Chapter 5 Galwell
Galwell
Brunch. Galwell turned the unwieldy portmanteau over in his head. It reminded him of biting into something delectable, which, he
ventured to guess, was quite the point.
When Galwell the Great last lived, there were two meals in the early day. Breakfast welcomed the morning with savory good
cheer. Then, hours later, lunch held the honor of supporting the eater into the early evening.
Now there was, Galwell had learned, a third morning meal.
Brunch.
He did not understand brunch.
On days like this one, should he simply skip breakfast entirely and wait for this confounding “brunch”? Or was he expected
to eat three early-day meals on brunch days? He wished he knew the right custom.
He’d opted for the second plan, protecting himself from the possibility of hunger and the impatience that occasionally followed
midmorning malnourishment. With a half-full stomach, he walked down one of the flourishing streets in Queendom’s artisan district.
Not even his need to check every shadowy corner for lurking assassins dispelled Galwell’s admiration for the neighborhood.
From upstairs shop windows, weavers hung hand-magicked quilts enchanted for children with moving scenes of dragons and fairies.
Glass magicians occupied stalls of glittering, shining sculptures.
And everywhere—the scent of food. The smells of nutty, milky sweetened drinks drifted from the palatial Harpy & Hind on one corner. Silky, salty noodles foamed in restaurant pots. Dough whirlers whipped glazed, puffy patties from streetside ovens.
Indeed, had Galwell not eaten earlier, he definitely would have succumbed to stomach-growling exasperation this morn.
Instead, he entered his destination with, he proudly determined, the perfect level of hunger.
The Brunch Belblossom’s sign hung above the white-stone entryway, festooned in flowers. Over every column of hand-painted
white and blue tiles, winding vines popped with wide chartreuse and purple petals. Grandhart had invested in the restaurant,
he’d boasted. From the vibrant crowds occupying the contiguous indoor patios past the entryway, Galwell suspected the venture
had proven lucrative.
He spotted his friends instantly. In the center of the nearest patio sat Clare, Beatrice, Elowen, and Vandra. Flowers like
the ones over the entrance floated in their drinks, multicolored liqueurs marbling the sweet juice in which they swirled.
From where Galwell watched, Grandhart said something. Vandra laughed uproariously. Even Elowen could not help grinning.
They looked happy. Unworried.
They looked . . . whole.
Galwell strode to their table. “Good sir!” Clare greeted him, and new cheer sprung into his companions’ faces.
Nevertheless, while Galwell offered his hellos and seated himself next to Elowen, he recognized the familiar feeling of intruding.
Just a little. While the emotion might have preoccupied him on other days, he found he could not dwell on it right then. Almost
being assassinated had distracted him from his malaise.
Clare leaned on his elbows on the table. “Secret identical twins,” he marveled. “Wow, they really got me on that one. Fantastic
stuff.”
Galwell smiled, understanding he’d interrupted an enthusiastic discussion of Desires of the Night.
“It was expertly foreshadowed,” Elowen replied.
“Yes, with that reference in the episode with the fire,” Clare rejoined contemplatively. Elowen nodded, looking pleased he’d
remembered.
Since his resurrection, Galwell had watched one or two Desires episodes with his sister, whose heart magic had promptly discerned he was not enjoying himself. He’d wrestled with which characters
one was intended to find virtuous or villainous. Elowen had gently reassured him he did not need to follow the shadow play.
“You really don’t watch the show, Grandhart? You seem to know it as well as these two,” Vandra remarked.
Galwell smiled. “He prefers for Beatrice to tell him the details herself,” he said.
“That’s not true,” Beatrice replied. “Is it?” Incredulity mixed with flattered shyness in her voice like liqueur in marbled
juice. She looked to her beloved.
Unabashed in his devotion, Clare lifted her hand to his lips.
“You just get so impassioned,” he explained.
Right then, Elowen coughed into her drink. Galwell found the utterance sounded like the word slime.
Clare caught his eye. “Not everything has changed in ten years, has it?” he inquired.
Galwell reached for the menu scroll in front of him. “Not everything,” he conceded. “But brunch?” He examined the options. The Brunch Belblossom’s offerings were, intuitively, floral-themed, varying from jasrose-syrupped
corn cakes to limonella-petal-zested crunchy egg sandwiches. “It really is just a later breakfast, isn’t it? Fascinating.
Why did this catch on? Why not just meet at a proper hour for this meal?”
Beatrice looked glad for the distraction, though she couldn’t stop the pleased pink flush invading her cheeks. “Because, dear Galwell, some of us like to sleep in.”
He looked up from his perusal of the menu. “But then you would miss the sunrise!”
“Quite intentionally, yes.”
Gently Clare plucked the menu from Galwell’s hands. “I’ve already ordered. Meal’s on me because we’re celebrating today.”
Elowen’s eyes shot to her friend’s ring finger.
“No,” Beatrice preempted. “Not that. This is better.”
“I think I must take offense,” Clare protested.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. Galwell smiled. He knew delicate discussions passed privately between them on the subject of marriage,
and he felt inquiring further would surpass rightness, even if he did genuinely look forward to being Clare’s Man of Honor.
His sister, he’d found, did not share his scruples. She pressed Beatrice on the matter incessantly.
“Thessia and Hugh are going abroad for their honeymoon,” Beatrice continued, “and they’ve left Clare and me to fill in on
all royal duties.”
The pronouncement widened Vandra’s eyes. “Oh, Ghosts, please tell me Clare isn’t getting a crown.”
“I think Clare would look nice in a crown,” Elowen ventured. Whether to playfully rile her paramour or because of her longstanding
soft spot for Grandhart, Galwell did not know.
“Exactly,” Vandra returned. “Are we prepared for what the image will do to the scribesheets? We’ll never escape it.”
Clare swirled his liqueur, the purple-petaled flower whirlpooling in the glass. “I do think I could make a run for a seventh
Mythria’s Sexiest Man title.”
“Sorry, dear,” Beatrice returned sweetly. “I’m sure Galwell will have that honor this year.”
Galwell could only hmph in response. Hers was not the first reference Galwell the Great had heard related to his desirability. He’d received other
indications from the unabashed maidens whose stares followed him on the streets, and from scribes intent on populating scribesheets
with his dating preferences. Would he desire long walks on the Sweetwater seashore, or dining in the finest fillet restaurant? Opera or dragon jousting?
What heart magic would he wish in a partner?
Galwell knew his merits—his flowing auburn hair, his enormous shoulders and chiseled chin. He did not, however, know his dating
preferences, having done very little dating while defending the realm from evil and being betrothed to the princess.
In honesty, the ever-present recognition discomforted him. He’d never resented heroism’s inevitable fame in his first life.
Now, however, he struggled with how everyone felt they knew who he was. Galwell the Great. Hero of Mythria.
How could they know him when he did not know himself?
“Careful, you,” Clare warned Beatrice. “Pretend you aren’t completely smitten with me one more time and I’ll have no choice
but to propose to you on the spot. Publicly. With a shower of rose petals.”
Beatrice locked eyes with him, dauntless.
The sight was familiar to Galwell, who’d caught the expression countless times on their quests. No different from when she
fended off vicious pursuing grasswalkers or ran out of stoneflour provisions.
Then Beatrice leaned forward and kissed Clare swiftly on the cheek. That wasn’t familiar to Galwell. Such open, honest affection. Such maturity in his companions.
Suddenly, he felt once more like the dead man in their midst.
“You’re not the least bit worried about the responsibility that comes with filling in as regent?” Elowen inquired.
Clare shrugged. Galwell knew not to read any Ghosts-may-care selfishness into the gesture. Grandhart had grown into a shrewd strategist and considerate leader. “Ever since Galwell’s return, violence in Mythria is at an all-time low,” he replied. “So . . . no, not really.”
“I’m sure that has nothing to do with me,” Galwell interjected. He could use one of those colorful liqueurs right now. “Perhaps
you four have inspired the queendom. Or Hugh has—he’s very inspirational.”
“Galwell, don’t discount the joy and relief your return has given everyone,” Vandra said. “When you died for us, it was very
heroic, but it also made everyone feel keenly the costs and risks of heroism. Now that you live . . . Well, speaking as a
reformed villain myself, it’s a reminder that being good isn’t just right—it’s rewarded.”
Galwell shifted in his cushioned leather seat. Hearing how he’d inspired people with something for which he was not responsible
felt . . .
Irritating.
Like he’d neglected his morning meal.
Galwell the Great should not feel irritated, he chastened himself. He forced himself to focus on more important matters. Assassins! Peril! These were his strong suits!
“That’s lovely,” he remarked hastily. “Anyway, quick query. What’s the current landscape when it comes to assassins in Mythria?
Are they . . . also peaceful?”
Once more, every eye in his party found him.
“I assume,” Vandra said, “this is not idle brunch chatter.”
“Completely idle brunch chatter. No worries at all,” Galwell reassured her. While the disingenuity in his voice dismayed him,