He looked at her. His eyes were queer in the darkness—almost like a cat’s. He took out a knife—the same knife—and began to cut another apple into slices. He held one out to her and she took it without thinking and ate it. The apple was tart and hard despite a winter in a cold cellar, and she could not stop herself from seizing the next two slices he offered, greedily.

His mouth made a strange shape—neither smile nor frown. “Sometimes, things need to be said, between people of power,” he said. “Even between lovers, or parents. Things that show intent, or honesty. Or simply draw a line, for everyone’s peace.” He sat back, so his face was hidden, except his odd eyes.

It occurred to Blanche that he was giving her a real answer. It was like when her mother had first spoken to her as a woman. Heady stuff. She was alone with him. She suspected his motives. But he was interesting.

“You had to tell her that you could kill her and be King?” she asked. She was into the cheese.

So was he. “Do you think she’d rather go to sleep wondering what was on my mind?” he asked. “Or knowing?”

Blanche chewed. “Depends,” she said.

“Too true,” he said. “The bread’s stale.”

“I’ve had stale bread before,” she said, and took a slice. It was good bread, if a day or two old. “We lived in Cheapside.”

He poured wine into a somewhat crumpled silver cup. “We’ll have to share,” he said. “I tried to find Wilful’s cup, or Michael’s, but I couldn’t in the dark.”

She murmured a prayer and drank. The wine was dark red and had a lovely taste, almost as if it had cinnamon in it, with a little sweetness.

“Does your company always eat and drink this well?” she asked.

His teeth flashed. “Good food and good wine recruit more men—and women—than silver and gold,” he said. “When Jehan and Sauce and I started the company, we agreed we’d always have good food.” He said, “My father always fed his men…” And stopped, his face working. He put his face in his hands for a moment, and she wondered if he was laughing, but she thought perhaps—not.

She rose to her knees and handed him the wine cup. He took it carefully—so carefully that he didn’t touch her. Blanche was used to a more forward kind of boy and dismissed her earlier suspicions of his intentions.

She wondered what it would be like to be his mistress. Was he rich? He was likely to be the Queen’s captain for some time. He had nice manners—nicer than the court gallants she’d known.

She almost giggled aloud at such an absurd fantasy. Blanche, the laundry mistress, was more like her speed.