Page 25 of The King's Man 2

She delivers him a dazzlingly lazy smile. “If you leave now, you’ll be the rude one.”

Florentius purses his lips and settles on the other side, beside Skriniaris Evander’s cat.

By the end of the play, Akilah and Florentius have traded more contemptuous looks than all the actors combined.

Skriniaris Evander smiles. “What did you think of the play?”

“How did she know it was him?”

“She saw beyond his mask.”

“I hope they lived the rest of their lives without needing to hide again.” Another thought niggles at my mind, but it’s interrupted by a bald official approaching our booth.

Skriniaris Evander rises to greet him, then fans a hand in my direction. “This is Caelus Amuletos.”

The man takes my hand in both of his and shakes. “You have my eternal gratitude.”

I frown, and he chuckles. “You saved my nephew after the earthshakes. Coralus.”

Coralus! “He has a kind heart. He helped me too.”

He leans in, hands tightening around mine. “If you’re ever in need, I’ll do my best to help. My family owes much to you.” As quickly as he came, he leaves, bidding us a good day.

I stare after him, stunned.

Skriniaris Evander gathers his cat into his arms. “Good, good. You should know the faces of those you can trust.”

My earlier thought surfaces again. I shuffle closer as Skriniaris Evander strokes the ears of his purring feline. “Can you pass a message to Prince Nicostratus?”

“In a roundabout way, I could.”

I let out a relieved breath and speak in his ear.

* * *

After I’ve said my reluctant—and Florentius’s relieved—goodbyes to Skriniaris Evander and Akilah, we trudge the dark corridor to our cells. “You want me to have a cup of tea?” Florentius repeats.

“Uh-huh.”

“We drink so much for our job.”

“This stuff tastes good. I dare you not to like it.”

I push him through my door. Candles make little buds of light in the room. “Sit there, I’ll fill the pot.”

When I return, blowing the steam from the teapot out of my face, Florentius rises from the end of my bed, gaze rooted to the pot I’m carrying.

He steps up to me and eases it out of my hands, mesmerised by the floral design.

“Set it down,” I say, passing him on my way to the small cupboard beside my bed. “I’ll get the cups.”

I turn back to an empty room.

Baffled, I chase after him; he’s heading into his own room with the pot. “I meant we should have tea”—his door shuts in my face—“together.”

Well.

It’s a work in progress.

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