The servants dispersed while Dion and his uncle fell in behind Philippos. They passed through a colonnaded terrace with grape vines trailing through the wooden beams above and found themselves in an expansive reception room with views of the gardens. Philippos indicated a cluster of low sofas and the three men sat, settling the folds of their tunics. Servants brought watered wine, olives, hard cheese, and flat bread.

Dion finally broke the silence. ‘So, Lord Philippos, how goes the election? Have you secured the votes you need?’

Philippos shrugged as he took a dainty sip of wine from a silver goblet. ‘A few influential lords are holding out. Lord Nilus has reigned over a period of peace in Phalesia, and although the treaty with Ilea was the work of Aristocles – may Aldus guard his soul – many credit Nilus with the result.’ He set down his cup and then met Dion’s eyes. ‘How do you regard Lord Nilus, King?’

Dion was careful with his words. ‘He has a swift mind, and makes a fair bargain. I’ve never found reason to say anything against him.’

‘Hmm . . .’ Philippos scratched his sharp chin. He hesitated, before leaning forward. ‘King, I must confess that I’ve been dissembling. I asked you here for one reason alone, and it has nothing to do with politics. My daughter is in her sitting room, which is at the end of that hallway. Isobel is waiting for you. She . . . She has something to tell you.’

Perplexed, Dion glanced at his uncle. Glaukos raised an eyebrow, while Philippos stood and gave another small bow, before placing his hand over his heart.

‘Please, King Dion. I apologize for the theatrics, but my daughter insisted, and she is someone I can never say no to. Please?’ His eyes drifted toward the hallway.

Dion frowned and left his seat. Wondering what in the names of all the gods was going on, he left the reception and soon found himself walking down the hallway alone, feeling the two older men watching his back. Thoughts whirled through his mind. He remembered the fool he’d made of himself at the banquet, and worse still, the way he’d accosted Isobel in his bedchamber. Philippos hadn’t appeared unfriendly at all – quite the opposite. Feeling his heart hammering in his chest, he took a turn at the end of the corridor to find a curtain of thick blue linen.

He reached for the fabric and then decided to clear his throat. ‘Lady Isobel?’

Her soft voice replied immediately. ‘King Dion. Please, come in.’

Dion pushed aside the curtain and entered the sitting room, seeing tall mirrors surrounded by stools and side tables, in a chamber crowded with statues and bright-colored flowers in vases. The air smelled perfumed; after growing up in a male-dominated household, it felt strange to be entering a room so strongly feminine.