The grief burned—trapped in his chest, his throat—the way it did at infrequent inconvenient times. Three months in, he’d gotten somewhat used to the idea of his parents not simply being in the next room; he had not gotten used to the idea that they never would be again.
At seventeen, back when he’d left, he’d been sure he’d known what he wanted. He’d known he did not want their life. Like many seventeen-year-old children, he thought.
He hadmeant to come home. Later. Another year. After another successful theatrical season. When Queen Lyssa did not require his presence in Council meetings or helping write royal addresses or choosing themes and decorations for upcoming balls and banquets. When the storms relented and travel north got easier. The year after next.
He pulled legs up, wrapped his arms around them. His hair fell into one eye; he halfheartedly tucked it away again.