Dean was not sick.
He had decided this with the authority of a man who had survived royal weddings, temple prophecies, political murders disguised as family dinners, and Arion in rut.
A slightly cold nose did not count.
A mild headache did not count.
The fact that Seven had entered the room wearing the expression of a man preparing paperwork for treason definitely did not count.
Dean sat curled on the sofa in their private sitting room, wrapped in one of Arion's dark robes because it was warmer than his own and also because theft inside marriage was not theft. It was resource redistribution.
Boreas sat in front of him, like a furry northern tribunal.
Dean sniffed.
Boreas barked.
Dean stared at him. "Stop that."
Boreas stared back.
Dean reached for his tea.
His nose betrayed him.
He sneezed.
Boreas barked once, sharp and scandalized, as if announcing to the entire palace that the Crown Consort of Alamina had attempted to die in public.
