Margot all but ran down the short corridor between the grand stair and the royal apartments, yet her pace made no sound; she waved aside two servants, shifted one guard out of the way, and even through the narrowest doorway guided the procession so the king’s movement never broke. In the apartments’ antechamber—dark, wood-paneled, with an eastern rug on the floor—Zoey was already pulling a linen sheet over the wide, low couch. The king did not let go of me until a sure surface was beneath my back; he laid me down—did not drop me—and his hand lingered a moment at my brow, as if to check the heat once more.
“Water, clean,” he told Zoey. “Cold compress for the knee and elbow, and bring something without splinters; if her palm’s cut, I won’t have her bleeding here.”
“Yes, my lord,” Zoey answ
