Chapter Thirteen
Aren
The next morning, sure enough, I find the prince exactly where I left him, slumped over the table, an empty mug still in his hand. His mouth is open, and drool pools under his face. The only way I know he isn’t dead is that he’s snoring. Loudly.
He drank his weight in Alarician ale last night, and I’m impressed that he’s acquired a taste for it so quickly.
He had a particularly bad day, and he downed each pint, on an empty stomach, with renewed determination.
Before I could cut him off, he laid his head down and didn’t move again even after closing time.
I do have a heart. So before closing shop, I draped an old blanket over his shoulders, letting him sleep here overnight.
Now, in the rainy morning, I glance over at him with a new understanding of the man sleeping before me and can’t help but crack a smile.
Look at him, drunk and passed out like the cursed fool he is.
I’ll admit he’s nice to look at, even in this state.
There is a certain boyish vulnerability to the way his golden lashes fall against his cheek.
I almost reach out to touch his hair, it looks so soft.
Prince Dietan’s snores hitch, and he coughs before snoring again.
I snicker and let him be as I head to the kitchen to prepare food for today. I get the fire going in the stone oven, then work on organizing the pantry, itemizing what’s spoiling soon so I can think of what to use first and what else I need to order from the butcher and my favorite farmers.
But the events from Veteria’s cottage loop in my head. They’re haunting.
The secrecy. The charismatic front. The bride search. All of his aggravating behavior is being painted over with different brushstrokes.
Last night was busy with celebrations of Ophelia’s engagement, full of even more drinking and music and food. While orders kept flowing in, I wondered if the prince would attend after the day we had.
Past midnight, I’d all but forgotten about his absence until he showed up looking like he’d been further tormenting himself. I felt for the guy, his face was so drawn and ominous. Who else knows this secret? Does he carry this weight himself? It’s a heavy burden.
But now I’m starting to regret letting him stay the night. My pity got the better of me. Is he ever going to get up?
He’s still snoring out there, even as I start making breakfast. I fry up some sausages, heaps of whiskey bacon, scrambled eggs and tomatoes with flaky salt, and even whip up my favorite buttermilk biscuits, making even more of a racket with my pots and pans than usual, but nothing seems to wake him.
While I wait for the biscuits to finish baking, I open the tavern, bringing down the chairs and stools at all the other tables.
I throw a few more logs on the fire. The prince stirs a little when I walk by, muttering something about rings—hopefully dreaming about the one he’ll be giving Sonja soon and not the ones that quite literally put the fate of the kingdom on his back.
Should I wake him? Customers will be coming in soon, and I can’t have someone—even a prince—passed out in the bar this early in the morning. It’s bad for business. I put a firm hand on his shoulder and shake.
He wakes with a jolt, looking bleary under his mussed hair. “What?” he mumbles, confused.
Rough night indeed. “Hungry?”
He blinks at me. “Uh, sure?” He pushes his hand through his hair.
In the kitchen, the biscuits are perfectly buttery and golden brown. I add a few to an already loaded tray, complete with a pot of tea. When I come back to the main room, I find Dietan has roused himself somewhat. His eyes widen as I set everything in front of him. “All for me?” he asks.
I nod, somewhat embarrassed that I’ve gone to so much trouble.
“It’s a lot of food. Won’t you join me?” He motions to the feast.
I have to admit he’s gracious and charming—for a hungover drunk. I help myself to one of the biscuits before walking back to my place behind the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him eat like he’s never had a meal before.
“I’m surprised you let me stay the night,” he says, between a large bite of egg and sip of tea.
“And I’m surprised to find you don’t bunk down with a retinue of armed guards. Have you been out this whole time?”
“Pretty much.”
“Aren’t they in a panic about you?” I ask, wondering why the royal guard hasn’t torn Evandale apart looking for their prince.
He waves a piece of bacon to dismiss my question. “Nah, Jared and Marcus will cover for me. I am allowed a little privacy occasionally,” he says. “This is incredible, by the way.” He stuffs another forkful in his mouth.
“Privacy, huh?” I remember there were rumors about his youthful indiscretions, which seems in keeping with the lifestyle of an entitled prince. But after yesterday, I’m beginning to suspect those rumors are pure fancy.
Dietan wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, my guards were probably relieved to have Marcus cover royal night duty.”
“Let me guess—is it the snoring or the drooling that puts them off?” I laugh.
He glances down at the drool still on the table and surreptitiously wipes it clean with his sleeve. “The snoring,” he admits.
I allow a pleased smile at that.
Dietan glances around the room while he eats, taking in his surroundings with a curious eye, and I find I don’t mind the easy silence between us.
It’s rare in my experience for a man to not constantly run his mouth.
I’m setting up the bar for the day when he lets out a moan that makes me turn around.
He’s bitten into one of my buttermilk biscuits. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
“Oh yeah? What else are you putting in your mouth?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He grins.
I try not to blush.
Dietan takes another bite. “I’m serious. You, my lady, are great at three things: navigation, swooning in my arms, and biscuits. You know, I may just have fallen in love with you.”
I roll my eyes. “Get in line, pal.”
“You think I’m joking.” He looks wounded.
“About what part?”
Dietan watches me for a moment, twirling his fork. “I’m not joking about the biscuits,” he says. “You’d put the palace kitchens to shame.”
I know I’m a great cook, but it still warms me to hear that I’m every bit as good as the fancy chefs in the Loegrian capital.
He waggles his eyebrows. “You know, if we get married, you’ll need to make me this for breakfast every morning.”
“Ha.” I shrug, suddenly deflated. As if.
“What?” he asks.
I sigh. “You’re just another man who’s only interested in me for what I can do for you.
” But not for who I am. “Including saving you, I might add.” I shoot him a knowing glance, and it’s my turn to quirk an eyebrow.
All his thoughts are on breakfasts and biscuits.
He hasn’t even asked about me. He doesn’t know a single thing about me and doesn’t care to—whether as a man or as my future sovereign. I go back to polishing mugs.
He puts down his fork and clears his throat.
I look over to see he’s leaning over his plate, his eyebrows scrunched, making his face seem even more youthful.
He stares at me like I’ve said the most absurd thing.
“Is that what you think of me? That I just use people? I’m not like that. If you got to know me, you’d see.”
I shrug a shoulder like I couldn’t care less. “You wanted to use Veteria. And now I bet you’re concocting a plan to use King Osian. That’ll be ten cobs, by the way.”
“A bargain for such a feast,” he says, ignoring my jab.
“Twenty, then, including the wakeup call and the blanket,” I say flatly, and his eyes narrow. “Surely you of all people can afford such luxury.”
His gaze drops to the kerchief at my throat, and I abruptly turn away, focusing on stacking glasses behind the bar. I hear the scrape of a chair and footsteps. Now he’s at the bar, right behind me.
“How are you, by the way?” His voice is soft, and I hate how it makes me feel—all soothed and comforted. It’s the voice I recognize from that night. Deep. Gentle. Safe.
“I’m fine.”
“Does it still hurt?”
I pause, gripping a mug. Yes, it still hurts, but it could have been much, much worse had this maddening man not come along and played hero.
“How much would it cost to heal? Because I would give all I have,” he whispers.
My breath catches in my throat, and when I glance over my shoulder, I notice the crease between his eyebrows deepening, the corners of his lips falling. That face belongs on a gold coin, just like his grandfather’s.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say at last, bending my head low as if completely absorbed in cleaning this mug. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And saving princes from getting lost in forests. I don’t need any help.”
“Is that why you didn’t put yourself on the list of candidates?” he asks suddenly.
“To meet you?”
“Exactly. Not interested in marriage or princes?”
I finally turn around to look him in the eye. “No, thank you. I don’t mean to ever marry,” I say more forcefully than I’d intended. “I don’t look forward to being any man’s servant or pack mule. I have enough burdens of my own—I don’t aspire to carry anyone else’s.”
Those words put a momentary chink in his armor as hurt flits across his eyes. He recovers quickly with his usual charm.
“What a terrible assessment of a most venerable institution,” says Dietan. He lowers his voice and leans toward me, as if imparting a great secret. “Granted, my parents’ marriage is a carnage of bickering and animosity.”
“See?”
“But surely there is such a thing as true love,” he says, turning up his princely charm. It seems so brittle up close. “There has to be, hasn’t there?”
“Not for me.” I don’t tell him that of course I want true love more than anything—to be loved and cherished the way a woman should be loved and cherished.
But that’s for other girls. Prettier girls.
Girls like my sisters. All men ever see in me is a maid they don’t have to pay. And this prince is, in the end, a man.
“Not for you?” he asks, seeming genuinely surprised.
“Never,” I say, almost believing it. “I don’t ever want to marry. I will travel and read books. I am a good navigator, after all.”
“Sounds nice,” he allows. “But lonely.”
“I like my own company,” I say pointedly.
He bows his head. “I understand you find my presence distasteful, so I will leave you in peace.”
Oh, he looks hurt by that. I didn’t think it was possible for a barmaid to hurt a prince. My heart is beating too quickly, and I want to protest: I didn’t mean it so harshly!
Honestly, I don’t know what to think of him.
Why does he pay me any mind? Only because I’m useful, I remind myself.
I know his secret. He has to be nice to me now—keep me quiet.
He’s a shameless flirt, and it doesn’t mean anything.
He’s a royal prince, albeit a cursed one, and I’m just a barmaid.
I turn away and start folding a pile of dishrags.
Dietan’s quiet, but I can tell he’s still there. There’s a long, heavy moment between us until I hear the stool scrape as he pushes back from the bar and then the heavy clatter of coins on the table.
“Thanks for a royal breakfast,” he says.
I can’t quite read his tone. Is it sarcastic? Cold? Or downright sincere? I can’t tell. It doesn’t matter.
Now that my sisters are settled, he’ll leave Evandale, and it can’t happen soon enough. Even if the thought brings a lump to my throat. Of course, I’ll miss my girls. And he must promise not to put them in harm’s way.
I look over my shoulder again when I hear his heavy boots heading toward the door. He pulls up the hood of his cloak, pinching it closed at his throat. Before he can go out into the rain, Father ambles up the steps.
Harvest Mother, why is he out in this weather? He must have come to check on me. He’s been worried since the night of the harvest festival. Father leans heavily on his cane, watching his feet, and startles when the prince speaks to him.
“Good day, sir,” Dietan says, his voice strong. “What a lovely surprise.”
I’m tempted to intervene, but to my dismay, Father’s smile grows wide. He hasn’t smiled like that in a long time.
“Your Highness! What good fortune! I’m surprised to see you here so early.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the most amazing things about this tavern. You own this establishment, correct?”
“I do, but my daughter here runs it. I’m very proud.”
“Yes, indeed. I’m so glad I came to Evandale. I know there must be a woman here who can keep me on my toes, who deserves to wear only the finest silk!”
He’s taunting me. Asshole. Reminding me that he came to find a bride, not a barmaid. I scowl as I furiously wipe down the bar for a third time in lieu of committing regicide.
“Yes, with my daughter Ophelia so happily settled, I do hope her twin Sonja makes a worthy match soon,” Father says mildly.
Dietan looks surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t considered the idea, which puzzles me.
“How much longer are you staying, Your Highness?” Father asks.
“I believe we’re leaving, weather permitting, at first light tomorrow. I can think of a few reasons to stay a bit longer, if given the opportunity. Alas, perhaps I have overstayed my welcome.”
With that, Dietan shakes Father’s hand and disappears into the rain, leaving me to fume in silence.