Page 44 of The King's Man 4

“Not trying would be the bitterest failure.”

The clarity of his words, the sincerity . . .

I shut my eyes not to look at him. It’s not my fault. There’s simply no magic.And no reason for me to wait here until themystery is solved.I should be putting distance between us. I should have packed my things and moved into an inn on the opposite side of the city. So why, then, have I stayed in the apothecary, drinking? Why, then, have I hoped he’d find me?

Say goodbye and go now.Get this... this tightness off me.

I open my eyes, my mouth. Quin has tipped his head back against the wall, his lashes softly kissing his skin. Tired, exhausted, he’s also grieving—the loss of his power, the distance from his son, the sufferings of his people. I press my lips shut again.

Goodbyes come in all forms. It doesn’t have to be rushed. I owe him too much for that. Spending a few last hours together is something I ought to do. In fact, bringing up goodbyes at all seems inconsiderate. Better I pretend this is like any other time. Like it might happen again. Tomorrow.

If he’s upset when he realises... well, at least our last moments will have been good ones, spent comforting one another. There’ll be others who waltz into his life. He’ll triumph over his uncle and he’ll find happiness.

I pick up my bottle and swig another sharp bite of cherry liquor. After I put it down, I catch my breath, and I crawl across the space to Quin and tuck myself into his side.

He stirs and stiffens, and I rest my head under the curve of his chin, shameless despite a distant voice warning me I shouldn’t. He’s warm beneath my cheek, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his breath as his arm curls around my back. His other hand brushes my hair behind my ear, the tender touch sparking something painful in my chest.

“You’ve gone soft,” I murmur into his shirt, my voice muffled.

His fingers pause mid-stroke, then resume, slower, deliberate. “Soft for you, only.”

His tone wraps itself around my thoughts, too heavy to untangle.

“Don’t say things like that,” I whisper.

“Why not?”

Because.

I don’t answer, and his hand continues its lazy path through my hair.

I murmur, “You’re not in uniform.”

“I went to the inn and bathed before coming here.”

I breathe in the scent on him. “You bathed in smoky water?”

“It’s from the crime scene. Lingers.”

“Smoke?” What’d happened?

I don’t ask the question, but my slight pause is enough for Quin to understand. He murmurs, “Valerius’s garden was also set alight. We saved most of it.”

“The killer went after both Vitalian Dimos and Eparch Valerius,” I murmur.“They must have seen how close we are to finding an antidote. Too close for their plans.” This is meant to frighten the vitalians. It’s meant to distract them, to make them hesitant.

Which means . . . the murderer visited Thinking Hall.

Why didn’t they use poison?

I sigh into Quin’s shirt. Perhaps the poison wasn’t on them? Or if it was, couldn’t be easily adjusted to bring about an instant death? And they needed Dimos and Valerius to die quickly, before they solved the puzzle. “Did Eparch Valerius say anything that might help find the killer?”

“The knock to his head was heavy and blunt. His memory is affected. He vaguely recalls seeing a very long shadow stretching over his flowers.”

I shiver and shake it off. No use thinking about this. Nothing I can do. The fate of the refugees can only be in the hands—the magical hands—of others.

My nose pushes at the flutette under Quin’s shirt; I try to blow a sharp note through the thin material and it comes out like a sigh. “The last of my magic is in there.”

“Do you want it back?”

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