Halvard had his hand loose around her ankle and no intention of moving it, because his hand there was the only thing in the room that nobody had to explain.

He had been a commander for longer than he had been a consort, and a commander read a room by its hands: Marek's, still on the tray; Elio's, already stealing; the servant's, shaking a little at the edge of the door.

Then the doors opened properly and the gift came in.

Broad, brown-haired, dark green chiffon, a pale scar across one temple, both hands held out where everyone could see them. Halvard looked at the hands first and the scar second and the face last, which was the order that told him the most.

The servant bowed almost to the marble.

Marek did not stand up.

Elio looked offended.

"I started counting when you stopped sharing."

"Darling," Elio said, turning toward the bed, "your First Consort is bullying me over fruit."

Halvard did not look away from the doorway. His thumb moved once along her ankle, absent, the way it did when he was deciding something.

Elio stared at him.

"I am." He moved his thumb again.

Marek took the date and ate it. Elio went silent. Halvard looked at the new man and did not say the thing he was thinking, which was that a king who sends a fighter into a princess's chamber is not making a gift. He is making a statement.