Chapter 7: Poured, Not Spilled

By morning the island had decided how to treat the king.

It treated him politely, and it was dreadful.

The innkeeper gave him the room over the kitchen, which smelled of fried fish at dawn.

The baker sold him a loaf at triple the price and wished him a lovely day.

Children followed him down the quay in a silent line.

When he turned around, they all looked at the sky.

I watched from my cottage window with Edith at my elbow.

"This is very good for my soul," she said.

"Be kind."

"I am being kind. I haven't hit him."

At noon the royal ferry came in.

I knew the pennant, and I felt my stomach drop.

Verity came down the gangway in a yellow coat, with a young secretary on each side.

She looked bright and fresh and sorry, and she held a leather folder against her chest.

The lavender reached me from fifty paces.

I walked down to the quay with Biscuit in my arms.

I would not have this conversation on my own doorstep.

The whole island came with me.

Alaric stood at the end of the pier, where he had been standing since sunrise.

"Alaric," Verity said.

She hurried to him and took both his hands.

"You've been gone so long. The Council is frantic, and the rehearsal is at four."

"I don't need to be at a fitting."

"Darling, it's the coronation. People are watching."

"There isn't going to be a coronation," Alaric said slowly, "until I'm well."

She looked at him with such soft worry that my own chest tightened.

Then she turned to me, and her smile warmed.

"Linnet. How is the poor thing? I've been sick with it."

She held out her hands for Biscuit.

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