Kell’s gaze wandered as they walked. He had never explored the halls beyond the king’s rooms, but he was sure they hadn’t always been like this.

Fires burned high in the hearths of every room they passed, rendering the palace uncomfortably warm. The rooms themselves were all occupied, and Kell couldn’t help but feel like he was being put on display, led past murmuring ladies and curious gentlemen. He clenched his fists and lowered his gaze. By the time he was deposited in the large sitting room, his face was flushed from heat and annoyance.

“Ah. Master Kell.”

The prince regent—the king, Kell corrected himself—was sitting on a sofa, flanked by a handful of stiff men and giggling women. He looked fatter and more arrogant than usual, his buttons straining, the points of his nose and chin thrust up. His companions fell silent at the sight of Kell, standing there in his black traveling coat.

“Your Majesty,” he said, tipping his head forward in the barest show of deference. The gesture resettled the hair over his blackened eye. He knew that his next words should express condolence, but looking at the new king’s face, Kell felt the more stricken of the two. “I would have come to St. James if I’d—”

George waved a hand imperiously. “I didn’t come here for you,” he said, getting to his feet, albeit ungracefully. “I’m spending a fortnight at Windsor, tying up odds and ends. Putting matters to rest, so to speak.” He must have seen the distaste that contorted Kell’s face because he added, “What is it?”

“You don’t seem saddened by the loss,” observed Kell.

George huffed. “My father has been dead three weeks, and should have had the decency to die years ago, when he first grew ill. For his sake, as well as mine.” A grim smile spread across the new king’s face like a ripple. “But I suppose for you the shock is fresh.” He crossed to a side bar to pour himself a drink. “I always forget,” he said, as amber liquid sloshed against crystal, “that as long as you are in your world, you hear nothing of ours.”

Kell tensed, his attention flicking to the aristocrats that peppered the vast room. They were whispering, eying Kell with interest over their glasses.

Kell resisted the urge to reach out and grab the royal’s sleeve. “How much do these people know?” he demanded, fighting to keep his voice low, even. “About me?”

George waved his hand. “Oh, nothing troublesome. I believe I told them you were a foreign dignitary. Which is true, in the strictest sense. But the problem is, the less they know, the more they gossip. Perhaps we should simply introduce you—”

“I would pay my respects,” cut in Kell. “To the old king.” He knew they buried men in this world. It struck him as strange, to put a body in a box, but it meant the king—what was left of him—would be here, somewhere.

George sighed, as if the request were both expected and terribly inconvenient. “I figured as much,” he said, finishing the drink. “He’s in the chapel. But first …” He held out a hand, heavily adorned with rings. “My letter.” Kell withdrew the envelope from the pocket of his coat. “And the one for my father.”

Reluctantly, Kell retrieved the second note. The old king had always taken such care with the letters, instructing Kell not to mar the seal. The new king took up a short knife from the side bar and slashed the envelope, drawing out the contents. He hated the idea of George seeing the sparse note.

“You came all the way out here to read him this?” he asked, scornfully.

“I was fond of the king.”

“Well, you’ll have to make do with me now.”

Kell said nothing.

The second letter was significantly longer, and the new king lowered himself onto a couch to read it. Kell felt decidedly uncomfortable, standing there while George looked over the letter and the king’s entourage looked over him. When the king had read it through three or four times, he nodded to himself, tucked the letter away, and got to his feet.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Kell followed George out, grateful to escape the room and all the gazes in it.

“Bloody cold out,” the king said, bundling himself into a lush coat with a fur collar. “Don’t suppose you could do something about that?”

Kell’s eyes narrowed. “The weather? No.”

The king shrugged, and they stepped out onto the palace grounds, shadowed by a huddle of attendants. Kell pulled his coat close around his body; it was a bitter February day, the wind high and the air wet and biting cold. Snow fell around them, if it could be called falling. The air caught it up and twisted the drifts into spirals so that little ever touched the frozen ground. Kell pulled up his hood.

Despite the chill, his hands were bare inside their pockets; his fingertips were going numb, but Antari relied on their hands and their blood to do magic, and gloves were cumbersome, an obstacle to quick-drawn spells. Not that he feared an attack on Grey London soil, but he’d rather be prepared….

Then again, with George, even simple conversation felt a bit like a duel, the two possessing little love and less trust for one another. Plus, the new king’s fascination with magic was growing. How long before George had Kell attacked, just to see if and how he would defend himself? But then, such a move would forfeit the communication between their worlds, and Kell didn’t think the king was that foolish. At least he hoped not; as much as Kell hated George, he didn’t want to lose his one excuse to travel.