The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,25

should all be assembling outside already.”

“Then let us deliver the orders.”

“And get breakfast.” Arvel offered out his hand.

“Yes. Afterwards.” Myth took his hand, and he effortlessly pulled her out of her chair.

Together they staggered a little, but with the terrible task behind them some of Arvel’s willpower was returning. He righted himself and plucked up the papers. “Let’s go.”

Myth was already pulling the study door open.

They walked side by side down the quiet hallways, and there was something in the moment that seemed…different.

Arvel glanced down at Myth.

It’s not her candor—I’ve been in awe of that all night.

Myth hadn’t put on her jacket before they left, so she was still in her pale blue shirt, dainty and elegant—until she yawned widely and shook her head like a dog. “I was unaware elven thread was such a hotly desired good.”

“It’s better for embroidery,” Arvel absently said—still trying to nail down this feeling. “And Sir Arion made it vogue to use it on fighting garments because it’s more durable.”

“Hmm. Personally, I think our paper is a finer product, but I suppose wherever the demand is, it should be filled.” Myth shrugged a little, then glanced up at him. “Tarinthali Ringali has made those metal-forged flower hair sticks found here in Haven all the rage back in Lessa.”

Arvel indicated that they needed to make a turn, which popped them out in one of the open-air corridors that followed the exterior of the palace. The floral scent wafting from Rosewood Park already filled the air as the sky took on a golden hue. “Why is that?”

“It’s a different style—one that appeals to our aesthetic as a culture. We elves are not particularly good at creating new things—we endlessly recycle past styles and arts.” Myth rolled her shoulders, which brushed Arvel’s. “It’s why we’re so good at what we do.”

It was then that it hit Arvel.

6

Myth was casually chatting with him about things that interested him.

She wasn’t pumping him for information on court politics like his mother, lecturing him for not having guards like Benjimir, or even just exchanging pleasant but casual chit-chat like he did with Gwendafyn.

Myth was talking about trade, and had the knowledge to go toe-to-toe with him.

It wasn’t just that she had dropped the titles and slightly more formal tone she’d used over the past few days and become his friend. It was that she was listening to him—not with bemusement or forced interest forged out of dutiful love—but because she actually enjoyed the conversation.

He stared down at Myth, keeping step with her, but strangely unwilling to look away from her. As if she—perhaps the rarest kind of person he’d ever met—would disappear if he did.

Myth yawned again. “I hope at breakfast we’ll be served something stronger than tea?”

“Do you mean coffee?”

“I mean something with alcohol.”

Arvel gaped down at Myth and almost burst into laughter when he saw how serious her expression was. “I’m sure one of the maids could pour a few drops of something into your coffee for you.”

Myth pushed one of her already arched eyebrows up, making her look disdainful. “What you mean to say is, no. There is nothing stronger.”

“You make me think that you elves are a bunch of raging alcoholics.”

“It’s not our fault you humans can’t hold your liquor.”

Arvel laughed. “You are a light in this dark world.”

Myth brushed a stray thread off her fitted breeches. “Is that a Calnorian custom? To frequently compare a person to commonly found items? Should I be calling you a chair?”

His laughter was so deep, Arvel almost forgot himself and slung an arm over Myth’s shoulders before he stopped in time. “After everything you have done for me, you can call me whatever you like!”

He didn’t think she knew just how truly he meant it, but he did. In fact, as he staggered through the palace with his translator, it occurred to Arvel that he’d give Myth whatever she wanted if she was willing to stay with him.

A full day’s sleep did wonders for Myth, so the day after Arvel had turned in the corrected paperwork, Myth was refreshed and ready for her first event as his translator.

The pressure of acting as a social translator was a steady weight that made the seams of her translator jacket dig into her shoulders, but a tiny part of her was giddy with the prospect of attending the royal luncheon.

Not because she cared about social events—she’d rather review records any day. But because this was a royal luncheon, and Princess Gwendafyn was going