Richard scoffed. "I’m not talking shop, Your Highness."

Henry’s face settled. Of course he had tried to turn the conversation. Richard dragged a chair forward.

"I thought you were doing better. When I saw you at the Tower, you were almost yourself. What’s going on?"

Henry drew in a breath. "It’s nothing, really."

"It is something if Lionel fears for you," Richard said.

"It’s... Lionel thinks I shouldn’t tell you."

Richard placed a hand dramatically over his chest. "Wow. He wounds me. And I thought he liked me."

"It’s not that." Henry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "He just thinks it is not something to speak about."

"My lord," Richard said, leaning back in his chair, "we have discussed far worse things."

Henry looked down at his hands, fingers loosely clasped. He had spent days swallowing the truth, drowning it in wine, burying it. "I’m in love with a woman of questionable background," he admitted at last. "And it’s killing me, Richard."

Richard’s brow lifted. "That’s it?"

"Isn’t it enough?" Henry stood abruptly and began pacing. "Look, I know you and scandal are on a first-name basis, but it’s not me. It’s not who I am. I have spent my whole life trying to be careful. To be decent. And yet with her..." Henry stopped near the window, his voice lowering. "With her, I feel free. Different. Less burdened. She looks at me and does not see the crown first. She sees me. Or at least, she did."

"I was stupid. I lied to her. I just wanted one part of my life untouched by all of this." He gestured around the chamber, the invisible weight of England pressing against every wall. "And then I lost her."

"What I am saying," Richard began carefully, "is you are the King of England, my lord. We are all at your mercy. What the king wants, he gets."

"She is missing," Henry announced.

Richard went still. No. God, no. "I don’t understand." His voice sounded normal enough. That was a miracle. Inside his head, everything had started to roar.

"You heard about Beaumont’s getting shut down?" Henry asked.

No, God... no, please. Not her. Richard’s fingers curled against his knee. "Yes. I wondered why you were interested in that."

Henry looked away, his face tightening. "There was a situation. Two girls fell from the roof. One died, the other is missing."

Richard’s blood turned cold.

"The missing one," Henry said quietly, "is the girl."

There it was. The truth, fully formed and ugly. The king, his best friend, was in love with Diana. His Diana.

Henry was the merchant. Henry was her Henry. The man she had been waiting for. The man she had asked Richard to find. The man she had promised herself to. The man whose name had sat between them every time Richard stood too close, every time she pulled back, every time guilt flashed across her face.

Richard felt briefly, violently sick.

"Are you okay?" Henry asked. "You look pale."

Richard blinked, then forced a laugh that came out too dry. "Uh... yes. Just shocked. How..." Richard cleared his throat. "How did you meet this girl?"

"At the market," he said. "Cheapside, actually. I was taking my usual stroll in disguise." Henry’s mouth twitched faintly. "I heard noise. A commotion really. She had stolen a book." His eyes warmed with the memory. "Can you believe that? A book."

"What book?" Richard asked.

"Petrarch."

Yup, that was her.

"She looked half-starved. I caught her. She was maddening. Intriguing. I asked Lionel to find out more about her."

"Quite the love story," Richard managed to say, forcing a smile.

It was a miracle the smile held. It felt wrong on his face, a borrowed mask stretched too tightly over skin. Inside, something ugly and hot twisted through him.

Henry. His Henry. His best friend. And Diana.

"Since she has been missing," Henry said quietly, "it feels like my heart has been wrenched out of my chest. Like it has stopped its secondary function. I didn’t know I felt this way about her until she was gone."

"You have searched for her?" Richard asked.

"Everywhere, Richard." Henry’s voice roughened. "Everywhere. Lionel has men in every market, parish, alley, tavern, and miserable corner of London where a wounded woman might be hidden. Watchmen have been questioned. Ferrymen. Priests. Even beggars." He exhaled sharply. "If she is still in London, then she is doing a good job of hiding."

Richard’s throat tightened. She was not in London. She was in Kingsmere. In his house. In his care. Richard felt like a bastard. "So," he said carefully, "what exactly was your original plan? Before she vanished," Richard added. "What were you going to do with her?"

"Lionel had gotten her a place. Somewhere discreet, away from court."

Richard nodded, though something cold settled in his stomach. "Hidden."

"Are you judging my intentions?"

"Not quite. Just trying to sense a proper arrangement."

Perhaps he was judging. Perhaps he had no right to. Perhaps he had every right. Henry’s grand plan had been to place her quietly somewhere outside the palace and visited when he could.

"If anyone found out who she is, there would be problems, as you know," Henry said.

"I assume you will still be going ahead with marrying the French princess?"

Henry frowned. "That has nothing to do with anything. Livia doesn’t even know who I am."

"Her name is Livia?" Richard asked.

Henry looked at him. "Yes."

Richard’s fingers tightened briefly at his side before he forced them loose.

"Richard," Henry said slowly, "are you sure you are alright? You seem uncomfortable."

"Yes." Richard gave a laugh. "I am trying to wrap my head around this. You? In love? Never thought I’d see the day."

Henry’s eyes narrowed, but Richard kept going.

"The best I thought you could do was what you had with Lady Bella."

"Yeah..." Henry hummed suspiciously.

Richard almost cursed. Henry was not drunk anymore. His mind was returning, and Henry’s mind had always been inconveniently sharp. As boys, Richard could never cheat at cards with him twice in the same way. Henry noticed things. Small things. The wrong word. The breath before a lie. The twitch of a man’s hand.