I don’t know why we couldn’t have just stayed in the simple family inn down the street. Sure, we probably would have been forced to sleep on the floor, but at least then we wouldn’t have the stink of vaanweed lingering on our garments by the morning.

The innkeeper gives us curious looks, though we can’t be the only ones who’ve stopped through this place with our hoods drawn to obscure our faces. He must assume we’re assassins or mercenaries of some sort, because he uses the word “discreet” about seven times during what should have been a three-sentence exchange.

“How long are you staying?”

“Just a night.”

“That’ll be twelve coppers.”

It isn’t that difficult.

Still, by the time we’ve made it to our room, I’m grateful for the two beds. I claim the one by the door, though Fin immediately says, “Want to be the only one who can escape if assassins come through the window?”

I raise my brow. “Want to be the only one to escape if they come through the door?”

Red splotches appear on my twin’s neck, but I just stare at the ceiling and try not to think about the critters who’ve likely also stayed the night in this bed.

From what others tell me, my brother is pleasant. Clever, even. Unfortunately, I never get to witness that side of him, if it even exists.

Still.

I’m probably being too harsh with him.

I turn my head to look at him and open my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m supposed to say. As it turns out, I don’t have to say anything. Don’t get the chance. Because Fin murmurs something about being hungry and practically flees the room, almost slamming the door behind him.

My skin heats, my magic flaring with my irritation, but I take deep breaths, doing my best to calm myself.

I don’t know why I let myself get so aggravated at him when I’m the one who tore our relationship apart. There had been a time—a short, rather fleeting time—that we had actually begun getting along. Back when Gwenyth, of all people, brought us together.

Of course her apparent selflessness was actually a ploy to satisfy her own thirst for power, which I somehow find even more irritating.

I’m already not looking forward to telling Asha how this trip is going. To her asking me if I even tried. She won’t ask it that way, of course. She’ll be much kinder about it than I could ever manage, and it’ll be immensely frustrating because I won’t even be able to be mad at her for implying what I know is the truth.

That I’m not trying. Not really.

I know that. Asha will know that. Probably already knows with that extra sense of hers.

So I sigh and roll out of bed, astounded at how quickly I’ve already developed knots in my muscles from the lumpy mattress.

Fin’s already drunk, though he carries it better than I would. I’m not a drinker, never have been. Not when I know I carry my father’s tendency toward rage in my veins.

I stop myself, realizing that’s not true. That I don’t carry any bit of Rajeen in my veins. I don’t know quite how to deal with the fact that I can’t blame my anger on inheriting his blood, though I’m not foolish enough to think his cruel training regimen had nothing to do with it.

Still. I wonder how long it will take me to cease thinking of the late king as my sire. I wonder if there will always be a part of me that can’t quite accept it.

Fin downs a flagon of ale, his grin spread wide across his face as he sits, chair backward, legs sprawled, at the head of a band of males whose occupations I don’t even want to know.

He has his hood off, drunk and forgetting that we’re supposed to be hiding our identities, though even I have to admit it’s unlikely anyone will recognize him.

Fin doesn’t look like a prince, doesn’t carry himself like a male who’s been born into luxury, pampered since childhood.

He doesn’t bear the weight of kingdoms on his shoulders, though he does carry his grief. But in this moment, I can’t seem to find it. Perhaps that’s because he’s drowned it in liquor.

Fin’s telling a story, one I don’t recognize, about some travels he did years ago, before he married.

I don’t remember him taking the trip. Don’t know if he’s making the story up or not. Intoxication is strange like that. It seems that so long as the drunk doesn’t realize he’s lying, the fae curse doesn’t affect him. I decide I’d rather Fin be making up the story than hear the shenanigans he and Lydia pulled without me, on a trip I didn’t even know they’d taken, while I’d been consumed with pleasing Father.

“Pull up a chair,” says a male sitting at the table, gesturing toward me.

Fin swivels around to see who the man is speaking to, and as soon as his eyes focus in on me, his countenance falls. “You don’t want him to sit,” he drawls. “Not a people person, I’m afraid.”

The group lets out a chuckle, and a few of them tug at the collars of their shirts as the temperature in the inn rises.

I hold my breath, then back away, returning to our room.

It’s nearly morning by the time Fin bursts into our room, vomiting all over the floor before he collapses onto it.

My back aches from a sleepless night spent on this shabby excuse for a cot, but I make myself rise anyway, helping Fin sit up by propping him against the bed as I assist him in taking off his boots.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, though he can hardly get the words out.

I sigh, dropping his still-booted foot to the ground.

“Fine,” I say, lifting my hands and getting back into bed.

“You…you destroy everything you touch,” he says, though he’s clearly having to fight to keep his head up.

I grit my teeth. “We should have this discussion when you’re sober.”

Fin stands, though he stumbles and has to catch himself on the cot behind him.

I only have to wait a few moments before he falls backward on it and drifts off to sleep.

The alcohol in my brother’s blood must metabolize quickly, because he’s ready to disembark at the appointed time the next morning. I was prepared to pay for another night, figuring he’d have to sleep away the hangover today, especially given the ale he was drinking last night smelled faerie-made. But if my brother suffers from any lingering side effects of his drinking bout, he doesn’t show it.

He doesn’t speak a word to me for several hours.

“I don’t remember what I said to you last night,” Fin finally says, speaking up past the sound of the crickets.

We’ve set up camp at the edge of the woods tonight, the flame I conjured in the middle of the site providing relief from the chill of the Avelean night.

“Doesn’t matter. You were drunk. People say things they don’t mean when they’re drunk.”

Fin looks at me, crinkling his brow. “Have you ever been drunk? Because in my experience, people say exactly what they mean when they’re drunk.”

I toss a crumbling stick into the fire and watch it burn. It’s easier to watch than my brother.

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing you haven’t expressed before,” I say, and Fin goes quiet.