“It is not your fault, warden. You did all anyone could have.” I could not see the king’s face as I nursed the duke, but his tone had the edge of tears. “It was their upbringing.”

The jailer frowned down. “Raised so they can’t live normally. Like a set-set.”

Isabel Carlos II did not answer.

The duke sputtered. «Da… naa…»

«Your noble sister is safe,» the king replied at once, «I spoke with them today.» Here strictness replaced softness. «We require Your Grace’s parole that you will not attempt to flee, or cause disruption, while in our custody.»

«… ha… y… wuu…» I could not make out a syllable, but between gentlemen it was enough. Sniper itself could have burst through the brickwork now with an army at its back, and the duke’s word would have remained his bond.

I held the silver flask again to Ganymede’s lips. I choked up seeing him like this, reader, his white cheek, which had once put lilies to shame, pale like a grub that should not yet have been uprooted from its tomb-home within the black decay of earth. Not that I have any great love for the duke—rather it felt as if Nature herself were lessened, wounded, by having her masterwork so despoiled.

«Is it true, Your Majesty,» the warden interrupted, joining us in French, which made the question feel more private, «what they say about your… I mean your relationship to the Porphyrogene?» I suppose he should be commended for managing to wait so long with answers dangling close.

«People say many different things about Epicuro Mason,» Spain answered mildly.

«Is it true you’re their real father, like Sniper said?»

The king paused only a moment. «Yes.»

The warden gasped, though I think it was less the truth that stunned him than the ease with which His Majesty admitted it; never forget how many of history’s kings have waged wars to avoid acknowledging a bastard.

I brushed off the tendrils of prison wraiths which stuck like cobwebs to my arms and fingers, lest my unclean hands further distress the duke. «Are you ready to be moved, Your Grace?»

Ganymede tugged at the collar of his hospital smock, his bandaged fingers too weak to rip the cloth.

«We have proper attire waiting, Your Grace, but they wouldn’t let us bring it in.»

Even before prison’s starvation, Ganymede had been delicate enough to carry easily in my arms. Feeling his warmth against me, reader, I could well understand how hopeless had been the warden’s efforts to inoculate his staff against desire’s epidemic; Saladin’s dear heart, ever master of my own, could not keep my hands from trembling with the thrill of touch.