She thought of her last night in the castle, smoking Roselap with a princess she barely knew. Frances was different here. Tighter. There was a tension around her eyes that was entirely new. It made her look older.

“I might have,” she replied mildly. “I don’t envy her.”

“I do. I’d make a fantastic prince.”

“Hush.” She pushed herself onto her dirt-smudged forearms. Gods, she was filthy. “No, I mean, she’s in a difficult position. And to go from her secure life to living in someone else’s castle . . .” She shrugged. “It can’t be comfortable.”

“You used to eat apple cores out of trashcans and you pity an uncomfortable princess?” He tsked disparagingly. “You’ve gone soft.”

“Perhaps.” She ran a hand through her shorn hair. “And you as well.”

“Me? I assure you, Scratch, I’m as hard as ever.” He pursed his lips. “Well, perhaps not in this exact moment . . .”

“James?” she asked, doodling a mindless squiggle in the dust. “What do you want?”

“A bath.”

“And then?”

“Vel.”

“If you could take this seriously for a moment.”

He rolled his eyes. “How am I meant to take this seriously if I don’t know what you mean?”

“If you had a choice,” she explained through her teeth, patience thinning. “If the next phase of your life was open to any possibility, what would you choose?”

He eyed her narrowly. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Call it idle curiosity.”

“Nothing about you is idle.”

“Then call it curiosity.”

“I’m calling it off.”

“Cute.” She rose up to a seated position, dusting herself off. “Frances will speak to me. I will set my terms. Then, we will—”

“I’m sorry, your terms?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, James. Did you not think I had a plan?”

“Of course you have a plan, darling. I wouldn’t expect any less. I just wonder whether you’re in the position to dictate terms.”

“Regardless.” She waved him away. “If you could decide what tomorrow looked like, what would it be?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. It appeared he wasn’t going for the cute, quippy answer. His forehead furrowed, his thick brows drawing down.

“You know, Scratch,” he said after a long moment, “I only ever cared about being with you.”

“Me?”

“No, Hester.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, you, you—what did Maisie call Brella? You paperweight.” He grinned. “I think Maisie and I will get along very well, don’t you?”

She shuddered at the thought. “Too well.”

“Anyway.” He sobered. With his shoulders hunched and his head lowered he looked strangely nervous. “I didn’t like my family. You know that well enough. They sent me away to the Academy and then you and I met and, well, that’s all there is.” He swallowed thickly. “You were my family. All I wanted was to be happy, and with you.”

Her heart raced. “But, the archery . . .”