Page 68 of The Kingdom's Crown

"It makes sense. But you resisted that anger and you let us care for you the way you care for us." I leaned in and kissed Bryony's forehead, the warmth of her sigh caressing my jaw.

"And Camellia has never resisted a bad impulse when she could revel in it instead," Bryony muttered.

Amos had turned himself respectfully away from us, but Cresswell moved in to frame Bryony's back, his hands stroking her shoulders and body bowing so he could kiss the crown of her head.

"Igor may have to pay for his crimes. Or at least visit some kind of sanitorium where they can determine what are his own impulses and what Camellia might've driven him to," Cresswell said.

Bryony nodded and relaxed between us. "All right. Who is next?"

"Here, Your Highness."

I walked up to the door where Amos waited, and I was still a foot away when I got the first hint. The urge to run struck me, the frustration of being caged, restlessness, and depression. I frowned and looked through the small window to the cell. If I hadn't already been certain that the man inside was two-natured, I would've been simply by the expression on his face. There was a small, narrow window high on the wall, but the man was tall enough to see out of it, and he leaned there against the brick as if he'd been there for days already, eyes turned out to the yard with pure longing.

I glanced back at Bryony, chest aching for the animal inside the room, if not the man, and nodded.

"His crime?" Bryony whispered.

"Trying to kill the princess," Amos said with a wince.

"Oh dear," Bryony murmured.

"Why?" I whispered, moving back to her. "Why 'oh dear'?"

"It's just…that's not a light crime, Owen. I'm not likely to be able to get a pardon for him."

"But Camellia, she—"

"I know," Bryony said quickly, nodding. "I know. And his testimony will be valuable, but even then it might not be enough. Go on, we'd better hear his reasons first before anything else."

"He hasn't spoken much," Amos said to me. "You might be able to get him to open up."

"We'll stay out here," Cresswell said, which seemed more like a reminder to Bryony than to me and Amos.

For a moment, I wondered how much help I could really be where Amos had already struggled. I looked to Bryony and rather than her worry, I found her warm smile and confident nod. My princess had faith in me, and so I simplywouldn'tfail her, even if I had to spend days sitting and talking with this man.

Amos opened the cell, and I followed him in, but the man at the window didn't so much as blink.

"Atticus Darby, this is Owen Dunne," Amos said.

"Have you picked a date?"

"You haven't been sentenced yet, Darby," Amos answered easily, and I realized the man, Atticus, was asking about his own execution.

He turned, and I got a better look at him. He was tall, bone-thin, and haggard as Sam had been, with a long face and hair the color of mud with an ample peppering of silver.

"Why not?" Atticus asked, ignoring me. "I confessed. I'd try again. Why not sentence me?"

"You never told me why—"

"Because I wanted to. I want to see that woman dead," Atticus said, without inflection.

"Do you really want to die without ever getting the chance to run again?" I asked.

That stirred life in the man. He didn't look much older than me. He might even have been younger, but there was a century of weariness in him, and every minute of it flinched at my question.

"What?"

I nodded to the window. "You miss it. More than that, you might as well already be dead without being back out there. Back in the fields, running,breathingagain."

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