Outside the door, a prince was losing a war with a hallway.
"You are pacing," Lucius observed. He was leaning against the opposite wall with his umbrella planted like a cane, looking infuriatingly relaxed.
"I am walking."
"You have walked the length of this corridor nine times. I have been counting."
Alaric stopped. He was in his shirtsleeves now, the wedding coat discarded, his hair a little disordered where he had dragged his hands through it. He looked at his bare fingers. They were trembling again.
"You promised," Lucius said, more gently.
"I know."
"You promised her that after the wedding you would stop holding back."
"I know, Lucius." His voice cracked. "I have never been so afraid of anything in my life. Not of the court. Not of the bone-things in the dark. If I lose my hold—"
"You will not."
"You cannot know that."
