“I don’t believe her.” James carefully wiped his weeping lip against his shoulder. “You’re too special to not become a knight. I just thought . . .”

“You thought that if you believed I could do it, everyone would. You wanted me to have a command, and you always get your way.” She attempted to pat his head with her cheek. “My poor little nobleman. But that’s not the point I was making.”

“I’ve been beaten nearly to a pulp, darling. Forgive me for missing a point or two.”

“I think she might have left, Jamie.” Frances had spoken like a woman who knew more than she let on, who understood that there was no hope for a future where she was. Like someone who had made alternate plans. “Two horses were gone, hers included. She could have ransacked her room as a decoy.”

“Why would she have done that?”

“Well, I don’t know.” She had roughly a dozen theories. “But think about it: Levon barely asked us where Frances had gone. He and the King weren’t demanding answers, they were looking for someone to blame.” The ideas were sparking, making her nose itch. “It’s far easier for them to pin it on us than to admit that Frances ran off. And if they really thought we had spirited her away, we would be in a torture chamber right now getting our eyelashes plucked out.”

“Well, thank the gods for small mercies.” He spread out on the floor and sighed. “Scratch, I understand that you’re looking for answers. I wouldn’t mind a few myself. But if the king has decided we’re guilty, we’re guilty.”

“You aren’t allowed to be right.” She felt heavy, the thick dungeon atmosphere pinning her to the ground. “Gods, Jamie. Nothing’s been going my way today.”

“Poor babe.” He chuckled, wet and throaty. “You know, I have a book in my pocket.”

She couldn’t help the smile that dragged her cracked, painful lips across filmy teeth. “You what?”

“I fell asleep reading. I just put it in my pocket. They didn’t seem to care.” His voice broke. “Nobody cares. They didn’t care. They didn’t—”

“Shh, Jamie.” She shifted closer, stemming his tears with her hair. She wished she could open her mouth and swallow the tears and, with them, the pain. He was a soldier, but he was soft. Not like Scratch. She had built her armor early, stealing through the slums with an empty belly, reaching her grubby hand into strangers’ pockets for a few coppers. James had the privilege of softness, and it suited him beautifully. Gods, if she could only take this from him. “I care. We have each other, all right? We’re okay. If we’re together, we’re okay.”

She whispered nonsense until his sobs faded to the deep breathing of sleep. Then, she was alone.