by K. M. Shea
“Nonsense,” Lord Julyan said. “It would be a pleasure to see you again.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Myth bowed again as she tried to edge toward the open door where only Thad lingered.
How do I cut this short and get out of here?
Wilford saved the day with a loud shout, giving Myth the needed excuse to run to the door just in time to see the footmen helpfully stuff him inside the carriage.
Myth slipped out through the door and ran up to the carriage. She tossed the leather satchel inside, then murmured soothingly as she helped Grygg into the carriage. By the time Thad—with his tiny, shaking steps—reached them, Lord Julyan loitered in the doorway.
Myth gave him one last bow as a footman helped Thad into the carriage.
Lord Julyan merely watched, so Myth jumped into the carriage, her shirt and jacket sticking to her back from her sweat.
“How rude!” Wilford declared as the footman shut the door. “Back in my day, no one would treat their elders with such contempt!”
He kept it up until the carriage rocked into motion, and they pulled away from the Fultons’ town house.
Myth released the breath she had been holding and collapsed against the bench seat, a strangled gasp escaping her. “Well done, everyone.”
Thad flicked his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Did you get anything good?”
“Yes.” Myth grinned. “I got Lord Julyan’s personal record books for the past two years.”
Wilford whistled. “Nice work!”
“You might have missed your calling as an investigation agent,” Grygg agreed.
“Not hardly—my heart almost stopped in the middle of it. I can’t wait until we get back and I pass those off.” She nodded at the leather bag.
“Indeed.” Wilford used his walking stick to rap the top of the carriage. “Phelps,” Wilford shouted. “Pick up the pace!”
The sway of the carriage went from a gentle rock to a fast tip, and the clattering of the horses’ shod hooves filled the air with such noise it was hard to hear.
But Myth closed her eyes and relaxed as if it was the most serene of settings.
Now Arvel can bring the Fultons to justice.
Despite the afternoon being…eventful, Myth chose not to retire early, but to stay up and work with Arvel as he pored over the record books she’d brought.
They labored in the royal dining hall—the same one the royal families of Lessa and Calnor broke their fast in. It was the one spot they could work in without being interrupted—because Lord Julyan had figured out what happened, and not an hour after Myth, Thad, Wilford, and Grygg returned, he had started sending requests to meet with Arvel, complaints that Myth had taken the wrong records, and demands that he let them see what she had retrieved.
But while the Fulton family leader could send notices to Arvel in his study, even he couldn’t insist a servant venture into the wing that was solely for the royal family and bother Arvel. As such, the dining room had become an unofficial study.
Myth straightened up from the record book she was copying. Even though Arvel grumbled, she insisted she could only do Elvish copy work; she wasn’t going to risk his investigation because Lord Julyan made a fuss that she was still just an apprentice.
It was dark outside, but the dining hall was pleasantly lit with elven lanterns. Fruit and a few other treats were left on silver trays, littering the big table—which was almost covered from end to end with paper. Arvel sat at the center of the table, his head bent as he studied Lord Julyan’s personal logs and made notations on the side.
Myth muffled a yawn with her fist and slightly shook her head, trying to shake her mind awake.
“You can go, if you like,” Arvel offered. “Arion said he’d leave a squad on standby to take you to the Translators’ Circle and guard the place all night.”
“You already told me I could leave earlier in the night,” Myth reminded him. “And my answer remains the same. As long as you work, so shall I.”
Arvel dropped his quill and rotated his wrist, making it crack. “Thank you, Myth. It makes me happy that you’re here.”
Myth peered around the dining room. “It would be lonely to work here alone.”
They were the only two in the dining room—although Myth knew that two squads of Honor Guards stood outside the room’s entrance and the servants’ door, and three more squads stood watch outside the windows.
Furthermore, several Honor Guards were already in position by her room in the Translators’ Circle—or so she had been told. She hadn’t returned to her room, yet, to confirm it.
It seemed Sir Arion and Prince Benjimir weren’t allowing any room for mishaps that night.
It’s sobering to admit, but it’s another reason why I don’t regret staying up with Arvel. It’s fairly likely Lord Julyan will attempt some sort of retribution—although once King Petyrr sanctions a search of the Fulton house I imagine he’ll have greater worries than me.
“Yes, but working alone is not what I was referring to.”
Myth swung her eyes back to him so fast her whole body almost toppled over.
Is it Him? Has the Prince of Seduction arrived? It sounds like something He would say.
She studied Arvel and relaxed. His grin was lopsided, but it possessed too much good humor, and his eyes didn’t smolder, but sparkled instead.
It’s just Arvel saying kind things—as usual.
The thought brought an odd pang to Myth’s heart—which was ridiculous. She didn’t like the Prince of Seduction—she couldn’t handle him! And it was good Arvel said kind things to others—it meant he would be a kind ruler.
“I want to thank you again for being willing to retrieve these records.” Arvel rested his hand on one of the two black, leather-bound books. “I don’t know how we could have done it without you. And it was incredibly brave of you to salvage them—particularly when this matter doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
Myth drummed up a smile. “I’m glad I could bring them. Though I will confess, I was terrified most of the time.”
“Really? Thad said you were such a smooth operator he was tempted to give your name to the Department of Investigation. And Arion said you handled yourself admirably when you handed the books off.”
She stared at one of the trays of refreshments as she recalled her stuttering heartbeat. “It pleases me to hear neither Sir Arion nor his men realized how frightened I was. But in the end, I am glad you can use those records.” She paused, and twisted to look inquiringly at Arvel. “You can use them, yes?”
“Absolutely,” Arvel assured her. “I already have enough copied down to give Father a reason to investigate the Fulton town house and their family home on Fulton lands. It’s over for Uncle Julyan—and as a result Mother’s power will be greatly limited as well, since she was always the one who submitted their trade requests and used her position to demand changes to their orders.”
Myth studied him, trying to gauge his feelings based on the set of his mouth and the slant of his brows, but he merely seemed…tired. “How are you dealing with this?”
“I don’t know quite what you mean?”
“This is your mother’s family. They have wronged you, but you have a valiant soul.”
He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. “Does that mean something special?”
“It means that the foul actions of others cause you pain, because you know they’re wrong.”
Arvel laughed and let his head drop back on his neck so he stared up at the ceiling. “It is astounding how well you know me.”
“It is the bond caused by pulling all-nighters,” Myth dryly said.
“It does hurt,” he admitted. “Because I still love my mother, no matter how poisonous she can be.”
Fleetingly, Myth thought of her own, absentee Father.
When she had arrived in Haven after her mother’s death, scared and sorrowful, he had given her the choice to join either the Translators’ Circle, or the Encha
nters’ Guild. He didn’t take the time to grieve the loss of her mother with her—to remember her life and cherish her memories. Rather he had stiffly and politely dealt with Myth as if she was a stranger. Since then, she had lived as a student of the Translators’ Circle and only seen him fleetingly.
But even though he only looked upon her with cold detachment, a tiny part of Myth still loved him, and still grieved their relationship that never was.
“I think I can understand a little.” She pressed her lips together and glanced at Arvel. “But you know she is wrong, yes?”
“In her conduct? Of course. She must face consequences for her dishonorable actions and—”
“That’s not what I meant.” It was only because it was Arvel that Myth dared to interrupt.
“Then what are you referring to?”
“The hurtful things she spews at you—they are lies.” Myth met Arvel’s gaze. “You will make an excellent king, and already you are a wonderful crown prince. Not because of your bloodline or who your parents are, but because you’re intelligent, diligent, and valiant. You do what is right. Queen Luciee does whatever best suits her. She can’t understand you and your motives, and she hates your actions because they reveal her for the shallow, terrible creature that she is.”
Silence filled the dining hall for several moments—not an uncomfortable silence, but rather a contemplative quietness.
Arvel stared at her during those serene moments. Something that could have passed for a smile played at his lips, but there was a certain amount of pain that bled through as well, making it a smile of the heart more than one of mirth.
“Thank you, Myth,” he said abruptly. “It means a lot to me that you believe that. Because it’s you, I know you’re speaking the truth and not just being nice.” His pained smile became more of a grin. “Although I’ll spare myself the embarrassment of asking if I rank above Fyn yet.”
“You don’t,” Myth, judging the prince wanted humor at the moment, emphatically said, changing the tone of the conversation.
“Ouch.” Arvel slapped both of his hands over his chest. “Did you have to be quite that truthful?”
Myth copied one of her professors and looked down her nose at Arvel in play bravado. “As I have said before, Your Royal Highness. You aren’t my prince!”
Arvel chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “You never were particularly impressed with my title. You’ve been more worried about making a mistake in your translations than bowing and scraping to me.”
“I am employed as your translator, not your personal valet,” Myth sourly said. “Of course I’m going to be more concerned about making a translation mistake that might possibly affect the social and political world!”
“That’s right…you don’t care about my title.” Arvel spoke almost distractedly as he stared at Myth. “You never have…it’s always been about your role.”
She was tempted to sink deeper into her chair—this kind of intense focus reminded her a little too much of the Prince of Seduction. She chose to fill the air with chatter rather than give Arvel the mental peace to make the switch. “I looked down on social translators as a student—I thought it was an easier and flashier choice,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard Arvel. “I was so wrong. Do you have any idea how many books on customs and manners I’ve had to read in the past few weeks? It’s mind boggling how you Calnorians choose to be so fussy in the way people of different genders and stations must present themselves!”
“And yet you chose to read more rather than ask a senior translator,” Arvel reminded her, humor returning to his eyes.
“Senior translators don’t have time to waste on the likes of me,” Myth gloomily said.
Arvel had started to peer down at the logbook—which highly gratified Myth. But at that statement, he narrowed his eyes and returned to his intense scrutiny of her. “Pardon?”
Myth studied him carefully, taking in his body language—which was relaxed but steady. She didn’t see any sign of Him, but she still chose her words carefully. “The other translators are busy. They should not be bothered.”
“Rollo invited you to ask him any questions. He wouldn’t consider it a bother.”
“Perhaps,” Myth said, unconvinced. “But he has important work to do. It will only take me a few extra minutes to look it up—or, better yet, prepare in advance by reading on topics I need to shore up on.”
“It has not escaped me that you are very reluctant to ask for any help at all,” Arvel dryly said.
Myth shrugged. “It is very rare that people genuinely wish to help each other—it’s partially what makes you a rare type of person, Arvel.”
“No, you aren’t going to distract me with more praises, even if you’re being sincere. Do you really believe that people are reluctant to help each other?”
Myth paused. “Well…perhaps not…but they don’t want me to bother them, even if they say they do.”
“And how did you come to believe that?”
Because all my life I have only faced disinterest? From not only my father, but my teachers and instructors who never saw me as an individual but rather one of a class in which most of the students would fail and drop out.
Myth didn’t know how to say that, however, without coming across as needy or judgmental.
She had accepted indifference a long time ago. It was the reason for her determination to make it as a trade translator and, she’d come to realize, it was perhaps why she enjoyed working for Arvel even if it wasn’t the type of work she had wanted.
Foolishly, taking the time to try to choose her words had so deeply distracted her that she didn’t realize Arvel had moved until he stood next to her chair.
She felt his presence so keenly, it made her afraid to look up.
“I suppose the most important thing isn’t identifying why you believe others don’t want you to ask for help,” Arvel said in a voice that was a touch lower than usual. “But rather that you know I would drop anything to help you.”
Oh, no. Oh no. OH NO!
16
Myth’s mind became a chamber of screaming. It was very hard to swallow, and she slowly dared to look up at Arvel, who invaded her personal space and senses just by leaning over her chair.
His hair was dashingly mussed, and there was a slight curve to his right eyebrow as he watched her, the cursed-familiar flickering in his eyes confirming what Myth had guessed.
The Prince of Seduction was here.
Myth’s eyes grew wider, and all smooth and even remotely comprehensible thoughts fled her mind. “Ah, um.”
Don’t just stay there—run!
Myth slipped out of her chair, putting herself on the opposite side of it from Arvel. “That’s…very…kind of you.” She wanted to flee like a frightened rabbit, but she limited herself to a quick, efficient walk that let her escape farther down the table under the pretext of inspecting some of the refreshments.
Arvel—blast him—meandered after her with the comfortable ease of a wolf following its prey. “It’s not kind at all.”
“Isn’t it?” Myth made it around the table and relaxed a little when she was on the opposite side of it from Arvel.
“No,” Arvel said. “I wouldn’t do that for just anyone. My kindness will only go so far. But for those who are important to me, there’s nothing I won’t do. You, Myth, are one of those people.” His blue eyes burned with such intensity, it felt as though he could light her on fire with his gaze.
When he strolled around the end of the table so he was on the same side as Myth again, her brain finally jolted into functioning. She scurried down the long side of the table, peering back over her shoulder to make sure he was still moving more slowly than she was. “I see, but…why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
Myth paused at the head of the table long enough to pose her question. “Why would you sacrifice like that—for me?”
“Because you’re worth it,” Arvel simply said.
Myth,
having made a full circle and reached her chair again, screeched to an abrupt stop, almost knocking into the table. “I’m what?”
“You give without asking, your loyalty is as pure as your heart, and while you’re perfectly lovely, I must admit I find your penchant for hiding in the library and reading books to be indescribably adorable. I thought so even before you were my translator.”
Myth stared at her abandoned chair and felt equal parts embarrassed and beguiled.
She knew they were friends, but she hadn’t noticed he watched her that closely, that he knew her that well.
“And I treasure you because you see me just as I see you,” he continued. “You don’t see my title or my position, and you walk with me. You have no idea how adored you are, how people enjoy it when you translate, because you are that likable.”
Myth pressed her lips together, unable to verbalize what it meant to her to hear that. She turned to Arvel and practically jumped in her skin when she realized that her contemplations had allowed the prince to close in on her, and now he stood close enough that if she turned just so, she’d brush him.
“T-t-thank you.” Myth rocked a little, feeling ungainly and awkward—a feeling only the Prince of Seduction seemed capable of eliciting in her.
Arvel smiled and leaned so close, their foreheads brushed. “Of course. I live to serve you.”
“I, that is…no you don’t,” Myth floundered.
Arvel’s laugh came from deep within his chest, and to Myth’s fascination—and subsequent horror—she could feel it because sometime without her knowledge her hands came to rest on his chest.
“I could,” he said. “It wouldn’t be a bad exchange if it meant being able to see you this flustered every day.”
“You—but—ahaha—” Myth broke off in a choking noise when Arvel kissed her cheek as lightly and gently as morning dew on a summer day.
He pulled back slightly and studied her. Myth found that despite all the languages she knew, she could only stare up at him with bulging eyes and hope that he was better able to interpret what she wanted than she could convey.
