I did not sleep that day.
I lay on my narrow bed in the attendants' quarters, stared at the ceiling, and replayed the same sentence in my head until it lost all meaning.
"Tomorrow, you will look at me when I speak to you."
It was an order. A royal order. And I, a woman who once gave a flawless presentation to forty board members without breaking a sweat, could not figure out how to look one man in the eyes.
This was ridiculous. Eyes were just eyes. Everyone had two. Some people even had pretty ones.
That was exactly the problem.
By the time the sun went down, I had come up with a plan, and I'm not proud of it. I stood in front of the small bronze mirror in my room and practiced.
"Yes, Your Majesty," I said to my reflection, lifting my chin. My reflection stared back with the flat, glassy expression of a fish. I tried again. Now I looked like I was plotting a murder.
"That's worse," I muttered.
A young male face frowned back at me. Soft brown eyes, clean jawline, a slightly startled look. The old Olivier had clearly been handsome, and just as clearly he had never once been terrified of anything.
I was going to ruin his reputation within a week.
Somewhere in the palace, a bell rang for the night shift.
I straightened my collar, whispered a short prayer to the same heavens I had spent a month insulting, and went to work.
####
The king was alone.
I noticed it the moment I stepped into the chamber. No concubine, no silk screen, no lingering perfume. Only Reis, sitting at a low table by the window with a map spread in front of him and a cup in his hand, and the moon making a very unfair painting out of the side of his face.
"Olivier."
"Your Majesty."
I bowed, then stopped halfway, remembering the order. I straightened up too fast. My neck made a small, humiliating click.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
'Do not look at his mouth. Do not look at his chest. Look at the eyes. Just the eyes.'
Dark. That was the first thing. Not black, exactly, but the deep, warm brown of strong tea held up to a candle. The second thing was that he did not blink. The third thing was that a man could very easily drown in them, and I was very close to finding out how.
Three seconds passed. Then four.
My eyeballs began to burn.
"You are staring," he said.
"You ordered me to, Your Majesty."
"I ordered you to look. Not to glare at me like I owe you a life."
I quickly softened my face and instinctively looked away. It felt like I was relaxing a fist that had been clenched since birth. "Forgive me."
"Hm."
That was it. Just "hm". A man who could level a city with a sentence, and all I got was "hm".
He went back to his work, and I stood there, not sure whether I had passed or failed a test, or whether there had even been a test at all. The window let in a cool breeze that smelled of jasmine and something else, something older and sharper. I stayed very still.
"Wine," he said, without looking up.
I hurried to the sideboard, grabbed the pitcher, and poured with a hand I ordered to be steady. It mostly obeyed. Only a few drops hit the table.
"Sorry, sorry."
"You never used to spill."
"I have... developed clumsiness, Your Majesty."
"In a month?" he questioned skeptically.
"It happens to some people."
He made a sound. It was very quiet and very short, and it took me a full second to realize it was a laugh. Or the ghost of one, at least, a breath through the nose that didn't reach his mouth.
I nearly dropped the pitcher again.
He laughed. The tyrant king laughed. Is that good? Is that a death flag? Is laughing a death flag?
"Sit," he said.
I froze. "Your Majesty?"
"Sit." He gestured to the cushion across from him with two fingers, and did not look up. "You have been standing for hours. I can hear your knees creaking."
"That is not necessary, Your Majesty. I am perfectly—"
"Olivier."
I sat.
The cushion was very soft, the table was very low, and I was now close enough to see the pale scar that ran through his left eyebrow. I had somehow been promoted from furniture to dinner guest, and I was not sure I liked the new job.
He pushed the second cup across the table.
"Drink."
"Your Majesty, I couldn't possibly—"
"That is the third time you have argued with me tonight."
I reached for the cup at once. That was my third strike, and I had never been so eager to be tipsy in my life.
The wine was sweet, dark, and much stronger than it looked. It burned a warm path down my throat and settled in my stomach, and for one brief, treacherous moment, I relaxed.
"Tell me," Reis said, and finally lifted his gaze to mine, "what happened to you?"
I nearly choked.
"I... beg your pardon?"
"A month ago," he said calmly, "you were a man who could recite the whole palace roster in his sleep. You knew which ministers hated each other, and which servants stole from the kitchens. You walked into my room as though you owned it." He took a slow sip. "Now you flinch when I raise my cup, and you cannot remember which door leads to the armory."
I very carefully put down my own cup.
'He knows. No, he couldn't possibly know. But… he knows enough to be suspicious.'
"I... hit my head, Your Majesty," I said. "I had fallen down accidentally. It was very unlucky."
"Hm."
There it was again. That terrible, thoughtful little sound.
"A head injury," he said, in a tone that suggested he was filing the excuse away for later. "How convenient."
"It was very inconvenient, Your Majesty. I was in a great amount of pain."
"I am certain you were."
He set down his cup, and the corner of his mouth moved. It was not quite a smile. It was more like the shadow of one, passing across a very cold lake.
"Very well, Olivier," he said. "You can keep your secrets. For now."
I stared at him, and he stared right back at me, and the wine sat warm and heavy in my stomach like a stone.
I had known from the start that eye contact was dangerous, precisely why I had avoided doing so.
I just hadn't realized exactly how dangerous; he is practically reading me like an open book!