I find it's just a short walk from Mom's room to the double doors leading to the main infirmary. This is where the staff and guests go if they take ill. I get my shots and check-ups in the comfort of my room. My mom has received all her care privately. 

I ease open the doors and see a half circle counter. Three women in scrubs are behind it, all seeming busy. A whiteboard takes up most of the wall behind them and the air smells of antiseptic apples. Yep, I'm in the right place.

"Your Highness!" one of the women says, and she comes out from behind the desk. She's petite, blonde, and in pink scrubs. "Are you alright-what can I do-how can I help?" She gushes, with a little bow.

"Kile?" I say. Suddenly I feel like I shouldn't be here. Like it means something. Will they ask why I want to see him? What gives me the right? Who is he to me?

I pull my shoulders back and pretend that I have my favorite tiara on my head.

"Kile Woodwork," I say more firmly. "His mother told me I could find him here."

A taller woman in pink scrubs appears from behind a beige curtain. She strides up to me and says, "Your Highness. He is stable. I will inform him of your inquiry." She casts her eyes behind me as if to see whether my Dad is also here.

"No, I...want to...see him. Now." I clear my throat and give her an imperious nod. It works.

They step on top of each other trying to lead me down a corridor. I follow and focus on hiding my anxiety and not peering into any of the other rooms. It's strangely tempting in a pick-a-scab type of way.

After we walk past several doors, we reach one labelled, Woodwork, Kile.

"I'll take it from here," I say, dismissing them with a low wave. The tall one opens her mouth but I give her a stern stare. They scurry the opposite way.

I take a deep breath, tap on the door frame, and then stroll in, head high.

It's a wasted entrance. Kile is in the bed, covers drawn, his back to me.

"Kile?" I say softly, wondering if he is asleep. Seeing him prone in such an institutionalized setting makes me want to scoop him up and keep him close by my side. Like he needs my protection. It's a weirdly possessive feeling and I like it. I want to be in charge of him. I must be pretty messed up. Or else, a perfect fit for queen.

The room is a single with tan and rose colored walls in thick vertical stripes. The bed is one of those metal ones with buttons and rails. A chair is near a window with the blinds drawn, and a small bedside table has a pitcher and a plastic cup. The whole scene is dismal.

My eyes pull back to the bed. Kile is covered with an ivory wool blanket with satin piping at the top. I wish I had a balloon, a flower, something. What was I thinking running in here alone dressed like a plain jane?

I take a half step backwards. I should go, put on some lipstick, get a card and some flowers...

Suddenly, Kile flops to his back. There's a vicious scowl on his face.

I gasp, my hand flying to my open mouth.

His face, his poor face. I rush to him, tears gushing from my eyes. My palm rises and cradles his jaw, which is deep purple and blue and black: a massive bruise.

His scowl vanishes.

"Eadlyn?" he asks, as if he's not sure.

"Are you alright?" I squint and see his neck is scratched up, his right eye is puffed almost shut and his left is red rimmed and bloodshot. His lower lip has a dark scab forming over where it must have been split. Near his temple there is a wound covered by a butterfly bandage.

"Can I hug you?" I ask, worried about hurting him. But I need to feel him against me.

He opens his arms and I gently lean in and bury my face in the space between his shoulder and neck. He shivers, and I kiss him once on the slope of his shoulder before drawing back.

He shakes his head. I almost apologize for hurting him, but he means the opposite--he wants me to stay close. He pulls me in for another hug. We sit there holding each other for a while. It feels right, natural. This is the boy I've grown up next to, played hide-and-seek with, watched blow out every birthday cake's candles. These past years I've watched him disappear further and further into his studies and books. Until he looked up that day of the Selection and we saw each other anew. A fresh start and a fake kiss was all it took for me to realize he is one of the most important people in my life. He sees beyond the future queen. He sees me.

"I was so scared," I whisper into his skin. He smells just like I remember: pencil lead and pine, with a hint of something sweet and musky.

"I know you were. I was too," he says, running his hand over my hair.

"What happened?" I whisper.

His eyes dart from side-to-side. "Is it just you here?"

I nod. "Why?" I ask, confused. "Should I have brought Josie?"

"Check for me?" he says in a low voice. "Make sure we're alone?"

I can tell he's in pain and right now I'd do anything for him to make it even a little better. Maybe his meds are making him paranoid. I check the bathroom, even pulling the shower curtain back. Then I shut the outer door.

I gingerly sit next to him, trying to be more careful this time of his injuries.

"It's just us," I say. "What is it? I'm freaking out."

"Me too, about you." His face is barely recognizable. I take a lot of my cues about his feelings from his facial expressions. I'm at a disadvantage now.

"Tell me," I take his hand and carefully enclose it in both of mine. His knuckles are scraped up and swollen. I can't believe this happened here, in my home.

He pats the bed and I perch on the edge near his chest. He seems out of breath and keeps licking his lips. I manage to reach the pitcher and pour him a cup, which he sips slowly.

"Thanks," he says. "So thirsty."

"Are you stalling?" I ask, canting my head. It's so hard to read him with his distorted features. Maybe he's just in pain and thirsty.

"A little," he admits. "I'm concussed. Not thinking my straightest. I told Leger everything, but he asked me to keep quiet about the details."

"Why? From the media?"

"From the rest of the Selection. From the castle staff. And of course the media. And the populace."

"From me?" I gasp.

Kile shrugs. "I wish I knew," he said. "I don't want to put you in any more danger."

"What is it?" My whole body is tense with whatever he is holding back.

"I like your sweater, cozy Eadlyn never comes out to play."

I blink trying to follow him.

"And were those pants on your legs?" He tries to smile but winces and just tilts his head instead.

"My wardrobe? We're talking about what I'm wearing?"

"Show me, come on. As a get well."

I lift up my leg and he grabs my knee and squeezes, shifting me so that I'm facing him fully.

"Eadlyn, I was scared they were coming for you."

I nod, holding his gaze with my own. I squint to see his pupils, one partly hidden beneath swelling and the other almost obscured by broken vessels.

"The group of them were young and so angry. I followed the noise to your room and they basically beat me up. Not too heroic. But I saw Baden with them."

"What?" I feel like my heart is hiccupping: jerks and pauses and no comfort or pattern.

"And Neena."

"No."

"She's the one with the combination for all your jewels. She took them all."

I gasp. She was like my best friend in a way. I saw her most. She knew me best.

"I'm sorry. I think they wanted to take you. Or hurt you. I felt like they said as much before they knocked me out. When I came to, Leger was carrying me here."

"Oh my," I cover my mouth.

"His men questioned me like I was part of it. A mole."

I frown. That does not sound like Leger.

"There are definitely people on the inside, Eady. Sympathizers. People desperate for change. How else did they get in and know where to go?"

"This is awful," I want to curl up next to him and never leave because I am sick. Sick with guilt. "This is my fault," I mutter.

"No," Kile tightens his hand around my thigh. "You devote your life to Illea. You did not deserve this. I'm so glad you're safe," his voice cracks.

I lean in to hug him for another long spell. When his hands wander to my lower back, and slide up under my sweater, I laugh and pull away.

"I think you're on the mend."

"I can't wait to be discharged. Will you come to my room again?"

I kiss a spot on his forehead and run a hand through his floppy hair.

"Time for a trim," I say, delighting in our closeness. I'm tired of talking about serious things. I just want to be a girl spending time with a boy she likes. Will I ever have that?

"You love my shaggy hair," he says, and tosses his head. He must forget his injuries because the motion makes him wince.

I reach for the call button.

"No, I'm okay. No more meds, geez." He grants me a lopsided smile. "Some things you just have to get through. I want you to be careful. Where's your guard?"

I raise an eyebrow, hoping to remain ambiguous.

Then I change the subject. "What can I do for you?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

"Be safe," he says solemnly.

"No, I can do more than that! How about a better room?" I curl a loose lock behind his ear and fight the urge to press kisses on each of his injuries.

He shakes his head and in a weary voice says, "No, Eady, that isn't going to help."

"Your sketches! I can bring you your supplies."

His eyes brighten.

"I'll go get them now."

"Come back with a guard, Eady. I mean it. This is a dangerous time."

I nod and back out of the room, hoping this small task will mean something.

"I'm sorry I didn't come earlier," I call out. I turn and open the door, and the smaller woman almost falls into me. The petite one. I look for a name tag and see none.

"Sorry, it's vital stats time," she says, but she isn't holding anything.

I guess I'm paranoid now, because I suspect she was listening at the door.

I open my mouth to ream her out but the taller woman in scrubs approaches from down the hall, her face set in irritation. When she gets close, she tsks and says to the smaller one, "Cameron needs a cath change. I told you that five minutes ago."

I'm sorry," she says and scurries off.

"Will you be visiting anyone else?" the tall woman asks, arching a thin brow.

I swallow loudly and then make a split decision.

"Yes, I'd like to visit everyone injured in the attacks. May I?"

She narrows her eyes at me but then says, "Give me a minute to check with them and then I'll escort you."

"Thank you...er..." I fish for her name.

She points to a nametag at her waist, halfway covered by her shirt. "Dr. Crandall."

"Thank you for taking such good care of Kile, Dr. Crandall. Now, if you would check with those patients?"

"Of course."

And so for the next two and a half hours I chat with guards and maids who have various injuries. It's interesting to meet some of the people I've walked by every day since I can remember.

I never knew Trevor the older guard had twin granddaughters who just moved to France. He's hoping to escort me when I visit Ahren so he can see them too.

I never knew Jocelyn, a female guard built broader than most of the Selection boys and a devout believer in the power of meditation. She invites me to a yoga class that I didn't know was held each morning in the staff auxiliary room. I actually consider it.

While the patients seem pleased and honored to get a visit, they are not simpering like many of the more dignified guests I've met in the royal ballroom. They're used to seeing me, too. But the surprise for us all is that we have so much to say to each other.

I meet Andrew with the broken nose, a maintenance man named Sam who stood in the rebels' way trying to protect us and got a knife in his gut, and Ferris the east wing butler who fainted and knocked his head when he saw the invaders. They are all kind and entertaining and flattered. It boosts my mood a great deal. After the paranoia Kile instilled in me, I wasn't feeling like leaving the safety of his arms. But here I see I have many people on my side, fighting for peace and the monarchy.

One odd thing is they talk about the invasion as if it was inevitable. I express shock but they tsk and shrug, averting their eyes and mumbling phrases like rising tension, mass unrest, and low morale.

It's hard to leave. I'm having a good time but I can visualize the paperwork and meetings ahead of me for the day.

When I finally push through the double doors to leave, Heath is standing there with a guard on either side.

"Sorry," I squeak.

"You are to go nowhere without at least two guards. Orders from the King." His face is red and I get the feeling he wants to yell at me.

"Thank you, Heath. I was in a bit of a hurry."

He arches an eyebrow and actually says something back, "I think I can keep up."

"Prove it," I say with a smirk and start walk-running. 

Not my finest moment but it feels satisfying. Obviously, Heath and his men keep up easily. I'm out of breath in ten seconds.

After being betrayed by Neena and becoming paranoid with Kile about people listening in, I'm glad Heath is taking my safety seriously, even if I can be a brat. 

I go to Kile's room and carefully collect his things. I add his robe and some well-worn books that were on his desk, splayed open to different pages as if he were midway through several of them. 

In a weird bout of sentiment, I stop in my ransacked room and find a copy of the picture of us in the hallway kissing. I slide it into a book and wonder if and when he'll find it. I'm never gushy like this.

On my way back to the Infirmary, I am summoned by my father. Apparently, it's urgent. 

I quickly pass off the stack to Heath, who has been my shadow.

He balks, and tries to pass them to another guard.

"Heath, you're the only one I trust with this. Please?" I give him a small smile.

"Mr. Woodwork really wants these items?" he asks, looking doubtfully at the sketchbooks and pencils in his hand.

"Yes," I answer. "He's a talented architect and he loves experimenting with ideas before building models. This will help him pass the time as he recovers. It's important. That's why I'm sending it with you." I mostly want to have a break from his glowering.

"Your Highness, I will take it to him immediately."

"Thank you," I say. As he retreats, I wave vigorously at his back, as if this is Bon Voyage. He turns slightly and catches my movement. I keep it up and darn if I don't think he smiles back at me, just a tad.