Free The Burning Sky by Sherry Thomas

that.
    He tapped his fingers against the armrest of the chaise. “Then I suppose I will have to watch over you.”
    There was no inflection to his tone; not even a flicker of anything in his expression. Yet the air between them drew taut. She heated.
    â€œNow, will you be all right—or will you not?” asked the prince.
    She became aware for the first time that his eyes were blue gray, the color of distant hills. 
    Now she had no choice but to brazen it out. “I’m sure I will be fine,” she answered. “But should I need you, sire, please don’t hesitate.”
    The gaze of her sovereign swept over her. She’d seen that look of interest from boys. But his was so swift that she wasn’t quite certain she hadn’t imagined it. 
    Then he inclined his head, all pomp and formality. “I am at your service, madam.”
    Â 
    Even without the caked blood, when Iolanthe finally caught sight of herself in a mirror, she still flinched. She looked awful, her face filthy and scratched, her hair coated in dust and bits of plaster, her once-white blouse the color of an old rag.
    At least she was safe. Master Haywood . . . Her heart tightened. Her intuition had been exactly right: it had been on her account that everything had gone wrong for him.
    She washed quickly. Afterward, she dressed in the change of clothes the prince had supplied—slippers, undergarments, a blue flannel shirt, and a pair of matching trousers, everything for a boy four inches taller and a stone and a half heavier.
    When she came out of the bath, her battered clothes in a bundle in her hand, there was a tray of food waiting in the parlor and a fire in the grate. So it really was true, fireplaces were not mere decorations in the nonmage world.
    The prince looked at her oddly, as if seeing her for the first time. “Have we met before? You look . . . familiar.”
    Every year there were children selected to meet him, but she’d never been among the chosen. “No, we haven’t, sire. I’d have remembered.”
    â€œI could have sworn . . .”
    â€œYou are probably thinking of someone else, sire.” She extended her hand. “Here’s your pendant.”
    â€œThank you.” The prince shook his head, as if to clear it. He pointed at her clothes. “If you do not mind, we need to destroy them—I would prefer as little evidence of your mage origins lying about as possible. Same with the contents of the satchel. Is there anything you particularly wish to keep?”
    A reminder that she wasn’t quite as safe as she would like to be. She didn’t know how the prince remained so calm. But she was grateful for his aplomb—it made her less afraid.
    He motioned her to sit down and handed her the satchel. Master Haywood’s letter she set aside. Digging through the clothes, she found the pouch of coins she’d felt earlier—pure Cathay gold, acceptable tender in every mage realm.
    â€œI think there is a false bottom,” she said, feeling along the linings, her fingers discerning the shape of something cylindrical.
    The prince produced a spell that neatly removed the cover of the false bottom to reveal a hidden tube.
    He astounded her—not so much the spell, though it was deft, but his demeanor. Had he been an orphan who’d had to fend for himself from the youngest age, perhaps she would not be surprised at his maturity and helpfulness. But his must have been the most privileged upbringing in all the Domain; yet here he was, always thinking one step ahead, always anticipating her needs.
    â€œThank you, sire,” she said.
    Could he detect the admiration in her voice? She did, and it embarrassed her. Hurriedly she reached for the tube, which contained her rolled-up birth chart—she recognized the elaborate painted night sky at the top of the scroll.
    She put the letter, the pouch of coins, and the birth chart