Page 39 of The King's Man 4

“Thinking Hall?” Vitalian Dimos muses.

“We’ve a ticking clock. We need all minds collaborating on this.” I gesture to the spell in his hands. “You’ve stacked most of the spell, but there’s still a key layer missing.”

“I have some theories . . .”

“Discuss it with others. Decide on the best choice. Do it now.”

“I can’t enter the hall. I’m wanted.”

So am I. But that seems unimportant in the scheme of things. Even if I get locked away, I have a moral responsibility to help the poisoned. In whatever way I can. Collective knowledge will be the fastest way.

I glance at Quin, unable to stop my lips from twitching.

His brow arches.

“Masks.” I tap his chest, right above where his heart should be. “Yours is practically welded on.”

His gaze locks onto mine in a way that has me shivering. “And what about yours?”

His words linger, cutting deeper than I want to admit. But there’s no time to dwell on that, not with lives on the line.

“Then let’s see how well we wear them,” I choke out, forcing my focus back to the task at hand. “We need to move.”

The rain hammers against the apothecary’s windows, blurring the view of Hinsard’s main square.

Inside, Quin’s fingers glow faintly as he works his magic, threads of light spinning into crude disguises.

“These should hold,” he murmurs, his voice steady though his hands tremble slightly. “Nicostratus can help us gain entry to Thinking Hall. He’s sending Petros to bring badges that grant foreign dignitaries passage.”

My stomach tightens at the thought of Nicostratus, and the masks Quin spoke of earlier feel heavier now.

True to his word, Petros arrives within the hour, his sharp gaze cutting through the apothecary’s dim interior. His eyes flick between Quin and me before settling, suspiciously, on the badges he carries.

“The prince has asked me to report back to him directly,” Petros warns, handing us the crested badges.

My stomach tightens. Report what back? The progress on finding an antidote? Or whether I’m foolishly standing too closeto Quin again? I glance at Quin, whose unreadable expression—calm and commanding—betrays nothing.

I make a clean step away from him, and he nonchalantly closes the distance again. This time, I make an excuse to cross the room, and Quin sends Petros and Vitalian Dimos ahead.

When we’re alone, he leans against the leaded windows, cane propped into the corner beside him, and curls his finger for me to come.

The air is thick with dried herbs, the floral scent of our potions, and the dust from wooden shelves on the walls.

The air in my lungs is tight.

Milky sunlight filters through the glass around Quin, outlining him in a soft halo. Struggling to keep an innocent bounce in my step, I cross to him.

I halt a few feet away and drop my gaze. Quin’s fingers wrap around my wrist, his grip firm yet deliberate as he draws me closer. The air between us sharpens, and the space I thought was safe narrows until my foot touches his.

The touch of his hand lingers as he releases me, sending a shiver down my arm that I pray he doesn’t notice. He picks up the mask he carved—meticulously, I realise, the edges smooth against my skin as he tilts my chin upward. The wood fits perfectly along the bridge of my nose, and his hands linger as he ties the ribbons into place.

My breaths falter as his gaze remains steady on me, his voice dropping to something softer, closer. “We won’t wear these forever.”

Something swells in my chest, too overwhelming to name, and I pull back quickly, forcing a smile. “Do your part at the constabulary. I’ll head to Thinking Hall.”

It’ll be Vitalian Dimos who goes on stage. It’ll be him using magic to show our progress on the antidote, him leading the discussion on how to complete it.

I know this. Quin knows this.

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