Page 35 of The King's Man 3

Quin’s withering stare makes my insides prickle.

“Ah, that’s why.”

“Give it here,” he demands.

I tuck it away. “What will we do about redcloaks? Our vespertine friends? Megaera?” I cast my eye towards the skirt, gloves and headcloth.

Quin steers my face in another direction.

“You need a disguise!”

“As much as I enjoyed being your wife, any closer inspection and we’d be caught.”

“Let’s get my feather back and run away.”

Quin opens the traveller’s chess set I saved and pours river water from it into a teacup. “You’re forgetting we have no money.”

I slump on the other stool. I slap the table, brightening. “Staying here is better. They won’t be expecting that.” I snatch his hand holding the stone king, and infuse a spell into him. His dark hair greys and whitens.

Quin eyes a strand and blows it away from his face, staring at me.

“Hear me out,” I say. “A wizened version of yourself is your best disguise.”

He plunks the white king onto the board.

“This way, your cane won’t give you away.”

He picks up a vitalian and throttles it with his fingers.

“Also,” I say, prying the poor piece off him, “if you’re recognised and your uncle’s spies are about, maybe they’ll think you’re close to keeling over and leave you alone. Now if you’d hunch—”

He tosses a pawn at me.

I catch it, laughing. “We can save the hunching for when we’re out in public. For a man who’s always acting, you’re awfully picky about your appearance.”

“How long before my hair turns dark again?”

“Leeching the colour is simple.Returningit...” It’s a fiddly spell. Each strand has to be done individually. Hard on the eyes.

“How long?”

I shuffle away from him. He could dye it. Otherwise... “How fast does it grow?”

After a restless night on the cold floor, I’m roused by the early light filtering through the curtains. The smirk I give Quin over our breakfast has him gnashing his teeth like he’d rather eat me.

When he’s finished with his food, I send a spell his way. He raises his brow through it, but doesn’t dodge me. “Changes the shape of your jaw,” I say. “To immerse you in the role. Otherwise you’re a flawless deity with white hair.”

“You’re right, of course.”

“About immersing yourself?”

He tosses a strand of hair elegantly to the side. “And the other bit.”

I laugh, and though Quin smiles it doesn’t last long. His gaze keeps landing on my cloak. I rearrange the fabric over my shoulders, shift and straighten it, but Quin is still eyeing it with concern.

I drag my stool before him. “You fix it then.”

He jerks suddenly, as if pulled from a deep thought, and reaches for my clasp. His voice is quiet, wistful. “I’m so often wrong,” he admits, a weight settling in his gaze. “If it saves your life, do it. I command you to.”

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