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Paperwork always had been one of Helen’s least favorite parts of monarchy, but even her patience itched after three hours of unbroken reports. She sighed at the end of Tytilonus’ reported earnings in vineyard production and looked up and across the study where Sophos was engaged in a murmured debate with the magus, both pointing at various parts of a military report. “Sophos.”
She didn’t speak loudly, because she didn’t need to. Sophos stopped midword when he heard her voice and held up a finger to the magus. He chalked a line in the report where he’d left off and turned in his chair to face her, giving her his undivided attention.
A giddy thrill buzzed down her spine. “I need a break. Come for a run with me.”
His smile broke across his face with the slow beauty of a sunrise, though she noticed a line crack open on his upper lip where the scar tissue pulled it up and made a note to remind him to use the beeswax balm his sister had sent. “Of course, my queen.”