Blake regretted acutely now his lack of foresight—and abundance of obduracy—in not agreeing to have a servant point him in the direction of the lavatory. Mildly embarrassing as it may have been, it was little compared to the utter humiliation that awaited him after spending a good half-hour searching for one in the labyrinth of the governor's house. With a heavy sigh, he pulled on the handle of what seemed like the hundredth door that he had opened in search of a privy.

The room he stumbled into was, he noted with no small amounts of irritation and impatience, a library. Cases of leather-bound books lined the walls, stretching from the rug-strewn floor to the mosaic-covered ceiling. Dust motes danced in the sunlight filtering in through leaded-glass windows, and heavy tapestries lines what little sections of the walls not blocked off by the shelves. Blake had just turned to leave and search once more, when he heard a heavy thud—and then a muttered curse.

"Is there someone in here?" Blake called out as he meandered through the high shelves.

"Who wants to know?" The simple question was indignant, defensive—and commanding. The tone of someone accustomed to having authority... such as a royal, as well as being distinctly male.

"Lord Blake Rutherford, of Arlea," he answered just as he happened upon a sunken-in area of the library with round tables and plushly cushioned chairs scattered around it. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Lord...?"

A dark chuckle came from the direction of the raven-haired man who was sitting at one of the tables, leafing through a book. "I am Prince Matthew, also of Arlea. I assume my sister sent you to fetch me?"

"Yes." He continued on, not at all flustered, and sat beside the prince... who flinched away. Blake dared a glance to discover the source of the man's discomfort, but found nothing. "She did, Your Highness."

"Well, you may save your time and breath. Take the next ship out of the Sleeping Island, Lord Blake. I have no interest in returning to Arlea." Prince Matthew Blackmore slammed his book shut. The noise resounded throughout the quiet, musty room.

"And I have no interest in defying my queen," he countered. "Only one of our interests can be met."

Matthew laughed bitterly. "I could have you executed for speaking to me in such a manner."

"If you were in Arlea, I suppose you could carry out your threats," Blake replied. "But here, you have no power and live on the provision of a governor—or is it daughter's whims which keep you confined to this place?"

"You does not hold such significance to me that I would overturn my life to end yours," Matthew responded, deadpan.

"What binds you here, anyways?" Blake questioned, unperturbed. "Love? Money? Power? Surely you can find all those in your rightful home."

"If I were to return, it is possible that my sister would no longer be queen." The other man opened a notebook and began writing in it, but his script was so hasty as to be illegible to everyone but the journal's owner. "Is it so hard to believe that I do not want to alter my sister's life and the line of succession in the process?"

"You have already changed the queen's life when she discovered you were alive and well." Blake selected a tome at random, and opened it to read its inscription in faded ink. To my dearest daughter Celeste, on her tenth birthday. Love, the Duchess of Ashbrook. He shut it again. The scent of lavender wafted from its pages. "There is no path but forwards."

"The path I would like to take does not lead back to Arlea. Now please leave me alone. You are a foreigner in this home—"

"As are you, Prince." He persisted.

"You are an envoy. I am a Royal."

"We are both guests, but your stay depends on the whim of a governor, one whose power is crumbling, whose rule is being constantly undermined. My stay depends on the queen's favour, Your Highness."

Matthew was silent. His face was unreadable.

Blake attempted a different approach. "Have you not missed enough? Do you not wish to see your family again? You are an uncle many times over—"

"To Sasha and Dominica's children, I know. Foreign heirs to foreign thrones, the future kings and queens of the Filipias and Xiangjiang. And yet Natasha is unmarried, with no heirs, still. If I were to return, her reign would no doubt be contested—"

"She has a daughter," Blake interrupted. "Grace Carys White, daughter of Natasha Blackmore and Connor White, Your Highness."

Matthew paled, then appeared to steel his resolve. "All the more reason. If I stay here, I am no threat to her. If I go back, some more conservative nobles may choose to crown me instead."

"One cannot let their decisions be ruled by fear of the unknown, or else one would never do anything at all."

Blake stood. "Now, if you choose not to listen to me, I may have a clear conscience in knowing I did all that I possibly could have. But could you be so kind as to direct me to the lavatory, Your Highness?"

Matthew's face cleared of any ill will as well as any other emotion, becoming unreadable. "Very well."

Then the prince stood as well, and he discreetly surveyed him: he was thinner than Blake himself, with a slight limp and an air of confidence, nearing arrogance.

Blake followed him out of the room with a stubborn heart.