Page 83 of The King's Man 3

Quin’s breath is hard against my nose, my lips, my chin. He’s upset, frustrated. At his brother. At me.

“You no longer have magic. But you’realive.”

I open my eyes and stare vacantly at him. “Are you still alive if your dream has died?”

“This hurts, I understand—”

“Understand? If you did, if you had any idea, you’d have been afraid to tell me too.”

“Not afraid to tell—” he cuts himself off with a dark laugh, and then snaps quietly, “You need the truth.”

His gaze spears through mine, sharper than the spear that pierced my body. Pain lances through me, and I fight it with a boiling temper. I shove Quin against the chest. His cane shifts, but he holds firm.

I stare hard into his eyes, until I have not just his sole focus, but his soul. “I should never have saved you.”

He says nothing. Not a flicker of reaction.

My throat tightens, my voice rises. “Tomorrow, I’m following Nicostratus.”

His adjusts his cane. “If he makes you feel better—”

“He always has.”

I turn my back on him, storm out of the pavilion, and choke on the sweet scent of herbs I’ll never stack into spells again.

On a heavy ache, I rush to Nicostratus and grab hold of his arm, clutching it to keep myself upright and almost sending the basket of food he carries to the ground. With a gentle frown, he steers me to a bench. We can eat in the garden. I sit with my back turned to Quin in the far distance.

“You seem upset,” Nicostratus murmurs.

I rip into some bread and shake my head.

We eat, me cramming things into my mouth without tasting them, Nicostratus kindly telling me stories about his residence in Hinsard. How many things he could show me. Enjoy with me. “Before long it’ll be the lovelight festival.”

I swallow my mouthful and look over at him. “I’ll come with you.”

His smile is wide and lingers through the rest of our meal, until the innkeeper approaches with a written message. “The young man asked me to pass this to you,” he says to Nicostratus, and to me: “Your things have been delivered to your room.”

Nicostratus thanks him, and when he’s gone, reads the message.

He lurches to his feet and searches the vast vista; I follow his gaze until it lands on a solitary figure on his mount amidst vibrant fields.

“He’s leaving without saying goodbye?” Nicostratus shakes his head.

I spin away.

“He’ll have his reasons,” Nicostratus murmurs.

I stuff more bread into my mouth and smother the angry sob punching at my throat.

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