23
I stand inside a large square space filled with sturdy wooden chairs and tables. Iron chests and oriental rugs cover the floor. King Connor sits on a high-back chair in a black tunic, a sheet of parchment in his hand. His white hair hangs neatly to his shoulders. Octavia stands beside him.
The King rises to his feet, his face creasing into a smile as he greets his son. Connor’s basso voice rings out: “Hello, hello!” He lumbers over to Lincoln, wrapping him in a bear hug. It feels like a million years eke by as the King slowly turns to me. I grit my teeth and try to plaster on a smile.
“What’s this?” The King sets his meaty fists on his hips. “I wasn’t informed of any strangers coming to visit.” His voice drips with irritation.
Here it comes. The gruffness.
Lincoln grips my hand. “T
