When had they last spoken privately? Cross is trying to remember as he waits outside the Dark Temple for Gilroy to arrive. He's early, but unwilling to enter in the absence of his Regent.
Court. The one he made me leave. And for good reason. Cross is not angry about that punishment. He'd deserved it.
That was the night he'd first glimpsed the steel behind the sniveling demeanor erected by Gilroy's curse. That was also the night Cross had decided to serve his family and the one who guided it. To dedicate himself to their cause.
But things are changing, rapidly, and that evening is seeming more and more remote.
Cross smooths his suit jacket, the same one he’d worn that night at court, before clasping his hands behind his back. He wonders if Gilroy still secretly mistrusts—even hates—him, he wonders how Gilroy will react to his more religious questions, he wonders why Gilroy named him ‘Sheriff’ when the Prince despises that title, he wonders why Stamford had been chosen Reeve, he wonders why Gilroy would open his regency to potential enemies and spies, especially without consulting him—Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom—first, he wonders what's happened to Jack, he wonders who Gilroy will name Priscus in his stead, he wonders…
Stop.
Cross closes his eyes, willing the torrent of thoughts and questions to silence.
Be still. Be patient.
Answers would come. Or they wouldn’t. Cross waits.