The man’s eyes found the emblem on Ericen’s chest and widened. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Please forgive me.”

I touched Ericen’s shoulder; it was solid as marble. “Leave him. It’s not worth it. Let’s go.”

Ericen didn’t listen. “It’s not me you need to apologize to.”

The man’s eyes shifted to me. My cheeks burned. “I’m sorry, my lady. Please forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven,” I said hastily. “Ericen, let’s go!”

He gave the man a final shove, then released him. I grabbed his arm, barely remembering to seize my box of pastries before tugging him out into the cool night. It had started to rain again, a thick mist obscuring the buildings and road. By the time we climbed inside the waiting carriage, we were drenched.

I set the box beside me and wiped my soaking curls out of my face. Ericen sat rigid with his arms crossed in the corner. This was the prince who’d faced Razel, the one who’d seemed determined to prove something.

“That was unnecessary, you know,” I said. “I ran into him.”

“He called you a whore.”

“Welcome to the life of a woman. Men say stupid crap to us all the time. So don’t try and tell me that was about defending my honor. It was about defending yours.”

Ericen scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“I see the way people treat you. You’re the prince of Illucia and a Vykryn, and people still don’t respect you.”

He bristled. “It’s none of your business what my people think of me.”

“It is if you’re going to use me as an excuse to demand respect from people!”

“Just because you don’t give a damn what your people think of you doesn’t mean—”

I snarled, and he slammed his fist into the side of the coach. Without a word, I tore open the carriage door and leapt out. I moved blindly back the way we’d come, my skin hot with fury and shame at Ericen, at my own foolishness, at this whole damn situation.

I’d been so focused on considering the ways he had changed since Rhodaire that I’d missed the ways he’d stayed the same. He was still a product of his culture, utterly concerned with respect and pride. It hurt him that his people disregarded him, which made his anger nothing but loneliness and disappointment made manifest. I’d done the same thing—except where my pain became depression, his became anger.

“Stupid load of shi—ow!” I stumbled back, ready to curse whatever brick wall I’d just run into. Except it wasn’t a wall—it was a young man. Or what one would look like after standing in a rookery during a thunderstorm.