“Three.”
“And how many do I have in real life?”
“What? You don’t have any—oh, I see what you did there. It’s called artistic license.”
“Sam.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. And it’s okay not to be.”
“Thanks. I wouldn’t have known that otherwise.” I winced. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
His lips twitched. “You could be pooping in buckets for taking that tone with me.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re the mighty King and all that.”
“I could even have your head.”
“Sure. Because that’s a thing you do.”
“Could see a return of it. A good old-fashioned beheading in the courtyard.”
“My blood would cause a revolution.”
He smiled, looking far less regal and all the more awesome. “Of that I have no doubt.”
He watched me and waited. He knew me very well.
I sighed. “I’m fine. Or, I will be.”
“Will you?”
I put down the paintbrush. “I will. Because there’s no other alternative.”
“There is,” he said. “You can be not fine. That is something you’re allowed to do.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
I took a step around the easel so he wouldn’t come toward me and be able to see the work in progress that would be hailed for centuries as a modern marvel. He watched me approach with curious eyes. He was smart, my King. “I have to be.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m not, I’m of no use to anyone. And if I’m of no use to anyone, then I might as well be back in the slums.”
He shook his head. “Sam, how can you possibly think it’s not okay for you to not be okay?”
“Because I’m Sam of Wilds,” I said, though it was beginning to sound like an excuse. “I’m always okay.”
He stepped down from the platform where he’d been posing for me. His hands came down onto my shoulders and gripped me tight. He said, “You’re Sam of Wilds. But you’re also human.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to have the answers to everything.”
“I know.”