Destroy the Day, page 33
But I eat my cold stew. Quint sits with me the whole time.
He ate an hour ago, so he really doesn’t need to. His little book sits on the table, but there isn’t much light, so he’s not flipping through notes either. He’s quiet, watchful, not quite watching me, but not . . . not either. It shouldn’t be different from the thousand other times we’ve sat at a table beside each other, but it is. Earlier, there were no walls between us, no barriers, but now an entire day has passed and I don’t know how to proceed again. The idea of courtship is something I put so far from my mind that I never considered the mechanics of it.
Of all the reasons I wish for my brother’s presence, this is an area where I could desperately use his counsel.
But he’s not here, and I can’t sit here in silence. Now that I’m not panicking over warships, it leaves too much room for new worries to crowd into my head.
“Has there been no word from Karri or the runners yet?” I say.
“No.”
I frown. Jonas Beeching, the consul of Artis, was the closest, and also the likeliest ally. The fact that we haven’t heard from him is concerning.
I try to shake it off, but thinking about Artis makes me think about the last time I saw my brother at the docks. “If Corrick survived the warships, he would suspect something is amiss in Kandala. He’d attempt to return quickly, don’t you think?”
Quint nods. “If he returns with Captain Blakemore, they’re walking right into a hornet’s nest.”
I mentally play that out in my head. We originally had no warning that Captain Blakemore’s ship was arriving at port, because the Dawn Chaser had a Kandalan flag. Would Corrick sail under the same? That might give him an advantage—though the Ostrian king would no longer feel the need to send a spy.
Then again, if they were trailed by warships, I rather doubt the Ostrian king was happy about it. The man might send back his whole navy to attack Kandala. I remember what Captain Blake-more said about Kandala’s history with Ostriary.
For one shining second, I want to leave it all to Consul Sallister and the others.
Go ahead, I think. Enjoy ruling while the country is at war.
But no. I could never do that to my people. Sallister would hand over the keys to the kingdom if it meant he got to hold on to his silver.
As always, there are too many variables, and there’s simply no way to know when—or if, I think grimly, despite whatever I feel in my heart—Corrick will return.
But still, we should be cautious. I look at Quint. “If we don’t have word from any of the runners within the next few days, we’ll need to station people at the docks to listen for gossip. We need to hear if any unfamiliar ships are coming to port, if any brigantines set sail, if there’s any talk at all of sailors from Ostriary. Let’s talk to Violet. Maybe she can take some of the children for walks along the water.”
Quint reaches for his book. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
I watch him write that down, the firelight turning his hair gold. I think of the way he kept pushing the food in front of me, when he knew I hadn’t eaten.
I think of the little flinch in his eyes when I spoke too sharply. How there must have been a thousand such moments between us that I never noticed—yet he stayed by my side through every single one.
My chest clenches. I wish I could undo them all.
His eyes flick up. I’m staring again.
I clear my throat and glance away. “I’m sure word has spread about the guards we killed. The consuls will use this to strengthen their claims. We need to undo the harms they’re causing. I need my people back.”
He nods. “Do you have a course of action?”
Little Ruby kept staring at me, her eyes so big. “Food,” I say. “They’re starving. We need to find a way to feed them.” I hesitate, wondering if the men who wouldn’t feed Sommer would be willing to risk their lives to feed guards who might be just as willing to kill them to get at me. “I’ll need to talk to the people in the morning to convince them.”
“You will. I have no doubt.” He says this so offhandedly while he writes.
I watch, entranced. I simply cannot comprehend how he manages to be so kind and so vexing and so determined—and so optimistic.
He’s the impressive one, truly.
“If I may,” I begin, and his eyes flick up again, the pencil going still. My tongue stalls when his eyes meet mine, and the silence hangs between us for a moment.
“You may,” he prompts.
It makes me blush and smile in spite of myself, and I try not to stumble over my words. “Why do you write everything down?” I say. “Your predecessors didn’t.” I frown a little, trying to remember. “At least . . . I don’t think they did.”
He closes the book and sets it on the table. “They may not have, but I find it suits my needs.”
I study him, because he’s said this in much the same way he brushed aside my questions about the list of dates in the front of the book. He’s not lying, but he’s not giving me the whole truth either.
I study him, curious now. “I sense I’m going to have to pry secrets from you, Palace Master.”
He stares at me, implacable. I stare back.
He breaks in less than a minute, tossing down the pencil. “Very well.” He sighs. “I’ll deny you nothing, so I don’t know why I bother trying. I’ll have you know, it’s not a flattering story. When I was young, I was quite the burden on my family. Couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t finish my chores, couldn’t be trusted to do anything, really.” He hesitates, then offers a little shrug. “Downright useless.”
I frown. “No.”
“Oh, but I was. My mother would send me to fetch a sack of flour, and I’d spend an hour arranging stones in the creek. My father would tell me to feed the chickens, and he’d find me weaving straw under the rabbit hutch, telling stories to random travelers. I had a sister who was perfect, worked right alongside my mother in the kitchen and never forgot a thing, so I always felt like a complete fool—which really only made things worse. My father grew so sick of it that they sent me to live with my aunt and uncle in Mosswell for a while, because they thought it was a matter of discipline—and so I endured a long, miserable year that made absolutely no difference. But the following summer, my father brought me home and said he’d hired me out to a miller down the lane who’d gone blind. He needed someone to read notices and bills and draft any new ones for customers. I’m sure my father expected I would do a poor job, but that the man wouldn’t have any way to know the difference. Honestly, I was just glad to be out of my family’s reach, so I went.”
None of this story has gone anywhere I thought it would, and I’m not sure what to say.
Part of me wants to find his parents so I can lock them in the Hold. The darkest part of me wants to do worse.
But now I’m remembering that moment we sat on the porch, when I asked Quint if he had a family, if there was anyone he was missing.
How he said no.
“The man was older,” Quint is saying, “and so kind, and when I saw all the papers and notices that he had waiting for me, I told him that I was unsuitable. No matter how badly I wanted to be away from my family, I wasn’t going to swindle someone. His name was Pascal, and he asked if I could read and write, and I said I could. Despite everything else, I’d always had rather good penmanship. But then he asked if I was honest and trustworthy, and I said I was, which was why I’d be unsuitable. I explained about the stones in the creek or forgetting the sack of flour. I told him about my aunt and uncle who’d make me sleep out in the cold or tie a rope around my mouth whenever I’d talk too much.”
I draw a frustrated breath. “I hope you know I want to kill almost everyone in this story.”
“It was a very long time ago, Your Majesty.”
“How long?”
“Ten years? I was fourteen or fifteen or so. Pascal said as long as I was honest and could read and write, I would do, because the last person who’d tried to help him kept sneaking his coins, and he was worried he’d lose the mill. He said he didn’t care how much I talked, because he couldn’t see anymore, so listening to me gave him something to do. He gave me a ledger and a jar of pencils, and he told me to write down everything. No matter how big or small, everything. Every task, every duty, every single thought in my head if I wanted. He said I could read it back to him later and we would figure out what was most important. If people came to the mill, I was to write down the person’s name, anything they said—everything, Your Majesty. Sometimes I would write down what they wore.”
“This all sounds rather hellish.”
He smiles. “Do you think so? I found it a bit freeing. Pascal said that this way it didn’t matter if I forgot anything, because I could read it all back to him later. I wasn’t perfect, especially not at first, because I’d write down that I saw a butterfly, or that the sun was very hot that day. But as I said, he was very kind, and very patient—and I did write down the things that mattered, too. We got on well. When the afternoons were quiet, he’d ask me to read off my notes, and I began to realize that writing things down actually helped me remember a great deal—instead of allowing me to forget. I found myself telling him everything that happened without needing to resort to my notebooks at all. Then the mill grew busier, and he hired a girl to help him tend the shop and the house. I was a bit frightened then, remembering my sister’s perfection, thinking he was going to have me discharged. Instead, he told the girl to come to me for her duties. He said, ‘Quint always knows every detail. You’ll do whatever he tells you needs doing.’ ”
He pauses, and I can hear the weight in his voice, the importance of that moment. How much it meant to him, to finally feel valued. Before I can acknowledge it, he blinks and looks up. “Within a few years he wanted to retire, because he’d grown too old to work. By then he’d hired half a dozen more people. He was selling the mill, and I was worried I might end up with a boorish new employer, but Pascal’s brother worked for the mill that supplied the Royal Sector. He’d heard that the Palace Master was aging and that King Lucas was urging him to take on some apprentices. Pascal encouraged me to apply, and his brother knew I’d done good work, so he provided a reference. I never thought I’d be considered, but here I am.” He taps the book. “Writing things down.”
“And here you are.” I narrow my eyes. “With your boorish new employer.”
Quint laughs, and it makes his eyes sparkle.
“Does Corrick know that story?” I say.
“He knows I worked in the mill before I came to the palace. But I’ve never shared the rest of it.” He grimaces and looks away. “Not with anyone, really. As I said, it’s not a flattering story.”
“I disagree,” I say. “Your determination and tenacity are rather inspiring.”
“Well now.” He blushes, though he seems pleased. “I shall add that to my treasure trove along with the knowledge that I am ‘very pleasing to look at.’ ”
I grimace, then run a hand down my face. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
He nods, then opens his book, lifting his pencil. “I should write this down.” He speaks slowly, drawing out each syllable as he writes. “Tenacious . . . determined . . . very pleasing to—”
I snatch the book right out from under his pencil. This time, when he comes after it, I don’t let him tussle. I let go of the book, take hold of his shirt, and kiss him. He yields immediately, his mouth softening under mine. No tension, no uncertainty. Just simple ease, simple comfort. There’s something so gratifying to that.
“Ah, Quint,” I whisper when I draw back.
He smiles when I say his name. “I knew you’d break first.”
I brush a thumb along his lip and don’t smile back. There’s so much I want to say, but I’ve spent too many years trapping every sentiment behind a thousand walls in my head.
You’re so much more than pleasing to look at. You’re brilliant. You’re flawless. You’re exquisite. Have you not noticed the effort it takes to summon words when I look at you?
But the words stall on my tongue, proving exactly that.
“I wish I could have met you when I was escaping the palace as Sullivan,” I say instead.
His eyes flare in surprise, but then he smiles mischievously. “Instead of your stable boy?”
That makes me blush. “Well.”
But I say nothing more, because I’m imagining it now: meeting Quint years ago, finding him toiling over books and records in some mill somewhere. He would’ve been chattering endlessly to everyone, I’m sure, somehow managing to preserve his core of kindness despite the way his family treated him. Red hair and sparkling eyes and just enough wild defiance to drive me crazy.
I remember what I was like before my parents were killed, before I was forced to rule a kingdom that seemed determined to tear itself apart. I very likely would have fallen for him on the spot.
I don’t know what he sees in my face, but the mischief slips out of his eyes. “Why do you wish you could have met me as Sullivan?”
Because if I’d met you then, I don’t think I ever would’ve gone back.
I can’t say the words. It would’ve meant leaving the palace. Leaving my brother. And nothing would’ve changed. My parents would still be dead. Kandala still would’ve fallen to the fevers. The consuls would still be running roughshod over the people.
And it would all be my fault anyway, just in a different way.
The impact of it strikes me harder than I expect, tightening my throat before I’m ready, and I can’t even answer.
Quint must see a flicker of my distress, because he rescues me—as usual. “Wait. Let’s imagine it together. I presume with your love for horses that you would’ve played the role of the stable boy. What reason could you have had for visiting the mill?” He taps at his lip, thinking.
He truly is the kindest man I’ve ever met. I cannot believe anyone ever made him feel useless. I stare into his eyes. “I spied the captivating young man writing ledgers, and I was transfixed.”
“Captivating! I really must write these down. And then what would you have done?”
I slip my hands to his waist and pull him against me. I’m pleased to earn a gasp from his throat when my fingers find his skin.
I lean close, speaking low. “Here. Let me show you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Harristan
Quint sleeps, but I don’t. I toss and turn fitfully for hours, eventually giving up sometime long after midnight, when I slip out of bed. I pull on my trousers and a tunic in silence, freezing in place when he stirs and rolls over—but then he goes back to sleep.
I grab my boots from near the hearth and carry them to the door. I’ll lace them up outside so I don’t risk waking him further. I don’t really know what I’m doing or where I’m going, but I can’t lie in bed and worry any longer, and it seems unfair to keep anyone else from sleep.
But when I draw close to the door, I hear voices outside, speaking very low. I stop, straining to hear, but the voices are too quiet to make out what they’re saying. I can’t even tell if one of the voices belongs to Thorin or Saeth.
Nothing about the tone seems to indicate danger, but I’m frozen in place again. The memory of the traitorous guards is still too fresh. My heart pulses hard against my rib cage, urging me to make a decision.
Maybe I should wake Quint.
No, this is so foolish. If someone meant me harm, they’d be breaking down the door. I put my hand on the latch and draw the door open.
Thorin was sitting on the top step, his back against the post, a crossbow on the boards beside him. He springs to his feet when he sees me. “Your Majesty.”
Alice, the young woman who brings us food, was sitting against the other post, and she scrambles to her feet as well. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks bright pink in the moonlight, and she skitters back a few steps. An array of playing cards were laid out on the boards between them, but they’ve scattered into the darkness from the flurry of movement. Alice always looks a bit terrified of us all, but just now, she looks prepared to bolt.
“Forgive me—” Thorin begins.
I lift a finger to my lips and shake my head, then pull the door shut as silently as I’m able. “Master Quint is still sleeping,” I say quietly.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” My guard is very deliberately not looking at the young lady waiting in the shadows. It’s possible his cheeks are turning pink, too, and I don’t think I have ever in my life seen Thorin blush. I glance from him to the cards, and then to Alice.
I might not know how to navigate my own courtship, but I’m not a complete and total fool.
“Forgive me,” I say to Alice. “I’ve ruined your game.”
“Oh! No. We were just about finished.” She pulls back another step, and her eyes flick to Thorin rather desperately, but he doesn’t move. Her blush seems to deepen, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I—I should go home. It’s very late.”
“It is very late,” I agree. “Should Thorin accompany you?”
Thorin’s eyes snap to mine. “Your Majesty,” he hisses, “I cannot—”
“No!” Alice says quickly. “No, I’m fine.” She darts into the darkness.
“Go after her,” I whisper to Thorin.
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Her voice calls back to us musically. “I’ll try to bring you an extra apple biscuit at breakfast.”
“Do you think she’s talking to me or to you?” I say to him.
He sets his jaw and stares back at me.
“At the very least say thank you,” I add.
“Thank you!” he calls back in a shouted whisper.
“You’re welcome!” her musical voice calls back. “Good night, Wolf.”
My eyebrows go up. “Wolf?”
Thorin gives a ragged sigh and stoops to pick up the fallen cards—but he doesn’t explain.
