Page 72 of The Prince and the Ice King

“Thank you, Reardon.”

“Of course. You’re my friend,” he said without waver and pulled Nigel against him.

“Hey!” Nigel cried soon after, because Reardon had unsheathed the jeweled dagger from his belt. “You deviant!” He laughed, failing to snatch the dagger back, as Reardon held it out of reach. “Did you just use emotional connection to divert my attention?”

“You left me no choice!” Reardon said, even as he was laughing too. “I truly meant everything I said.”

Nigel smacked his shoulder firmly. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

“That was pretty low of me.” Reardon tried to give the dagger back to him.

“Oh no, you earned that fair and square. Unless I steal it again, of course.” Nigel winked.

Reardon proudly sheathed the dagger on his sword belt.

“You never told me where you got that thing. Family heirloom?”

“Oh, um… no. It was a birthday present from my kingdom’s master of arms.”

Lombard, Jack grimaced. Was Reardon so fickle, or did he not realize who truly held his heart if he treasured that gift so much?

“Maybe I’ll let you keep it, then,” Nigel said. “Besides, I need to get to work on a grand gesture to set Zephyr to rights and prove we’reidiots together. A new verse! Something especially for him. Would you help me find the words?”

“I’d be honored. And actually, I need help of my own, though more for a tune to go with something already written. Shall we go to the music room to work on our epics together?”

There he went again, being a hopeless romantic, even after talk of Lombard. Not that Jack was jealous! Jealousy was pointless when….

Wait. Already written? Jack hadn’t seen Reardon working on anything lately that didn’t have mu—

The poem! Jack’s own verse; he couldn’t recall if he’d seen it on his desk after Reardon left last night. The prince really had learned to be a thief!

As Reardon and Nigel left to head for the music room, Jack debated detouring to his chambers, but he was certain his guess was right. And it wasnotromantic or endearing!

Turning angrily to give chase through the tunnels, he had half a mind to burst into the music room and demand Reardon tear that crumpled parchment to pieces—only to find his path blocked by the golden smirk of his sister.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

“Stopping a thief.”

“Of what? Your cold dead heart?”

Jack snarled and stomped the tunnel floor. “I am aware of the foolish notions that prince is trying to fill you all with—”

“Compared to what you filled him with last night, I think we’re allowed to form our own opinions.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Jack spat, not that he could deny that part.

“Jack—”

“Out of my way.”

“No. It seems you’ll have to push me,” she retorted, knowing full well he would never risk such a thing. “I know what you’re thinking, that it’s too late for hope. That hoping and being let down again might be more than you can bear. But you know Barclay’s visions are always right.”

“About leaks in the castle, infestations, lost items.”

“And sometimes important things too!” She looked at Jack in sympathy, inpity, and he couldn’t bear that either. “When Barclay was first usheredinto the castle, with so many people touching him, he saw a multitude of visions… and one of them was of the court’s forms at night.”

“What?” Jack gaped.

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