Red Heir - Lisa Henry Page 0,6

water on his own face and hands. It was cold—freezing, in fact—and that tendril of unease in his gut curled a little tighter. It felt more like a knot now. It didn't help that when Loth joined the others a little way up the riverbank he saw that Grub was shivering.

Another emotion that Loth wasn’t familiar with stirred in his gut. He was fairly sure this one was guilt. He wasn’t a fan.

Almost against his will, he stepped closer, pulling off his cloak and thrusting it at the shaking boy. “Do wrap yourself up Grub, it’s making me cold just looking at you.” When Grub failed to take the cloak, instead staring at him with a furrowed brow, Loth shrugged and let it drop to the ground. “Suit yourself. But I warn you, if you get sick, we might just roll you into the reeds and leave you behind.” With that he strolled off, resisting the urge to turn back and wrap the boy in the fabric—that would imply he cared, which was ridiculous.

Scott followed him, holding out a plate. “Breakfast, M’Lord Prince Majesty?” He obviously had no idea of the correct way to address royalty.

Loth wasn’t quite certain either, but he didn’t let that stop him saying, “Just M’Lord is fine,” before taking the plate with a slight nod.

“Actually, it’s Your Grace.”

Loth whipped his head around at that, to find Grub giving him an exasperated look. He was wearing the cloak at least, and Loth tried not to be pleased about it. “And what would you know about it, horse boy?”

Grub glared at him. “Kings and queens are technically still princes and princesses but should be addressed as Your Highness or Your Majesty. Otherwise, it's Your Grace. M’Lord implies a lower echelon and should never be used with the heir to the throne. I thought you’d know that, Your Grace.”

Smart little beast, Loth thought, and promptly covered his mistake with an insult. “Listen to you. Been hanging around the royal stables, have you? Eavesdropping while you wrapped your hands around a great big horse—”

“Shut up!” Grub spat out. “You don’t know anything!”

“Shouldn’t that be you don’t know anything, Your Grace?” Loth asked smoothly. For a split second, watching the way the boy’s fists were clenched at his sides, quivering with rage, Loth wondered if he’d gone too far, but then Grub’s shoulders slumped, all the fight leaving him at once.

Grub grabbed his plate, turned his back on Loth and started to eat, attacking his meal like, well. A starving man.

It was then that Loth noticed that Grub’s plate held far less than his own did. “Where’s the rest of your meal?” he demanded.

It was Ada who answered. “We weren't expecting to feed two extra bodies. That’s all there is. And Scott insisted that as royalty,” she gave Loth a narrow look, “you get the most.”

Loth’s gut did that squirming thing again. He looked at his own meal and privately mourned his loss. “There’s far too much cheese here. It doesn’t agree with my royal disposition,” he said through gritted teeth, “and the cured meats seem very pedestrian. I can’t possibly eat this.”

He took a slab of bread and one slice of ham (the thickest one, naturally), and set the rest down next to Grub. “You may as well have it since it seems you’re not picky.”

Grub glared at him again, and then bent over the plate like a dog afraid someone was going to steal its bone. He was still shivering, and the squirming in Loth’s gut refused to go away, quite spoiling his appetite. He rolled his eyes and unwound his scarf from his throat. “Here,” he said, dropping it onto Grub’s shoulder. “I expect it back once you’re dry. Do try not to leave any dirty marks on it.”

Grub promptly grabbed at the scarf with greasy hands and left dirty marks on it. Loth opened his mouth to object, but closed it again when he took in the way the boy was quick to wrap the scarf twice, thrice around his pencil-thin neck. He almost missed the muttered, too quiet, “Thanks.”

Almost.

“You’re welcome,” he declared loudly. “What kind of prince would I be if I didn’t take care of my subjects? Even the lowliest of petty criminals like poor Grub here?”

Grub actually hissed like an angry cat at that, and Loth allowed himself a smile. At least teasing the grubby little monster had chased away that awful, possibly sympathy emotion, which was the point of the exercise. If