The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,45

heat Arvel evoked in her with the caressing touch of his fingers—by the time she reached the garden exits, Myth was huffing and sweating terribly. One thing is for certain. I’ll have to be on my guard! I may be realistic and logical, but I don’t stand a chance against that smile of his. She pulled off her jacket and shook it out, glanced back at the gardens, then shook her head and stepped into the cool shadows of the palace. And I cannot allow myself to become a fool because of Arvel. I have a job to do, and goals I intend to meet. I will become a trade translator!

A week passed, and blessedly(?) the Prince of Seduction hadn’t made a reappearance.

Arvel had been chirpier and inclined to spoil Myth with whatever tea and food she wanted, but besides an attempt to force her to eat dinner with him in his study one night, his actions could only be construed as something found in close friends.

But Myth wasn’t deceived. Arvel was clever. It was possible he was biding his time so she’d lower her guard again. Naturally, that meant she had to be in a state of constant vigilance. Which, it turned out, was exhausting after an extended period of time.

Myth sipped her tea and was highly gratified that, at this night’s social, translators were allowed to partake in refreshments as well. She didn’t know if she’d be able to make sense of anything if not for her near-constant guzzling of tea.

She peered around the room, and was satisfied to see that Arvel was still involved in a conversation with Sir Arion, and had no need of her services at the moment. She settled back into place and took another sip of her tea, paying some attention to the conversation of the three apprentice social translators she stood with.

“My master had me try to translate a few lines for Seer Ringali tonight. That was frightening enough to turn my hair white,” one of the apprentices—a Calnorian man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties—gloomily said.

“As long as he didn’t rap your knuckles with his fan, you did well enough,” the second apprentice—a male elf—said.

“Maybe so, but I’d rather avoid translating for him in the future.”

Myth smiled a little at the grim statement—she’d met the trio at prior social engagements. They were the only apprentice social translators in Haven at the moment—they had told her a few were out traveling with visiting elves in Calnor and visiting humans in Lessa—but that meant they’d become familiar during the frequent meetings.

“What do you think, Mythlan?” asked the last apprentice, another man of Calnor. He looked younger, but that might have been the effect of the good-natured smile he wore most of the time. “Have we won you over to the side of us social translators?”

Myth placed her empty teacup on a sideboard set up for the express purpose of dirty dishes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hesitate!” the smiling apprentice said. “Won’t you even consider it?”

“No,” Myth repeated.

“It would be a real coup if our department won the Mythlan over, but it’s too much to hope for,” the elf apprentice said.

Myth was slightly puzzled why he called her the Mythlan, but before she could ask, the quieter of the human apprentices submitted his own question. “What do you think of social translating?”

Myth tilted her head as she thought. “Before I took this position, I don’t think I understood just how many social events nobles and royalty attended.”

“That’s the truth,” the smiling apprentice said. “I signed up before the time of Lady Tari and Sir Arion. Back when I was a student, there weren’t nearly as many socials.”

“It’s a product of the increased interaction between the two peoples,” the male elf said. “More of elven nobility have begun visiting in the past few years, and it seems to me that the nobles of Calnor feel that when the elves visit, they must be properly entertained.”

“Perhaps,” Myth agreed.

“Mythlan, if you are available tomorrow, could you help me go over an essay I’ve had to write in Calnoric?” the elf translator asked.

Myth slightly dipped her head. “Of course. I can meet you in the mess hall of the Translators’ Circle directly after dinner.”

He bowed. “Thank you. I appreciate your aid in the matter.”

“Hey, why don’t you ask us?” The younger, smiling apprentice translator elbowed him. “Calnoric is our native tongue!”

“That doesn’t mean you actually write it correctly.”

“What?”

“No, no. He has a point.”

Myth smiled at the good-natured argument,