Lance never should have gone into the royal stables. He’d already tried the prince’s rooms, the wizard’s tower, and the library. But when he pushed aside the barn door, it wasn’t Arthur he found. It was Jereth.

The lad sat on the floor of a horse stall, a bottle of wine at his feet, and his head propped heavily in his hands. Behind him, a spotted palfrey nickered for his attention. Her head was down, her coat matted with dirt and slick with sweat. She was still tacked, iron stirrups hanging low at her sides. She looked miserable.

Jereth glanced up at the interruption, his contemptuous gaze raking over Lance. “Well?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Arthur.” Lance winced. He’d done so well at avoiding Jereth for weeks.

“How disappointing, to find me instead,” Jereth said, daring Lance to deny it.

“If you say so,” Lance replied blandly.

A beautiful gray mare nosed forward in the nearest box, and Lance gave her a pat. It had been a long while since he’d been permitted to choose his mounts from the royal stable.

He remembered the very last time, a hot summer afternoon when he and Jereth had ridden out to the lake, and shared their first kiss. They’d galloped back with swollen lips and wet hair, stealing last glances at each other as they returned, Lance late to his duties as a page, and Jereth late to his fencing lesson.

Lance watched as Jereth took a gulp of wine straight from the bottle. His riding boots were filthy, and mud splattered the hem of his cloak. He looked a mess. The palfrey wasn’t much better. She stamped impatiently, her ears set back.

Lance couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you going to untack that horse?” he asked.

Jereth shrugged. “Someone else will, if I don’t.”

Lance shook his head, disgusted. He hated the way Jereth was looking at him. All dark eyes and haughty jawline, a beautiful boy who loved himself and knew how to make others love him, too. It made Lance suddenly, inexplicably angry. This was all still a game to him, because the consequences didn’t rest on his shoulders, and they never would.

“For once in your life, can’t you take responsibility for anything?” Lance ground out. “Or must you always get caught in a mess that you refuse to answer for?”

Jereth’s eyes burned with resentment. “You groom her then, if you care so much.”

“I can’t believe you’d ask me that!”

“I wasn’t asking,” Jereth said with an imperious tilt of his chin. “And you forget you should address me as ‘my lord.’ ” He motioned toward a tack box. “Her comb is over there.”

“You can get it yourself,” Lance replied, crossing his arms. “My lord.”