Page 23 of The King's Man 2

Chiron swishes from the room.

Florentius plucks a spellbook and returns to his desk. I laugh hollowly and drag my chair beside him. “No.”

He stiffens but doesn’t look up.

“You want friends, Florentius. I saw you during the last exam, staring wistfully at everyone. Ask me how I’m doing.”

He brushes my hand off his book. “I know better than to make friends here.”

“And yet,” I press, leaning in, “you’re still here, listening.”

He stiffens. Through his sleeve against mine, I feel the uptick of his pulse.

I say more softly, “I just want us to help one another out when we’re down.”

He turns his head slowly and tired eyes hit mine. “The friendliest thing I can tell you is to take the opportunity: give up and run.”

“If I don’t?”

“People don’t like different, and you’re different.” His voice thickens. He looks away. “It’s dangerous.”

“See, right there. Behind your hard, prettily polished shield, you’re concerned about me. You’ve got feelings.”

“And you have no shield. You let everyone know your thoughts at any moment.”

I haul a deep breath into my achy chest and let it wheeze out again. I force myself to smile. “You’re right. Your shield is quite large though; what about sharing it with me? I can be... your sword in return. If you ever need to provoke someone.”

He huffs a small laugh and smothers it hurriedly.

“Florentius?” I say, and his eyes stop tracking the lines of his book. “We’re going to become friends.”

I pluck a transfusion book from his pile and crack it open. He stares.

Not more than half an hour later, a harried-looking aklo stumbles into the apothecary alongside a redcloak, and Makarios and Mikros glide out of the adjacent room to greet them. “How may we be of help?”

“One of the royal guests has the headache.”

Makarios and Mikros incline their heads. “We can be of service.”

“He insists on a green sash attending him.”

“A green sash?”

“He’s a teacher. He wishes to provide opportunity for the less experienced.”

Mikros hesitates, his gaze shifting between Florentius and me. “Florentius, Caelus, you’ll go together.”

We follow—out of the apothecary, to a garden amphitheatre alive with activity. Semi-circular tiers frame the stage, and aklas are bustling about setting exquisite dishes on neatly arranged tables. The scent of roasted spices drifts on the breeze, mingling with the hum of conversation. The redcloak and aklo lead us to the middle section, where a private booth awaits behind a silk curtain. My breath catches as I spot a familiar figure—white hair gleaming under sunlight, and beside him, a whiter cat nestled in a basket.

My stomach hops. I almost trip as I scurry over.

Skriniaris Evander rises, his warm smile a longed-for comfort as he beckons me to join him. With a whisper, he sends his aklo and the redcloak away.

I sling myself onto a cushioned bench while Florentius stands beside the table. It takes three tugs at his sleeve to get him folding beside me. He bows his head at Skriniaris Evander. “We are here to dispel your headache.”

Evander waves a dismissive hand. “I needed some excuse to get my friend here, that’s all.”

Florentius tries to stand again. “I should—”

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