He slammed his drawing book shut before turning to squint at me, the sun hitting him full in the face. His peridot eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red and purple shadows. Too much wine, or crying? As I hadn’t seen him shed a single tear last night, I guessed the former.
“I brought sustenance. Can you stomach it?”
I didn’t wait for an invitation to sit. Just because he’d let his guard down once, I wasn’t fooled. He would likely push back harder because of it, assuming he remembered anything of the previous night. But to my satisfied surprise, he took the parcel without a fight or sly remark, unwrapping the warm baguette. I’d never paid much attention to what he ate, so I’d gone with trusty bacon, sausage and eggs, a popular choice with the carnivores in my life. My own sandwich contained egg, cheese and a green substance that I sincerely hoped was avocado.
“Thank you,” Idris muttered, staring blankly at his breakfast. I took a bite of mine, letting the silence stretch as I ate.
“As tempting as it was, I didn’t poison it,” I added eventually, winning myself a tiny hint of a smile. Idris took a tentative nibble, confirming my suspicions of a delicate stomach.
I waited until he’d finished, screwing his napkin up in his fist, and asked, “How are you feeling after the ball?”
He shot me a sideways, quizzical look, like he couldn’t work out why I was there and being nice.
“As rough as a buzzard’s crotch,” he admitted, still watching me warily.
Ordinarily, I might have laughed at his phrase, but I was in no mood for amusement today. “Do you remember any of it?”
He heaved a sigh, straightening, and for a moment, I thought he might flee. My heart spasmed, but he remained seated.
“I remember you,” he said softly. I met his sheepish, yellow-green eyes. “I’m sorry if I spoilt your evening.”
A lock of dark hair hung over his forehead, the same one I’d touched last night. The urge to brush it out of his eyes seized me, just as it had as I’d gazed down at his sleeping form, but I kept my hands still. He’d held my hand while he slept, held it cradled to his chest. What would he say if he remembered? What would he say if I took his hand now? I wanted him to know that I was here for him, and that I would stay for him, even if I was the last person he wanted, but still, I didn’t move.
“Anwir told me about your son.”
His whole face tightened, muscles flickering in his jaw as he turned away to stare across the courtyard. I knew he wasn’t really seeing it.
“Idris… I’m so sorry for your loss.” Words I’d spoken countless times, but suddenly carried a whole new weight. “I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling.”
His breath wavered, his only response. Thanks to the curse, this was still raw for him, even if it had happened hundreds of years ago. He’d never been allowed to grieve properly, except in haunted dreams.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” I injected a little cheer into my voice, casting around for a lighter subject. “Listen to this. Anwir and I had a fight this morning. Apparently, you knocked my tiara off. He didn’t take it well when the witches went in to tidy and found it in your bed.”
“What?” I had his attention again. Unflattering panic widened his eyes. “How was it in my bed?”
I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling my chuckle. “Oh God, you don’t remember that part? You were unconscious, I guess. Do you remember me escorting you back to your room? Well, as soon as you saw your bed you just gave up using your legs and fell on top of me. My tiara must have been lost in the fray.”
“You took me to bed? Wait, no, I think I’m remembering.” He groaned, burying his head in his hands, but he peered sideways at me through his fingers. “Did I brag about being able to walk?”
I fought against my smirk and lost. “I don’t remember the details.”
“Liar.”
My grin widened. “Your secrets are safe with me, though, just between us, I think you’d better tone down your walking before anyone else notices.”
“I do like to keep my talents under wraps.”
“I’ve noticed.” I looked pointedly at the black book perched on his lap. He stiffened. “Are you good at drawing?”
“Not bad.”
“I’m terrible. I’m very much a stick figure sort of girl.” My artistic abilities had ceased to develop since the age of five.
He blew an amused breath out of his nose, but didn’t rise to the bait.
“Can’t I see one of your pictures?”
“No.”
And there I was, thinking I’d made progress. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t know how to fail. “Is it because you’re not as good as you say you are?”
“It’s because you’re an irritating mortal who doesn’t know how to mind her own business.”
“Just one picture.” It wasn’t as though I was asking for access to his royal bank account. My request was perfectly reasonable.
“No.”
“Please.”
He ignored me.
“Pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top?”
He furrowed his flawless brow questioningly.
“It’s what my nana used to say. You can’t say no to it. It’s basically law.” It had certainly ensured my grandad was wrapped around Nana’s, and by extension, my little finger.
“I can.”
