"I will." I glanced around at the paper forts, the dozing revolutionaries, the twilight filtering lavender through stained glass. "But first thank you."
Velka's eyebrows arched in that elegant, vaguely dangerous way only Nightthorns manage. "For what? I merely dusted a few whispers off the mirror network and bribed a riot with biscuits."
I laughed, softer than parchment rustle. "For standing when I wobble, for speaking when I falter, for believing the kingdom could rise on carbs and stubbornness." A flush climbed my cheeks embarrassment or sincerity, hard to tell these days. "Mostly for not running the first time someone lobbed a jam tart in diplomacy's name."
She stepped closer until the dust motes danced between us like startled fireflies. "I'm trained to survive worse than jam," she said, voice silk on steel. "But I suppose you're welcome."
