They’d have to prepare soon. Go into Andros’s chambers and move the king somewhere safe, set up a reception area, practice what Akeylah needed to tell Rueno. But they had all night for that. So when Rozalind wrapped her arms around Akeylah’s waist and walked her backward, toward the bed, Akeylah moved with her.

Right now, Rozalind was all she could see.

Thank the seas for Rozalind’s ability to tithe. Akeylah doubted they could have managed the next morning if Rozalind hadn’t been able to lift Andros all by herself and carry him into the adjoining rooms. As her tithe faded, Rozalind tucked the king into her bed, while Akeylah rearranged the king’s reception wing.

They were interrupted briefly when Zofi’s Talon friend Vidal stopped by. He begged permission to ride after Zofi, to escort her safely to her band. Akeylah granted it gladly, though she did so with the door half-shut, praying Vidal didn’t notice anything amiss inside.

Now, tucked into her father’s bed, wearing his clothing, with a bloodletter hidden underneath the sheets, Akeylah wondered if this truly was the right course of action. Rozalind had ordered the king’s mender not to speak about Andros’s illness until the royal family announced it. But Akeylah knew from experience how long secrets lasted in this Keep—less time than it took milk to turn. What if the mender had told someone about the king’s condition already? Or what if said mender heard about the king holding an audience with Rueno and the captain, and asked how they’d received orders from a comatose man?

On top of all those worries, not to mention the fear of what would happen if the tithe faded too soon, Akeylah felt all too aware of her vulnerability. She’d foregone the shield tithe today. It left her senses brighter, sharper… but uneasy, too. Like stepping outside on a rainy morning back east—the fresh air was nice, yet a chill accompanied it.

In the adjoining sitting room, she heard Rozalind’s voice. “Lord Rueno, Captain, thank you for coming so quickly.”

Too late to change my mind.

Akeylah turned the bloodletter so the point jutted into the crook of her elbow. Rozalind spoke in a low, urgent tone, relaying what Akeylah had asked—the king is not well, he’s lost his voice, this conversation must be brief.

She drowned out the queen’s voice. Focused on her father instead. His facial features, the silver of his hair, the thickness of his neck.

She could only approximate him—camouflage tithes couldn’t disguise your height or body build. But the bedding piled around her would help. She just needed to perfect his face.

The doorknob rattled. Rozalind. Here goes nothing.