Evan woke to knocking. Not the enthusiastic pounding of Ross, but something more polite. Persistent. The kind of knocking that said "I've been here for a while and I'm not leaving until you answer."
He opened the door to find Chamberlain Finch looking even more pinched than usual, which was impressive given his baseline level of existential stress. Behind him stood a line of servants, each holding a stack of letters that threatened to topple at any moment.
"Lord Carter," Finch said, his voice strained to the breaking point. "Your... correspondence."
Evan blinked at the piles. "All of this? Overnight?"
"Since your demonstration at the Twilight Court, yes." Finch gestured, and servants began carrying the letters into Evan's sitting room, stacking them on every available surface—the table, the chairs, the floor, the mantelpiece. "They are, broadly speaking, requests."
"Requests for what?"
"Your... services." Finch picked up a letter at random. Its seal was deep blue wax stamped with a crest Evan didn't recognize. "This one is from Baroness Elara—no relation to Her Majesty—requesting you examine her husband's failing eyesight. He's been having trouble reading, and she heard about your... healing."
Another letter. "This from Lord Gereon, whose ancestral sword has developed a crack. He believes you might... mend it. He's very attached to the sword. It's been in his family for six generations."
Another. "Lady Isolde, regarding her wine collection again. More insistently this time. She's willing to pay handsomely."
Another. "Duke Alaric, inquiring about potential military applications. He'd like a demonstration at your earliest convenience."
Another. "Countess Marguerite, whose favorite mirror has lost its silvering. She wonders if you could... restore it. Improve it, perhaps."
Another. "Lord Harrington, who has a prize rose bush that's been underperforming."
Another. "The Merchant Guild, offering a substantial retainer for your services."
Another. "The Healer's College, requesting a consultation."
Another. "Three separate marriage proposals."
Evan stared at him. "Three?"
"Two are serious. One is from a minor noble who apparently has very high opinions of himself and very low standards for how proposals should be made." Finch set that letter aside with visible distaste. "I've taken the liberty of marking that one for immediate refusal."
Evan stared at the growing piles. There had to be hundreds of letters. "They think I'm a repair service."
"They think you're a miracle worker," Finch corrected. "Word spreads quickly at court. Especially when the miracle involves extending a life and improving a heart."
The last servant placed his stack and bowed out. The room now resembled a paper avalanche frozen mid-fall, a disaster of correspondence waiting to happen.
Finch cleared his throat. "Her Majesty wishes to speak with you. Before you... respond to any of these."
"Of course she does." Evan ran a hand through his hair. "When?"
"Now would be preferable."
***
The walk to the queen's private chambers was shorter than to the throne room, but felt longer. Every corridor seemed to hold more staring servants, more whispering courtiers. News had indeed spread.
The queen's sitting room was smaller than Evan expected, comfortable rather than imposing. Books lined the walls, their spines gleaming. A fire crackled in the hearth. The queen herself sat at a writing desk, dressed in a simple morning gown rather than court finery, a cup of tea steaming beside her.
She didn't look up as Evan entered. "Close the door."
He did. The click of the latch was loud in the quiet room.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing.
"Sit." She gestured to a chair opposite her desk. "The letters have started, I assume."
"They have."
"They will continue. They will increase." She set down her pen and looked at him. Her expression was unreadable—the face of someone who'd spent decades learning to hide her thoughts. "You healed Lord Marten last night."
"He was having a heart attack. I just... helped."
"You improved his heart. Made it stronger than it's been in years. According to the healers, he now has the cardiovascular system of a man thirty years younger." She picked up her tea, sipped it calmly. "He's seventy-two."
Evan said nothing. What was there to say?
"The implications," the queen continued, "are considerable. You are no longer merely an interesting magical phenomenon. You are a resource. A commodity. And commodities, in my experience, get fought over."
"I'm not a commodity. I'm a person."
"At court, those are often the same thing." She stood, moving to the window. The morning light caught her silver-streaked hair. "You have three options, Evan. Well, two and a half."
"I'm listening."
"Option one: You become the court's personal miracle worker. You heal their ailments, improve their treasures, fix their problems. You become indispensable. And a prisoner."
"Option two?"
"You refuse. You turn them all away. You become the selfish lord who could help but won't. You make enemies. Powerful ones. Ones who will remember."
"And the half option?"
"A compromise. You help... selectively. Strategically. You build alliances. You accumulate favors. You become a player in the game, rather than a piece on the board."
Evan considered. "They all sound terrible."
"Welcome to politics." The queen turned back to him. "I can offer you protection. Guidance. But in return, I need something."
"Of course you do."
"A demonstration. For the military."
Evan blinked. "The military?"
"General Marcus was... impressed by your healing. He wonders what your improvements could do for weapons. Armor. Soldiers."
"I'm not a weapon."
"Everything is a weapon at court. Including healing." She returned to her desk. "Tomorrow. The royal training grounds. A small demonstration. For the general's eyes only."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I cannot guarantee my protection from the... less polite requests that will come. Lord Gereon has already threatened to camp outside your door. Lady Isolde has offered a small fortune to anyone who can persuade you. Duke Alaric has military resources at his disposal."
It wasn't a threat. Not exactly. But it wasn't not a threat either.
Evan thought of the piles of letters waiting in his rooms. Hundreds of people wanting something from him. Needing something. Expecting something.
"One demonstration," he said. "For the general. Then we discuss terms."
The queen almost smiled. "Terms. You're learning."
"I'm adapting."
"Same thing." She picked up her pen again, a clear dismissal. "Tomorrow at dawn. Don't be late."
As Evan left, he passed a mirror in the corridor. His reflection looked tired. Older than yesterday. The weight of expectation was settling on his shoulders, and it showed.
He was so busy studying his own face that he almost didn't notice the other reflection in the glass—a figure standing at the far end of the corridor, watching him. Dark robes. Stillness. When Evan turned, no one was there.
But the feeling of being watched lingered all the way back to his rooms.
***