so it was facing the room instead of the balcony doors. “What was that about?” he asked, head resting in his hand.

“That’s my chair,” said Kell flatly.

“Battered old thing,” said Rhy, knowing how fond Kell was of it. The prince had mischief in his pale gold eyes as he got to his feet.

“I’m still nursing a headache,” said Kell. “So if you’re here to force me on another outing—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” said Rhy, crossing to the sideboard. He started to pour himself a drink, and Kell was about to say something very unkind when he saw that it was simply tea.

He nodded at one of the sofas. “Sit down.”

Kell would have stood out of spite, but he was weary from the trip, and he sank onto the nearest sofa. Rhy finished fixing his tea and sat down opposite.

“Well?” prompted Kell.

“I thought Tieren was supposed to teach you patience,” chided Rhy. He set the tea on the table and drew a wooden box from underneath. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” asked Kell. “The lying? The drinking? The fighting? The relentless—” But something in Rhy’s expression made him stop.

The prince raked the black curls from his face, and Kell realized that he looked older. Not old—Rhy was only twenty, a year and a half younger than Kell—but the edges of his face had sharpened, and his bright eyes were less amazed, more intense. He’d grown up, and Kell couldn’t help but wonder if it was all natural, the simple, inevitable progression of time, or if the last dregs of his youth had been stripped away by what had happened.