One morning, in the week after Bitterblue received Saf’s letter, Giddon overheard Helda, the elderly woman who took care of Bitterblue’s domestic needs, muttering indignantly to a member of her staff in the corridors.

“She’s refusing a party,” Helda said. “She doesn’t want a big dinner, either. She wants her usual, quiet dinner here with her friends, and for us to act as if she isn’t the most important woman in the world. Well, I know she loves sweets. But she never admits a preference. She wants all her cooks to feel equally wonderful. She takes care of everyone, all the time! How am I to make her feel taken care of on her birthday?”

“Um, excuse me, Helda,” Giddon said, glancing around conspiratorially to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “All three layers should be chocolate, with buttercream frosting. And encircle it with bite-sized vanilla cream puffs.”

Helda narrowed eyes on Giddon that contained a certain spark of interest. She leaned back. “And how do you know that, Giddon?”

“She gets very quiet and focused when we have those things at dinner,” Giddon said. “And she scrapes her plate clean. Haven’t you noticed?”

The next look Helda gave him made him flush with heat and decide he was needed elsewhere urgently. But on the night of Bitterblue’s birthday, the chocolate cake and cream puffs made Bitterblue take Helda into her arms and kiss her cheek. Giddon couldn’t stay that night, because he had more people to shepherd out of Estill. But he was able to leave knowing that her long day had been punctuated by a small delight, because of him.

Always, Giddon was careful not to look too closely at how those moments felt. He understood the pointlessness of it. Bitterblue was a queen, which meant she was expected to marry a man. Her advisers thrust men at her constantly, and he’d noticed that none of them were disinherited, banished lords. He knew she tried her best to like some of them. He even knew, because she made no secret of it with him, when she involved herself with any of them, or with anyone else.

Sometimes, she came to him for advice. He was almost nine years older and she wanted the benefit of his experience. This made him feel ancient.

“Have you ever been quite in love with someone,” she asked him once, a couple years back when she’d been seeing some lord from the southern coast, “then realized they’re not actually as kind or grown-up as you thought? And in fact, you were in love with an idea of who you thought they were, instead of who they actually are? And now you have to tell them so, but there’s no point in being hurtful?”