of Arvel’s waistcoat on his back and the tightness in the muscles of his forearms showed off the tenseness in his shoulders, but when he turned around, his blue eyes were bright. “I’m glad you’re my translator, Myth. And I’m glad I finally got to meet you. You’re astounding, do you know that? It makes me glad—no—thrilled that I thought to ask Father for you as my temporary translator.”
His declaration made something warm in the pit of Myth’s stomach. I didn’t know he personally requested me. That surely must be a first.
She glanced out at the foggy gardens one last time before she made her way back to her desk and sat down. “Nonsense. That’s the late hour talking.” She eagerly took a sip of her tea—which had cooled considerably but was still delightfully warm.
Arvel snorted. “Not at all. But you have a point. Back to work it is!”
“Myth.” Arvel groaned and raised his head off his desk so he could drop it again, rattling his skull. “Myth, if I die from this, tell Benjimir it was me who broke his best sword when we were kids.”
“We’re almost done.” Myth pursed her lips in a way that Arvel knew meant she narrowly avoided using his title as she carefully wrote out an elven number in her logbook—the last copy they needed to finish to put this ugly project behind them.
Arvel could barely keep his eyes open. His vision was blurry—he had no idea how Myth could handle staring at the tiny rows and columns of her logbook. Just glancing at the squiggly elven script made the pain behind his eyes flare. Even if it was in Myth’s perfect, tidy hand.
He sat upright and twisted in his chair, looking outside.
It was getting light. He couldn’t see the pink glow of dawn, but the black-blue of the midnight hour had softened to a sort of purply color, and the clouds were starting to glow orange.
They were going to finish with time to spare.
Everything was perfect—the orders, the records, and the logs. Not a single figure was wrong—he was confident.
Won’t that make Mother sick with irritation? And I have Myth to thank for it. I couldn’t have done this without her.
Arvel was faintly aware that statement was true on more than one level.
“Thirty-two bolts of elven silk,” Myth read back. “What’s next?”
Arvel stared down at his copy of the order written in Calnoric. “One hundred spools of white elven thread.”
Myth nodded. She was bent over her record, her head steady despite the fatigue lining her gray eyes.
Besides that, and the fact that the high ponytail her silvery-blond hair was always pulled back in was a little droopy, she didn’t show much weariness. Her posture wasn’t quite as perfect as usual, but Arvel would like to think some of that wasn’t exhaustion, but a sign she was comfortable with him.
I don’t think I can repay what she’s given me—not just her aid, but the genuineness of it. But I will try.
“One hundred spools of white elven thread,” Myth repeated. She stared at her writing, then set her quill down and rubbed her face. “Just four more entries.”
“And then breakfast,” Arvel said feelingly.
Myth leaned back and let her head droop on her neck. “I think I’d prefer to snatch what bit of sleep I can before our day starts.”
Arvel snorted. “Our day starts? Please. After I hand deliver these to the merchants, we can dispatch a messenger with the updated records for the trade logs, and then we’re sleeping like the dead.”
“You have morning appointments.”
“I’m a prince. That means I get to cancel appointments as long as I have a good excuse,” Arvel grunted. “Besides. We need our minds sharp. In two days—wait, no—tomorrow is our first official social event with you as my translator. There’s a royal luncheon in the Little Hall. We need to make sure we’re at the top of our game for that…”
“In that case, what’s the next entry?”
Arvel stirred. “Sixty-nine spools of black elven thread.”
“Sixty-nine spools…”
A few minutes later, and they finished.
Arvel could hardly believe it. They did it. They had successfully finished the corrections! He stood with a groan, and every bone in his body felt heavy. “You’re a real gem, Myth.”
“Hmmm.” Myth blew gently on the record book, then glanced at the sheaf of papers stacked on Arvel’s desk. “Is it too early to drop the papers off?”
“No, actually. The caravan to Jubilee is leaving shortly after dawn. The translators and few merchants that were allowed to go