Page 41 of The Prince and the Ice King

“Your potion wears thin,” Jack said, drawing up to his full height to turn and head across the ramparts away from Reardon. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“But… you didn’t tell me about the curse!”

“Tomorrow,” Jack said again.

Perhaps, once he had, Reardon would see the monster more clearly.

Reardon

Reardon wasn’t sure if the potion really was wearing off. It shouldn’t be. He hadn’t shivered from the cold, after all, just….

The king’s eyes could be so piercing.

Soblue.

And he too had been a prince who loved in a way that others saw as wrong.

Well, maybelovedwas the wrong word—fucking stable boys. Reardon blushed at the thought. Oh, to have been that bold! He wondered more than ever what the Ice King had looked like when he was human. Josie was breathtaking; surely he was too.

The king headed off along the ramparts to reenter the castle another way, making it clear that he did not wish for Reardon to follow him, so Reardon descended the stairs. When he reached the training yard, most of the crowd had gone, but Nigel and Zephyr remained, talking heatedly about something that they hushed when they saw him.

“Just remember, Spymaster,” Nigel said, loud and snappish, “I can find almost anything funny—but notthat.”

Zephyr huffed, crossing milky arms as he floated before Nigel. “Like you’ve never done the same,” he said and poofed away.

Nigel bristled, visibly upset, only to pivot and smile maniacally. He was once again dressed in bright colors with conflicting patterns. “Ignore him. Preferably always. Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” He swooped forward to take Reardon’s arm and swung him around toward the door. “I didn’t really mean for Oliver to knock your block off, you know. Which he didn’t, thankfully, though Branwen could have done worse.”

“Thank you again for my hands,” Reardon said.

“Of course! And you can make it up to me. I hear you were unjustly torn from the princess’s side this morning. Did you know she’s rather talented with a lute? Let’s see if we can make a real bard out of you.” He tilted his head up toward Reardon’s cheek and whispered, “But upstage me too much or too often and I will have to destroy you.”

Reardon laughed, feeling rather confident despite his near-miss with Branwen. He’d beaten the fletcher—Oliver—and earned his respect, the Ice King himself had rescued him and conversed with him more than a mere exchange of barbs, and he hadn’t lost any new friends.

He did wonder what had Nigel so upset with Zephyr, though.

Inside the castle, Reardon continued to map the paths he was taken on. Today he traversed even more areas he hadn’t yet been and continued to be impressed by the palace’s size. Nigel took him to a music room packed with instruments and hand-written sheet music. Josie was there, along with several others, including Wynn at a harpsichord with a quill in hand, as if writing music that very moment.

“I see you survived,” Josie greeted with a smile, near the wall with her lute, away from the others, while some had flutes or other stringed instruments, and one had a simple drum.

“Best not tell her what happened,” Nigel mock-whispered.

“Why?” Josie asked slowly.

“So as not to spoil your lovely mood, of course. What are we playing?” Nigel pulled Reardon into the room, releasing him to take up a tambourine.

“Are you a music master too, sir inventor?” Reardon approached Wynn at the harpsichord.

“Our princess is more the master, just you wait, but building….” Wynn patted the side of the harpsichord and then tapped his parchment. “That I can do.”

“You built that? And wrote all this music?” There were shelves of bound pages all around Reardon.

“Not all of it,” Wynn said. “There are stories too from Nigel for when he wants accompaniment. What songs would you hear, Emerald Prince? We learn new ones from every offering. We might know something you’re familiar with.”

“Can all of you sing?” Reardon asked the small gathering of musicians.

“Best if I don’t,” Nigel said.

“Or me,” Josie added, “but a plucked melody I can handle just fine.” She strummed a perfectly tuned chord that lifted Reardon’s spirits further. He missed the times when he and Barclay would simply sing together or when Barclay would play on the old harpsichord in the palace that Reardon’s mother once used.

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