Page 64 of The King's Man 3

Her first full breath is followed by a pained and sorrowful cry.

I keep the spell steady, slowing the push into her down. Her eyes are dark and mournful and she averts them. “Look at me,” I say.

With effort, she pulls her gaze back to mine.

“Do you know what’s saving you?” my voice is sharp and cutting.

Megaera glances at the stream of magic entering her and falters.

I continue on clenched teeth. “Someone risked everything for this immortal bone. Someone who deserves it more than you.”

As my words drop between us, she struggles to breathe, and I soften my spell a fraction.

“Immortal bone?” she says, her gaze flickering with understanding. This is precious; once-in-a-hundred-years precious.

“This would not only wake him,” I croak, “but cure him too. He would never suffer again.”

“Give—”

I laugh again, and it aches. The last of the spell enters her with a snap and I rock back unsteadily from the force of it, breathing hard. “He protects his people. That’s the kind of king he is.”

Our gazes hold, dark, heavy, pained.

I pull away first, and I don’t look back.

When I return, head slumped towards my chest, and drag myself over the threshold through creaky rooms to Quin, he looks too peaceful. Unmoving and elegant, and—

I lower myself to the side of the bed and glare down at his sharp nose, his jaw, his thick whitened hair. “I still blame you.”

I shift the blankets higher up his chest and my hand grazes over something hard. I pause and then pull at his shirt neck. The flutette.

I crush it in a tight grip.

It’s not a cure, but maybe... maybe if his body is suffering, this can offer some relief.

I press the mouthpiece against his lips but he can’t blow into the instrument, can’t make music. My gaze scrolls over his face. It’s like a marble statue, chiselled to perfection but lifeless.

“This isn’t you. You’re full of bark.” I gnash my teeth near his cheek. “Bite.”

I breathe heavily, waiting. He doesn’t respond. I pinch the flutette hard and turn it around, the end part brushing against his lips, the mouthpiece between mine. The first note shudders in the short space between our faces. I close my eyes, letting the melody take shape. A song of dreams, one to keep us tethered when everything feels lost. A tender, fragile thing. The notes drift between Quin and me, curling around us like a shield.

Wake up.

The last note vibrates between my lips and his and lingers.

After a long while staring down at his face, searching for any sign, I tuck the flutette back into his shirt. I take his pulse. It seems stronger. Perhaps it’s my wishful thinking.

I keep my fingers pressed to his wrist, my wrist pressed onto his open palm, and tell him stories to accompany his dreams.

The first night passes without a stir. The second night is no different.

I take strands of his hair and pull hard as I plait in one, two, a dozen thin braids. The jewelled fastenings come out of their pouch and I clip them on. “You owe me stories. So many. I expect you to lose your voice talking. Oh, what kind of stories? Your childhood, what was it like? What mischief did you get up to? Was there light amongst the dark? How was it you ended up wishing for real change for your people? Right from the first time we met, you told me not to care about the law when a life was in the balance. How did you become such an open-minded thinker? Was it your mother’s influence? She’s certainly the rebellious kind.

“Tell me your story?”

He doesn’t stir, and I threaten to tug the jewelled fastenings free. “I’ll make you come undone before me. An unimportant par-linea, and I will not hesitate to disrespect you!”

I want to yank them all free, make him lunge at me and demand I, for once, treat him like the king he is. I want him to snap his teeth at me and threaten to make me pay. I want him to take revenge on my own hair.

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