Fae dashed back to the kitchen, leaving Miranda with the strange prince. He came in, closed the door, and took Miranda back into the living room in a manner that was far more “escorting a lady” than “wheeling a patient”. She realized from the familiar noises that Fae was exerting herself to make tea and arrange sweetmeats. The prince settled himself into a chair and looked around, neither curious nor assessing, but as if creating his own comfort by rapidly absorbing his surroundings and making them familiar. It did not take him very long. He reached absently for a cigarette, realized in an instant that this would be injurious to Miranda, and began to apologize. But then somehow, between their apologies and acceptances and counterapologies, he ended up in the broad window seat with his feet up and his arm hanging loosely over the sill, holding the evidence of his offending habit out of sight. At intervals he lifted his arm and brought the cigarette to his lips for a shallow draw, almost a taste, before dropping it hastily below the sill once more and sharply exhaling the smoke up and out of the window.

Fae approached with his tea and a laden plate, resting it on a small side table within arm’s reach. He looked at her, nodded his thanks, and said, “You knew me. How is that possible?”

Fae clasped her hands in front of her, almost comically deferential. “I’ve read a lot about the monarchies of the southwestern continent . . . for my book.”

He relaxed—notoriety for his lineage was clearly of little concern to him—but then twitched at her final words. “You are a writer?”

She stammered. “I . . . not yet. Trying to be.”

He smiled. “And are you writing about far-off lands rather than your own backyard? No—that wasn’t a criticism,” he added quickly when she looked stricken. “I’ve done the same, after all. Tales of intrigue, romance, and adventure in every place except the Hill Kingdoms. And do you know, my books hardly sell in my own land? Fortunately I have a good agent who knows where the markets are to be found.”

“Was it your agent who suggested the pseudonym and the public face?” asked Miranda.

His smile slipped. “A necessity, I fear, which was implemented by mutual agreement. Already I must live with one kind of celebrity; to cultivate another type might prove too challenging a balancing act. I am a prince, but also a priest, diplomat, representative, and role model. My books are pure invention, but readers are apt to believe there is no smoke without fire. I would rather not have any international incidents caused by some hopeful theorist reading intricate conspiracies into the plots of my novels.”

He straightened and became even more serious. “Which, ironically, brings me to the reason for my visit. I am sorry, Dr. Ecouvo, but I believe you are in danger.”