Chapter 18
“Y es.” Arvel adjusted his belt so the dagger that poked him in the side settled back into place. “But…having the logs is going to make you into a target.”
“Perhaps, but only if the Fultons know I have them,” Myth pointed out. “As far as they know, they burned with the rest of the documents in the department fire.”
I don’t like even the possibility of that risk, but I shouldn’t be overbearing.
It’s not fair to her. He studied her from the corner of his eyes, but Myth’s polite expression gave nothing away.
She’s not going to tell me why she wants them.
I could ask…but I’d rather she willingly tell me than force something. And this seems important to her.
“Very well.” Arvel slipped his leather satchel off his shoulder. “Here they are. I’ll tell Father you have them, and I’m going to assign more Honor Guards to you as a result.”
“Understandable. And thank you.” Myth smiled at him—one that held a hint of sadness, and maybe something like worry, but once she had the satchel slung over her shoulder, she seemed taller, and more determined somehow.
I made the right call.
“If I am to have a day off, then I shall wish you all favor and luck with the investigation tomorrow.” Her hand was on the door latch—in a moment she’d be through that door and gone.
The thought stupidly made Arvel’s chest twinge, but he straightened up and forced a smile. “Thank you. Sir Arion and Benjimir are the best. With the three of us working together, I’m certain we’ll find a clue—at the library, or the Department of Investigation. Preferably both.”
Myth’s smile turned kind. “You’ll do well.”
Arvel’s control broke, and he swept Myth up in a hug that made her squeak. She was a little stiff, but didn’t protest as Arvel leaned his head against hers. “Thank you.”
She relaxed enough to awkwardly pat his back once, then seemed to melt into the embrace as she leaned into him and hooked one arm around his neck. “Sleep well, Arvel. Don’t let this drive you into exhaustion,” she whispered.
She’s worried for me , he realized, and automatically squeezed her just a little tighter. In all the upheaval she’s been forced through because of me, she’s still concerned for me. I don’t think I deserve her.
The hug was already a breach of propriety, but he let it last a few seconds longer than he should have—she was so warm, and even under the scent of smoke that permeated her clothes, she still smelled faintly of paper and ink.
It took all his self-control to pull back and smile at her. “Goodnight, Myth. Remember—just a scream away.”
A loose frown invaded Myth’s lips. “You need to reword that. It sounds disturbing.” And just like that, she took her leave of him.
Arvel laughed at her closed door for a moment before he turned to the Honor Guards. “You have your assignments?”
The guards parted into pre-organized groups, half clustering around Myth’s closed door while the other half remained in formation behind him.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” One of the soldiers who moved to stand guard at Myth’s door saluted him. “A squad under Captain Wilford will replace us after midnight, and another squad from Captain Grygg will replace them in the morning.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness!”
Arvel nodded to the men and women standing guard, then headed back the way they had come—this time at a markedly faster pace.
As he passed through the stone archway, he wasn’t quite able to stop the laughter that threatened to break the quiet of the hallway.
After giving me a pep talk about honor and my position, she tells me my words are disturbing. Hah! He shook his head and grinned. I don’t know if there is anyone in the world who cares less about my title than Myth.
The realization made him stop in the middle of the hallway. He turned around and looked back at the royal wing.
And there isn’t another woman I care more about.
He furrowed his brow as he was almost afraid to let the thought form.
She’s become so much to me. But every time I test it, she reminds me that she’s an “employee”.
Unless I really flirt with her, but then I run the risk of making her feel uncomfortable.
It’s such a careful balance, and for the life of me I can’t seem to get her to tip toward me!
It occurred to Arvel that it was, perhaps, the greatest irony that he—who fled eligible ladies every week ever since he was named heir—was now chasing after an eligible young lady who didn’t flee from him per se, but was choosing to be very…difficult to sway.
“Your Royal Highness? Is something wrong?” the Honor Guard directly behind Arvel asked.
“Sorry, no. Just lost in thought.” Arvel shook his head, as if he could clear it that easily, and strode off to find his father and continue their conversation about the investigation.
I have time with Myth. For now, the thing of greatest importance is to see that she is safe…and to punish Uncle Julyan for his flagrant illegal activities, and for making Myth cry as if her heart was breaking.
* * *
Myth tried to swallow, and instead almost choked on her own spit.
She clutched the leather satchel that held the Fulton ledgers to her chest as she coughed. Eventually, she was coughing so hard she had to lean against one of the wooden railings of the raised bridge she stood on.
Plopped in front of her was a magnificent tear-shaped building.
From a distance it appeared white and glittery, but this close Myth could see the massive windows that seemed to defy physics and twist around the sides of the tear.
The windows made up most of the walls, with the exception of the white stone framework that gave the building structure.
A stream of water curled around it, emptying into the channel Myth’s bridge crossed.
As she stared at the beautiful building, Myth’shands shook, and the air seemed unbearably hot.
I’m being an idiot. This is the Translators’ Circle. I live here. It’s not terrifying or fear inducing.
And yet, standing in front of the building, Myth wished herself just about anywhere else. But that wasn’t so much because of the building, as because of what she was about to do.
Myth made it a personal policy to refrain from asking for help.
It was always better to find the answer herself or to muddle through on her own even if it took extra time.
Because that was far better than to ask and be ignored, or to annoy someone, or then to even hear the unwillingness in a person’s voice and witness how little they wished to help her.
Blaise was the only exception to this rule.
Or she had been. Myth had become painfully aware the past few days just how much she’d come to trust Arvel.
It was possible the crown prince had also become a member of this very elite group, but Myth didn’t particularly wish to find out if her inkling was true or not.
No need, it’s true. Or I wouldn’t be here, doing what I’m about to do.
Myth shut out the thought as she stared down the Translators’ Circle, which had somehow gone through a miraculous transformation from a beautiful and welcoming building, to intimidatingly austere.
She clutched the leather satchel so tightly her fingers were starting to hurt, then darted across the bridge before she could second-guess herself.
There was a set of stone stairs dotted with moss that led up to the Circle’s entrance. Myth took the steps two at a time and didn’t risk glancing back to ascertain that her escort was following her until she reached the doors.
Grygg trailed closest behind her, and he flashed her a wink and meandered up so he could stand side by side. “I’m guessing we’re not here so you can introduce me and the boys to all your single friends?”
A nervous laugh escaped from Myth. “That would be a much more enjoyable task. But no. I am here to ask for a favor.” The phrase tasted sour, and she grimaced.
“Anything we can do to help?”
“I’m afraid not, but thank you, Grygg.”
He bowed with a lot more care than necessary given her position as a mere translator. “’Tis my honor.”
Myth considered asking him about the bow, but she knew herself well enough to know she was stalling. So instead she made herself open the front door and march in.
In keeping with its name, most of the architecture and decorating of the Translators’ famed building was circular in shape.
The floor was tiled with large circles and loops spiraling through the room. The central staircase snaked its way upwards in long, circular floors, every door was circular, and every candle was spherical.
How much money do we waste ordering those custom-made candles? Myth wondered as she mechanically strode through the central chamber.
Her gait was stiff, and the closer she got to the massive, round door she needed to step through, the slower she went.
By the time she reached it her pulse was galloping once again, and she’d left a sweat smear on the leather satchel.
It was official. This task was a thousand times worse than retrieving the ledgers from the Fulton town house.
But I’m going to do it anyway. Because Arvel and I worked too hard for this…and because they set the library on FIRE!
Her anger propelled her forward, and she yanked on the iron ring and pulled the door open with a creak.
Inside was the trade translators’ workshop.
Unlike the social and governmental translators who did much of their work outside the Translators’ Circle, trade translators worked together in one massive room that stretched at least three stories high.
The room was filled with padded wooden benches and wooden tables angled for ease of use. Most translators sat at their personalized desks, scratching away at their papers as they copied, created, and edited sheets of numbers, columns of records, and a seemingly endless number of charts.