“I’m a bit embarrassed I never realized there was a door in my wardrobe,” I admit.

“Well, I suppose with your Shadows watching, you can hardly do much exploring,” he points out. I can’t very well tell him that I explored plenty before the siege, so I say nothing, and after a moment, he continues. “Are they always there? Your Shadows?”

“Always,” I say with a sigh that I hope comes off as mournful but not whiny. “That’s why they’re called Shadows.”

“Even when you sleep, though? Even when you change clothes?” He frowns.

“There’s not much I can do about it,” I say, hoping he doesn’t take his chivalry to the next level and try to rid me of them. I’m not sure how I could talk him out of it without sounding suspicious. “Rumor has it that they’re eunuchs, anyway. The Kaiser doesn’t want to risk anyone damaging his property,” I add with a meaningful look. Even in the warm candlelight, he looks a little green. I wonder if he’s noticed his father’s interest in me like the Kaiserin said he had, but I can’t bring myself to ask.

“Where are we going, Søren?” I ask instead.

“A little farther,” he says, walking ahead of me a few steps and feeling along the stone walls.

I frown. “Is that all you’ll tell me?” I ask.

He glances back at me over his shoulder and smiles. “I thought the element of surprise would appeal to your sense of adventure,” he says.

“What makes you so sure I have one?” I volley back.

“Call it a hunch.” He finds the stone he’s searching for and pushes it in. This one moves much more easily than the one I used when meeting with Blaise.

The outside air kisses my skin, surprisingly chilly and smelling of salt. “The harbor?” I ask, surprised. I step out of the tunnel. Beneath my feet, the ground shifts from stone to sand. Waves crash in the distance. “No. The beach,” I realize, squinting to look out at the horizon.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. I hadn’t even thought we’d be leaving the palace.

“You said you like the sea,” he says, coming to stand next to me. He bends down, sticking the candle in the sand flame-first to extinguish it, leaving it there. “So do I. But that’s not the surprise.”

He takes my hand as easily as breathing, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. My fingers are entwined with his, his callused palm pressing against mine as he pulls me after him. Though I know this is all a part of a game I’m orchestrating, a part of me wants to let go, not because his touch is repulsive, but because it should be and isn’t. Just as Artemisia pointed out, this is the son of the man who destroyed everything and everyone I loved. The boy who slaughtered nine of my people because his father told him to. I shouldn’t like the feel of his hand in mine, but I do.

He leads me over a dune and toward the shore, where the waves lap at the sand and a small dark shape bobs just a few feet away. A boat, if it can truly be called that. It’s not a drakkar or even a schooner. It’s a sloop with a large mast, small hull, and a collapsed red sail.

“You did promise my Shadows I’d be back in two hours,” I remind him. “What exactly did you have planned?”

“Just a short trip. Don’t worry, she’s surprisingly fast—we’ll have time to spare,” he says.

I have to gather my dress around my knees to keep it from getting wet as we wade into the water, but once we go deeper I give up and let it go. Søren doesn’t seem to spare a second thought to his own clothes getting wet. The water is up to my hips by the time we reach the back of the rocking boat, and Søren has to place his hands on my waist to boost me up. The skirt of my dress is soaked, but I do my best to wring it out. A second later, Søren lifts himself onto the boat. When he sees my skirt, he gives me a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, I hadn’t thought about that,” he says. “I have a few sets of clothes downstairs if you want to change into something while that dries. They’re my sailing clothes, so they won’t be what you’re used to, but…” He trails off, catching himself rambling.

He’s nervous, I realize, though the idea is laughable. Søren is stoic and unflappable, a Kalovaxian warrior down to his bones. How can he be nervous around me, of all people?

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Are you going to change, too?”

He nods. “In a minute,” he says. “I’m going to get us moving first.” He walks to the mast and lights two lanterns hanging there, flooding the area with a dim golden glow. He hands one to me before moving on to unfurl the sail.

I leave him to it and start toward the cabin. The boat is small and sparsely built, in typical Kalovaxian fashion, but there’s a thick wool blanket spread out on the deck, with a wicker basket and another lantern on top to keep it from blowing away in the wind.

The door swings open with just a nudge and I carefully step down a short set of stairs into the dark cabin. With the light of my lantern to see by, I can make out a room as sparely decorated as the rest of the ship, with a single narrow bed and a rickety set of drawers. Little as there is in the cabin, it’s a mess. The bed is rumpled and unmade, and there are clothes tossed haphazardly on the floor. I can’t resist a smirk at another unexpected side of Søren. Back at court, he’s always so impeccably put together, without a hair out of place or a single wrinkle in his clothes, but here at sea he’s a slob.

I step gingerly over crumpled clothes and a few empty overturned tin cups and plates, making my way toward the set of drawers. Inside I find simple linen trousers and a white cotton shirt with buttons down the front. Both are far too big for me and I have to roll them up at the ankles and elbows to manage to move in them, but they’re comfortable and, though they’re clean, they still smell like Søren—salt water and fresh-cut wood.

When I emerge back onto the deck, the sail is fully open and Søren is at the helm, his back to me. When he hears me approach, he turns around and immediately laughs at the sight of me.

My cheeks warm. “It was the best I could do,” I say, tugging uncomfortably at the too-big shirt and making sure the trousers haven’t fallen too far down over my hips.

“No, it isn’t that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just…strange to see you in my clothes.”

“Not as strange as it feels,” I point out, glancing down at the trousers. I don’t think I could ever get used to wearing men’s clothes.

His laughter subsides. “You still look beautiful,” he tells me, making the heat in my cheeks double. “If you’d like, you can go back in the cabin, where it’s a little warmer.”