Page 17 of Of Glass and of Gold

Eventually, sweat from my brow dotted the floorboards, mixing with the stale ale and lemon-scented cleaner while I motioned in circles. Bubbles lathered, quickly taking on a dingy shade of yellow. At least the fermented ale now smelled of fermented citrus.

Customers filtered in, the noise of chatter gradually increasing every half hour or so. I still had the side back corner to scrub. It’d be a race against the clock. Caine would never accommodate my chore by limiting customer access until I could get the job done. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he intentionally directed some of his messier customers here for me to work around.

A glass shattered, and my vision darted to the mess. Shards and a river of bubbles and booze desecrated the floor I’d slaved over. The group it’d come from casually acknowledged their mess, but it only led to boisterous laughter. Something about the broken cup sullying my hard work resonated, calling to something deep within me I tried to ignore, but failed at.

No matter how much I tried, I’d never be enough. Never be able to do enough. The system was set up as such. I’d forever remain on my knees, scrounging, fighting to get by with minimal damage, and no one would bother to care.

As I froze hunched over the ground, trying to pick up the mental fragments that’d started poking at me, along with each shard of wet glass, a hushed conversation drew my attention. In a place like this, where loud disturbances occurred basically every minute, it was the subtlety of whispers that stood out.

Caine spoke with a man I didn’t recognize, the collar of his wool coat popped up, concealing most of his face, except for the pink line that ran an inch vertically from the corner of his mouth. A scar.

If I wasn’t mistaken, I might have thought the shine on Caine’s forehead to be a sheen of sweat as he kept his attention rapt on the man he spoke with.

In an attempt to not look blatantly obvious, I lowered my head, glaring at the sponge under my fingers, and worked it in slow circles so that it barely made a sound. I angled my ear ever so slightly toward their conversation.

“Debts” was the only word I could make out clearly. Not surprising. Caine didn’t rely on the success of this tavern to keep him afloat. He dealt with all manner of shady enterprises.

To this day, it gave me pause that my father ever considered striking a deal with someone like him. He should have known better. Maybe he did, which is why he never recorded the association in his journal.

I knew I couldn’t blame my father for dying, but I still chewed on resentment over the fact that he’d left us in Caine’s hands.

I’d seen countless interactions regarding Caine’s side hustles. Desperate men coming into the bar to talk, or sometimes beg for time extensions. Caine always held a cool demeanor, one with an air of viciousness that would chill your bones.

Since my efforts were ultimately in vain, and knowing it was better for me not to overhear something I shouldn’t—and be caught doing it—I forced myself to quickly finish the scrubbing corner area. Whoever this was must be someone dangerous if Caine was the uneasy one.

By the time I walked home from my shift and collapsed into my bed, everything hurt.

8

Nicholas

The air in the castle had become stifling. Staff had replicated by the dozens, bustling around, cleaning all manner of areas I’d never suspected required it, such as the interior of a door latch.

No metal surface escaped a fresh polish, and dust possibly older than my grandfather caked the air before drifting on a current out the open windows. The grooves of my knuckles pressed into my cheek, my body languid, half-slumped in the throne as Ricks single-handedly coordinated the staff to thoroughly clean every square inch of this room.

“Presentable.” Marco sauntered through the open double doors, raking his gaze over the staff as they flitted about. His hands rested in his pockets, the picture of casual calm.

The oppressive heaviness in the air lifted, and I launched from my seat, a new weightlessness accompanying my steps as I approached him with open arms.

“Cousin,” I greeted. “It’s good to see you back in one piece.” We embraced, sharing a series of firm pats against each other’s backs.

“My cousin, things must be getting quite dull around here if a simple camping trip makes me a prize upon my return.”

Pulling back, but leaving my hands on his shoulders, I smiled as I replied, “Dull isn’t exactly how I’d put it.”

A feline smile paired with his piercing cerulean eyes. “Do tell.”

Draping an arm around his neck, I spoke over my shoulder as I guided Marco back out of the room. “I’ll return by the quarter hour, Ricks.”

“See that you do, Your Highness. There is lots to discuss!” He cast the line, sinking the lure into my shoulder. An invisible thread with an irremovable tension warned me that escaping even for a few minutes wouldn’t provide any relief.

I flopped on my bed as Marco poured from the decanter on my personal bar cart into a beveled glass.

“Damn. So you’re finally doing it. Getting hitched.” His mouth pulled to one side in a jerking motion and the muscle in his neck tensed. “Cheers to the death of your manhood.” Without anyone joining in, he downed the inch of smoked whiskey, clicking his tongue afterward from the burn.

“Perhaps it was cocky of me to think I’d be able to shirk tradition, handle things well enough on my own.” I stared at the intricate designs on my ceiling, lions waging war against man. In a mural of battle, the lions fell to man. A testament to sheer will and determination. I guessed some beasts couldn’t be conquered. Like political strategies requiring betrothal.

“Nick, come on. You’re the best ruler I know.” He swaggered to the bottom post of my bed and leaned against it, swirling another prepared glass.

---