“Hello, Papá,” Valentino says smoothly.

The conde’s face is emotionless, like he’s made of marble. “You should have told me you were planning to receive visitors today,” he says. “I would have had the receiving room set up with refreshments.”

“Your son’s hospitality was more than adequate, Your Grace,” Iván says.

The conde’s composure cracks just enough to let a bit of anger leak through. “Shouldn’t you be in afternoon training? I thought it was a disqualifying offense to leave the Guard barracks without permission.”

“We earned free time,” I tell him. “Naturally, we wanted to see how our friend was doing.”

“Naturally.”

The parchment in my hand burns like fire. Surely he can tell I’m hiding something? Surely he’s noticed how awkwardly my hand is being held behind my back?

“Well,” Astón says after too long a pause. “I’m afraid my son needs his rest.”

“Thank you for coming,” Valentino says.

“We’ll come again as soon as we can,” Iván assures him.

“I’d like that. And Red, I’m sorry for—”

Astón interrupts: “What I meant was, you are both dismissed. I’d like to speak privately with my son now.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I say hurriedly. “Please pardon the intrusion.”

The conde steps aside, allowing us to pass him on our way to the door. As we do, I very carefully lower the shipping manifest to my side, keeping it out of sight.

The door slams—too loudly—at our backs.

Quickly I roll up the manifest and shove it in my pocket.

“I hate that we’ve just left Valentino alone with him,” Iván says.

“Me too. Do you think he’ll be punished for receiving us? It’s not like he planned it or anything.”

“If it were my father, I would have been punished.”

“Oh.” We leave the suite and step into the hallway. “I’m sorry.”

We walk in silence for a while, passing squires with messages, servants with cleaning buckets, a minor conde surrounded by guards.

“The gala is more than a month away, and the palace is already filling up,” Iván says.

“It’s the busiest time of the year. I used to hide in my suite as much as possible until everyone went back home.”

We leave the Sky Wing and angle toward the throne room. Beyond it is the central green, though it’s usually muddy with traffic this time of year, and the entrance to the Guard barracks.

Just as we step outside into the sunshine, Iván yanks me aside into the shade of a wide date palm. One of the sharp fronds needles into my shoulder.

“Careful!” I say.

“Sorry. I just wanted to see that manifest one more time before we go back to the barracks.”

I pull it from my pocket and hand it to him. His eyes narrow as he reads. His long body is very close to me, shielding the parchment from any onlookers.

He says, “I don’t know a lot about sailing. But the only thing on this manifest that looks like trading cargo is the forty barrels of date syrup. Everything else is standard sailing supplies for a large crew on a long haul.”