Chapter 37 Bullying the Prince #2
“You try them,” he responded, nodding to the paper cone.
“I will.” I grabbed the remaining three puffs and shoved all of them in my mouth at once.
Which I immediately realized was a mistake.
I knew it the moment the puffs hit my tongue, when they melted into something that was the consistency of stale taffy.
And the flavor—oh, I was not prepared. We served lavender shortbread at the tea shop where I worked back home, and those were delightful. But these things… These things had way too much lavender. It was like I’d just shoved a hard, sticky bar of lavender soap into my mouth.
I clapped a hand over my lips, gagging.
I need a trash can—now. My eyes darted around the street, but I didn’t see anything that resembled any sort of waste receptacle.
My stomach roiled again, another gag rising in my throat, and I knew I didn’t have much time.
I shoved past Alastor—and then half a dozen other people—as I desperately tried to get out of the middle of the street. There was a narrow alley just ahead, little more than a gap between two buildings, and I darted straight for it.
And the moment I reached it I fell to my knees and threw up my guts.
The lavender puffs tasted even worse moving the opposite direction. And all the things that followed them—half-digested spiced nuts and meat pies and a toxic blend of alcoholic beverages—were almost just as bad.
Oh god, what have I done?
My stomach lurched, and even more came up.
And then there was someone behind me, someone whose hands carried a familiar, masculine scent like cedar with a hint of orange as they pulled my hair back. Alastor. His scent calmed my stomach, even as the last bits of this evening’s feast spilled on the stones in front of me.
When I was empty, I sat up with a miserable groan. Alastor still held my hair back behind my shoulders, and his other hand reached around to offer me a handkerchief, which I gratefully took.
I dabbed at my face, carefully avoiding looking at what I was sure was an especially colorful puddle in front of me.
Alastor had been tender towards me once or twice before, but there was a difference between him being all kind after I’d opened the portal to Therador and now—when I’d spent the last hour tormenting him.
And then I glanced up at him.
I don’t know what I was expecting to see on his face—not true compassion, perhaps, but maybe some sympathy—but instead I found myself looking up at the tight-jawed, clamped-lipped face of someone trying very hard not to laugh.
I was, naturally, slightly offended. I’d just puked my guts up and Alastor found it funny?
But it was so strange—so delightfully strange—to see the grumpy, brooding Alastor fighting a smile that any grievance I felt flew right out the window.
“I probably deserved that, didn’t I?” I said.
A little muscle twitched in Alastor’s jaw, and the corners of his mouth tipped up just slightly before he regained control of them again.
“Perhaps you did,” he said, his eyes shining with good humor. That crown of flowers on his head only added to the absurdity of it all. “It’s not for me to say.”
“You’re usually very free with your opinions of me,” I reminded him, dabbing my lips one last time.
“Go on, tell me that this is what I get for trying to bully you into having fun.” I started to offer him the handkerchief, then realized he probably didn’t want something with my vomit all over it.
I froze with my hand extended up towards him, and only then did I notice the embroidery on the little square of cloth he’d given me.
It was a crest. But not the usual interlocking-triangles-with-a-rose I’d seen these brothers use multiple times before.
This was different, and much more complex—a stag’s head with great antlers spread to either side.
The head was encircled by a length of chain—except at the top, where the antlers had broken through the links and sprouted leaves like the branches of a tree.
I ran my thumb across the intricate needlework, as if somehow I could absorb the meaning of this strange, beautiful symbol through the pad of my finger.
“What is this?” I asked him, tearing my gaze away from the stag to look up into Alastor’s eyes. “Your royal crest?”
All of the amusement had disappeared from his face, replaced by his usual stoicism. “Yes.”
His tone made it clear he considered this conversation over, and I recognized that this wasn’t the time or the place for this conversation, despite my burning curiosity.
“I…can wash it,” I said, my grip tightening on the fabric. “Unless you want it back right now.”
He hesitated, then nodded and said, “You may return it later.”
Relief whispered through me, though I couldn’t have said why keeping this handkerchief a little bit longer felt so important. I folded the fabric carefully and tucked it inside my dress.
When I looked up again, Alastor had his hand extended toward me to help me to my feet.
“Are you done for the evening?” he asked as his strong fingers wrapped around mine. “Would you like me to return you to your quarters for the night?”
“Not really,” I admitted. I could definitely use a little breath-freshening, but I was loath to leave the celebration now, when there was still so much I wanted to see.
To my surprise—and pleasure—Alastor nodded in what might have been approval.
“Good,” he said as he pulled me to my feet. “Because there’s something I think you’ll want to see.”