The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,21
least that no one would ever show it to me.
It felt like he was finally seeing her—not the usual serene conduct all humans saw in elves, but something generous and dazzling.
Arvel gave her a returning smile that was a lot stronger than hers. “Thank you, Mythlan,” he said. “You can go if you get tired.”
Mythlan infinitesimally pursed her lips. “That won’t be necessary. Now, shall I start with copying the list of goods from this elven copy of your log?” She pointed to the elven copy of the trade orders—which was bound beautifully in a leather book filled with delicate white elven paper.
“Yes, please.” Arvel lunged to snatch the logbook off his desk and pass it to her. He grabbed an inkwell, quill, and other necessary writing utensils from his cupboard, along with a stack of clean paper. “If you could strike through the order—there’s an example of how we record a canceled order if you look back at the second week of winter…”
“Very well, Your Royal Highness.” Mythlan got to work, carefully scanning the logbook before she started recreating the order on the following page.
Arvel watched her for a few moments, unable to look away. Somehow, things didn’t seem quite so exhausting as they had minutes prior, and the noise of Mythlan’s quill moving across the page made a pleasant background sound. Still smiling, Arvel retreated to his desk.
I’ll finish this—to spite Mother, and to make Mythlan’s efforts worthwhile.
Around the midnight hour, Myth discovered she couldn’t quite keep up her shield of polite formality against the onslaught of Crown Prince Arvel’s charm.
“Mythlan, I insist you take a break. You won’t be able to last if you don’t,” he coaxingly said. “Try some desserts. I know you must be hungry.” He held a plate of cookies directly under Myth’s nose and set a steaming cup of tea on her desk.
Myth broke out of the deep level of concentration she’d been locked in while copying the orders. “When did you get food? How did you get food?”
“The kitchens are always at least partially open—a lot of social events go late, and we keep them operating so any of the night staff can get refreshments whenever needed.” He winked. “It’s not the first time I’ve ordered a late-night tea.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.” Myth took the tea and inhaled some of the steam rising from the porcelain cup. It was a green tea blend—which had a mellow but slightly bitter taste with a light, floral scent.
Crown Prince Arvel sat down at his desk again. “I’m going to have to also insist that you call me Arvel.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You must,” he interrupted. “After having the kindness to pull an all-nighter with me, surely even with your polite elven manners you must realize this means we’re friends.”
“That seems like an arbitrary measurement.”
“Fine, then I’ve decided I have to have you as my friend at the very least. And all of my friends call me Arvel.”
Myth rubbed her thumb against one of the tiny yellow roses painted on her cup. “I don’t know…It seems rather informal, and you are the crown prince and my employer.”
“Rollo calls me Arvel.”
Myth glanced up at the unapologetically grinning crown prince.
His blond hair, which had a slight copper tint to it, was messy, and he’d taken off his dark brown jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white undershirt. Interestingly, his jacket—which was a touch large—apparently hid the long lines of his torso and width of his shoulders that made him appear older—although Myth was amused to see that two cookies poked out of one of the pockets of his red waistcoat.
I hope I don’t regret this…or later discover that it’s an impropriety.
“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. “But then you must call me Myth.”
“Very well, Myth!” Arvel stretched his arms above his head, then fished one of his cookies out of his waistcoat pocket. “Thank you, again, for helping me tonight. I think I only have an hour of new work left. But then the amounts will still have to be transcribed into elven…”
Myth nibbled on a cookie, which had a strong spice in it she hadn’t eaten before. She wrinkled her forehead as she sniffed her cookie, and absent-mindedly said, “You can read the numbers out loud to me, and I can write them out for the elven records and orders.”
It would toe the line of what was allowed by the trade translators because it still involved translating from Calnoric into Elvish. But she’d been granted the powers