I shrug. “I was crowned when I was twenty years old, with no experience or knowledge of what I was doing. I’ve had to rely on advisors my entire life. I learned the lesson too many times that I don’t always have all the answers, even if I need to pretend I do. Listening to others is a critical part of ruling. Even if there is another mole on the Council, there’re dozens of advisors who are loyal.”

He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. “Many would have done differently in your shoes, even at twenty. You’re remarkable.” An emotion I can’t place swims in his eyes, but I shy away from it, dropping my eyes to our hands again despite his request not to push away how I’m feeling. He only lifts my chin with two fingers as he’s done so many times before, meeting my gaze with a probing stare. “During your rule, as you’ve been setting up the Council of Advisors and creating hundreds of programs for citizens and training your magic and doing all the incredible work I see you do regularly—what in all of that makes you happy? When are you the happiest, Laurel?”

His question takes me aback, and not just because no one has ever asked me it before. I’ve never asked myself the question. Happiness is for normal people, not for leaders running an isolated kingdom because of their own failure. Words pour out of me, unbidden, like they always do when he gets me alone and asks me these impossible questions.

“I didn’t have time to be happy—don’t have time to be happy. I’m too busy trying to be the leader Thayaria deserves, too busy trying to solve every problem that arises. There’s so much work to do and too many people who depend on my decisions. The weight of it—” My words break off. Thorne remains silent, a steady presence as I sort through the emotions bubbling to the surface after he’s flayed me open. “It’s a lot of responsibility to bear,” I finally say. “I have to be strong. Happiness is optional.” Thorne’s lips purse and his eyes turn downward, the expression too close to pity for my liking. He opens his mouth and I’m sure is about to tell me my answer is bullshit or, even worse, to tell me how sorry he is for the life I’ve led, and I don’t want either of those things from him. So, I pull a page out of his own book, changing topics rapidly with a fake grin and a wink I know he sees through. “No one feels sorry for the Witch Queen.” His expression remains studious. “Where’s this cake? I’ve eaten enough regular food,” I say with enthusiasm.