Thread of Gold

Ch. 4: so rare and lovely

"If you tell anyone about this," Ryne muttered, "I'll kill you."

Isaac grinned. His Captain of the Guard lifted another ladle of tomato soup, looking far too pleased as he dropped some on Ryne's chin. Ryne had resisted being spoon-fed for as long as possible, but his growling stomach won out. It would be several hours before he regained the full use of his arms — even with all the pain-relief tonic that his maid Flora had brought.

"You're loving it," Isaac told him.

"I assure you, I'm not."

"Oops." Isaac slammed the spoon into his cheek. "Sorry. My bad."

"The waistcoat!" Ryne yelped. "Watch the waistcoat." He twisted to protect the green brocade fabric from dripping soup. "This is one of my favourites. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you were trying to ruin it on purpose."

"Of course not. I'm just clumsy."

And Ryne — who'd seen Isaac gracefully somersault off a roof and then strike a moving target ten feet away with a knife — arched an eyebrow.

Still, Ryne couldn't begrudge Isaac a bit of fun; he had seen the panic-stricken look on Isaac's face just an hour prior when Ryne had thrashed about in bed, his insides burning up as if someone had set fire to them. They had moved him to the nearest bedroom. Some sort of guest room on the main floor.

And now he was being spoon-fed soup.

Ryne sighed.

How glamorous it was to be king.

Isaac put the soup down. Afternoon light filtered through the window, making his gray eyes look bright. Ryne had overheard several of the maids giggling earlier about how dreamy they were.

"Like pearls," one had sighed. "So rare and lovely."

Ryne hoped that Isaac never found out; the idiot had a big enough head as it was. "I'm sorry you had to miss the garden party," he said. "Elsie has probably drowned herself in the fountain in despair."

Isaac set down the soup. "She'll live."

"Aren't you out of courtiers to seduce yet?"

"Well," Isaac said, "perhaps you should find more." He jiggled his leg. "Not that you've ever seemed interested in any."

Ryne looked away.

It was well known that he'd had no romantic relationships since his father died; his mother, Brigid, brought it up over breakfast most days, usually accompanied by a speech about how they should invite "that charming Salvatorian princess" to visit soon. But there was a good reason that Ryne refused to dabble with women. Oh, several of them had caught his eye, but he would never act on it.

He just couldn't tell anyone why.

"Perhaps I wish to become a monk," Ryne said. "And remain celibate."

Isaac's lips twitched. "That would certainly throw a wrench into the line of succession."

"I hardly—"

Pain spiked through his skull. Ryne tried to hide it, but it was too late; Isaac knelt beside his bed, his gray eyes wide. "Ry, what is it? Do you need me to fetch a maid?"

"No." Ryne gritted his teeth. "No, don't."

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong," Isaac said. "I wish you would confide in me, Ryne."

"I can't."

"Sure you can," Isaac said. "I accept all forms of explanation. Conversing, lyrical poetry, lewd drawings, interpretive dancing—"