Evan found Althea in her usual spot, but today she wasn't alone. Julian sat on the bench beneath the Memory Tree, looking pale but composed. He was reading a book—some sort of history, by the look of it—and didn't look up as Evan approached.
"Lord Carter," he said, not looking up. "Or Evan. If I may."
"Julian." Evan nodded to Althea, who was pruning a rose bush with more intensity than necessary. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"My mother doesn't know I come here. She thinks gardens are for commoners." Julian smiled faintly. "Althea and I have an understanding. She doesn't tell my mother I'm here. I don't tell anyone she lets me be here."
Althea snorted. "As if I care who knows. The garden is for everyone. Even annoying noble boys with bad lungs."
Julian's smile warmed. "She likes me. She just won't admit it."
"I admit nothing. Now sit. You look peaky."
Julian sat. Evan joined him. The Memory Tree's fruits chimed softly, showing glimpses of other conversations, other confidences shared in this spot.
"My mother visited you," Julian said without preamble.
"She did."
"She wants you to heal me."
"She does."
Julian was quiet for a moment. Then: "Don't."
Evan looked at him. "What?"
"Don't heal me. Not because she asks. Not because she pressures you." Julian met his eyes. "If you do it, do it because YOU want to. Because YOU choose to. Not because she manipulates you into it."
"You don't want to be healed?"
"I want to LIVE. Of course I do." Julian looked at his hands. They were slender, elegant, with a slight tremor. "But not as a transaction. Not as a bargaining chip in my mother's games."
Althea stopped pruning. "The boy has sense. More than his mother, certainly."
Julian laughed, then coughed. The cough was wet, painful-sounding. When it passed, he was paler. "See? Charming, isn't it?"
Evan watched him. The weakness was there, in the trembling hands, the shallow breath, the pallor beneath the tan. A young man, dying slowly.
"Can I..." Evan reached out, then stopped. "May I?"
Julian nodded. "If you want."
Evan placed a hand on Julian's chest, over his heart. He didn't focus on healing. Not exactly. He just... observed. Felt.
The lungs were weak, yes. Scarred. Inefficient. The heart strained, working too hard to compensate. But there was more. A brittleness in the bones. A fragility in the blood vessels. A systemic weakness, woven into his very being.
He could fix it. He could make it better. Stronger. Perfect.
But Julian was right. It shouldn't be a transaction. A bargain. A political move.
"I can help you," Evan said softly. "But not today. Not like this."
Julian nodded, understanding. "When you're ready. If you're ready."
Evan removed his hand. Already, some improvement had happened—just from the contact, from the conversation. Julian's color was better. His breathing easier. The tremor in his hands less pronounced.
"You did something," Julian said, surprised.
"A little. Accidentally."
"Of COURSE." Julian stood, steadier than before. "Thank you. For listening. For not... yielding."
He left, moving through the garden paths with careful steps, pausing once to catch his breath.
Althea came to sit beside Evan. "He's a good boy. Trapped in a bad situation."
"His mother—"
"Loves him. In her way. But love, when mixed with ambition, becomes something else." She touched one of the Memory Tree's fruits. It chimed, showing a young woman—Lady Cordelia, decades younger—weeping in this same spot. "She was different once. Before the court hardened her."
"Can people be un-hardened?" Evan asked. "Improved?"
"People aren't objects, Evan. You can't just polish away the damage. Sometimes the cracks are what make us who we are." She looked at him. "You're learning that. Good."
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the tree, the garden, the distant palace.
Then Althea said, "There's to be a ball tomorrow night. In your honor."
Evan groaned. "Of course there IS."
"Her Majesty's idea. A formal introduction. A... celebration of your talents." Althea's expression was grim. "Be careful. Balls at this palace have a way of changing things."
"What kind of changes?"
"The permanent kind." She stood, brushing soil from her robes. "Wear something impressive. Say little. Watch everything. And whatever you do, don't dance with Lady Cordelia's chosen debutantes. She has three nieces, all 'accidentally' available."
Evan watched her go, the old gardener moving through her domain with the confidence of someone who knew every root, every stone, every secret.
Back in his rooms, Evan found a new note on his desk. Thick paper, familiar elegant script, royal seal.
The honor of your presence is requested at the Palace Autumn Ball, tomorrow evening, to celebrate the remarkable talents of Lord Evan Carter. Formal attire required. Demonstrations optional but anticipated.
- Her Majesty, Queen Elara the Second
P.S. Do try to improve the champagne. Last year's was disappointingly flat.
Evan set the note down. A ball. In his honor. With demonstrations possibly required.
He looked at the piles of unanswered letters. The perfect sword from Lord Gereon. The floating sphere and orb, still circling each other in their silent dance. The vase that had somehow joined their orbit.
Then he looked at his hands. The hands that healed. That improved. That revealed.
Tomorrow night, he would be the center of attention. The prize. The commodity.
And he had a feeling that some people wouldn't be asking nicely anymore.
Some people would be taking.
And he needed to decide, before then, what he was willing to give.
And what price he was willing to pay for saying no.
***