Takin’ Care of Business
LIAM
T he wind tastes like burnt espresso and heavy perfume, which is how I know we’re crossing the quad even before the bell tower chimes its late-morning song.
Kaspar’s boots grind old rock salt into the walkway, every step telegraphing mild irritation.
If I let myself focus, I can count the precise number of chewed-up sidewalk squares before he says, “Are we really doing this?”
He’s not asking if we’re walking—he means the other thing.
The thing in my left jacket pocket, folded between a letter from the Bursar’s office and the checkbook monogrammed in gold foil.
I ignore him in favor of watching the drowsy row of State U undergrads smoke vapes and shuffle toward whatever Gen Ed class is getting ready to begin.
“It’s the only way Slade’s ever going to finish his degree without fear,” I say. I roll my tongue over the word ‘degree’ the same way he rolls his eyes—long-suffering, but not without affection.
“The kid is gonna be pissed,” Kaspar says, keeping pace.
He’s already mapped out the route: three blocks up, two left, under the cement arch plastered with flyers for student government and improv troupes.
He points at a rainbow-y ‘Acoustic Open Mic’ poster.
“You want me to look into this? Could be a good opportunity to bring in outsiders to see him.”
My old friend pretends he doesn’t give a shit about anyone but me, but the real Kaspar is showing through.
“In time,” I say. “He should be composing, not scraping cups in the library coffeehouse for tips and measly wages. Once he’s had some time to focus, we can use our influence to bring guests to the campus to observe.”
“Your father would be horrified by your largesse, Your Highness.”
Kaspar is the only one who calls me that who actually knows me, and only when he’s in a mood. His moods are many: all blues, grays, sometimes a flash of burnt ochre, and occasionally, when Morgana’s name comes up, pink edges that bleed inwards and make him uncharacteristically silent.
He’s taken with her, but his healing has been very slow, even after the demoness’ admission about Angeline.
The dragon pushes through the glass doors of Admissions, head ducked to avoid the sign dangling from the frame.
The lobby is a sea of plexiglass and nervous mothers.
I don’t mean to, but I scan for the one with the sharpest eyes, in case anyone is shadowing us.
We cannot afford anymore drama right now.
The woman at the front desk smiles at me like I’m the setup to a punchline she’s been waiting to tell all week.
“I’m here to discuss a tuition matter,” I say, projecting my innate charm.
My father taught me that—if you can’t win by force, use every other asset at your disposal.
My looks and my Fae features often win battles before they start because of that tidbit.
It’s not what he meant, certainly, but I’ve made the advice my own over the years. “It’s regarding Slade Finn.”
She types the name and slides a clipboard through the gap. “Slade Ezra Finn, graduate student in music?”
“Precisely,” I say. “We’re part of his, ah, extended family.”
Kaspar doesn’t correct me; he wouldn’t, not in public.
But he lingers a little behind my right shoulder, scanning the other parents and the stressed-out kid waiting for his turn at the counter.
The actual paperwork takes five minutes, but the internal theater takes at least thirty.
The woman is scandalized by the sum, then sheepish when I hand over a check.
Kaspar interrupts only once, to ask if the payments can be completely anonymous, or if it’ll show up in Slade’s portal.
Good on him for remembering that bit; this isn’t something I usually handle for my own classes.
“We can keep the donor’s identity private,” she says, and stamps the form with surprising force.
On the way out, Kaspar stops at the vending machine and buys two orange sodas, the kind with real sugar. He hands me one, twisting the cap off before I can say thank you.
“Now what?” he asks.
“We make sure Slade never has to pour another stale cold brew in his life, which will mean Morgana breathes more easily.”
He watches me over the rim of the soda bottle. “You really think you can fix everything by throwing money at it?”
I swish the liquid in my mouth, savoring the sting. “No,” I say, “but it keeps the petty issues from expanding into larger concerns.”
He laughs, short and genuine, and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin like he’s sinking a shot in overtime. “You know Slade’ll find out by dinner.”
“That’s why you’re going to run interference,” I say, slinging an arm around his broad, reluctant shoulders. “If he spirals, you will say you insisted for security’s sake.”
“He won’t believe me.”
“Morgana will intervene. She’s brilliant and will have worked this out before I even suggest it was your decision.” I smile fondly, my eyes crinkling at the corners. “And she’ll back you because she adores Slade and wants to take care of him, even when he doesn’t want it.”
He shrugs, but doesn’t shake me off.
We take the long way back through the quad, watching the drama kids rehearse an argument in the outdoor amphitheater, the way they project pain and comedy into the chilly morning air.
They’re not acting as though one of them was found dead on their stage yesterday, but then with youth comes resilience.
After all, the show must go on, yes?
I’m supposed to be the heir to a throne, some day.
I should be better at demanding things and making others bend to my will.
But all I want is to let Slade compose, to let Morgana find peace, to let Kaspar someday—be something more than a sentinel with a sword in his coat and old scars under his skin.
I toss my bottle into the bin, shoulder to shoulder with Kaspar, and say, “Next stop, retail. We’re redecorating all the guest rooms people are staying in to make them comfortable.”
He groans, but follows me—as always.
By the time we reach the linen store, Kaspar’s patience has been picked apart.
He stands just inside the display maze of duvets and Egyptian cotton, arms folded, daring a single salesperson to approach.
The effect is instant; the college girl at the register glances once at Kaspar’s glare and immediately finds something else to inventory.
Good choice, my dear.
“You know what Morgana has at that house?” he says, voice pitched low enough that the posh interiors echo it back with interest. “Beds. Towels. A fucking espresso machine. Why are we here when we also have an entire house of our own down the damn street, Li?”
“Those rooms have not been cleansed of her ex’s presence entirely,” I say, running a hand over a cloud-soft display.
“And the espresso machine is sub-par because no one has redone the kitchen yet. Do you want to sleep on what passes for comfort in motels? Of course not. Besides, it’s obvious we’ll all eventually live there; don’t be daft. ”
Kaspar grunts. “We can’t do that, or people will notice, Liam.”
“I am not in the business of letting gossipy biddies decide my actions,” I say. “I prefer to make my choices based on my wants and needs. Are you saying we can’t fool a bunch of nosy neighbors?”
That quiets him, which I will count as a victory.
I select three sets: royal-blue for Iggy, black with silver piping for Kaspar, and for Slade, something so gloriously soft and impractically white that I know he’ll try to keep it pristine for about a week before he gets something on it and panics.
The image makes me laugh as I throw the matching accoutrements into the cart.
Kaspar is stone-faced until the clerk rings up the total, at which point his lips twitch. “You would pick the most expensive shit in the entire store, wouldn’t you?”
“I am a prince. Exquisite taste is part of the training,” I say, and sign with a flourish. “We’re not hurting for cash, old friend. Don’t be a grouch.”
“Don’t complain to me when they all get used to luxury.”
I could do this all day—the banter with my friend, the indulgence of my family, the minor acts of care that hold the line against a world that wants to break you up into manageable pieces.
This gives me more joy than almost anything, and although my ties to my evil father aid me in this effort, I feel like I’m contributing to making people’s world a little better instead of causing pain like him.
We stop for sandwiches and eat them in the SUV to make certain no one recognizes us. He unwraps his turkey club with the precision of a surgeon and says, “I know what you’re really doing.”
I let mayo run down my hand before answering. “Oh?”
“You’re setting up the house like a fortress—one room at a time—so no one wants to leave unless they have to. That will quell the worry in your gut about all the outside forces gunning for us”
I pop a chip in my mouth, shrugging. “So?”
He wipes his hands, serious now. “Do you think you can shield them from what’s coming through home renovations, Li? Now who’s being ridiculous?”
I think about Morgana, about the lines under her eyes and the way she drinks coffee like it’s a shield against the day.
I think about Lucas, who would never admit he’s scared but still checks the locks three times before bed.
I think about Slade’s hands, shaking at his sides as he stood on that stage for hours.
“I think we can make it easier,” I say. “And that’s worth a little time and money.
You and I have been through wars, old friend.
We have seen what happens when rebels gather power, consolidate, and launch attacks from all sides.
None of them has—even Morgana’s age hasn’t put her squarely in the middle of one.
Our experience can help us guide and protect them, even if it's covert for now.”