Page 50 of Royal Rising

15

Edie

Lyra insists I domore shots with them.

Shots, as in plural.

Princess Lyra has always struck me as a person who doesn’t like to drink alone and persuasive enough to convince anyone to be her new best friend.

Apparently, I am now one of them.

Lyra and Kate are both younger than I am—I had graduated high school before they even got there—and except for Kalle, I’ve never been particularly close to the rest of the royal family. But I got to know them being part of Odin and Camille’s wedding.

And now, it looks like I am close enough for Lyra to want to drink with me.

Or it could be because I make good cocktails.

The rain still pours down, and rolls of thunder shake the windows and make me jump. The bar is Thursday-night busy, but the chaos of the lunch rush has thinned out as pitchers of beer and sitting at a table all day have sent many back home to more comfortable furniture.

There’s still enough to keep me serving between making shots. Battle Harbour is a beer and mead type of town, with the oddcustomer drinking too much whiskey or Screech, but more than a few regulars are curious enough about the bottles being used to order what Lyra and Kate are having.

I took a mixology course a few years ago and it’s fun to revisit some of the recipes. I pull down the blue curaçao, coconut rum, and every fruit-flavoured vodka we’ve got, and even unearth the dusty bottle of absinthe. Add them together and I can create cocktails and shots that have Kate cheering over the colours and taste.

I’m clearing up a row of sixteen shot glasses when Mabel Crow joins the crowd grouped around Lyra and Kate.

“What can I get you?” I ask her.

Mabel nods at Lyra. “Whatever she’s having.”

Mabel is a common sight in the drinking establishments of Battle Harbour, but after the rumours about her and Prince Gunnar that broke up him and Kate, I’ve never seen a conversation between Mabel and any of the family.

And I’ve definitely never seen her speak to Kate.

“Make us something fancy,” Lyra instructs, leaning with her elbow on the bar to face Mabel so that Kate is blocked. “How’s your sister?” she asks.

Mabel smirks. “Which one?”

“The one my brother was madly in love with until she skipped town and broke his heart. Hettie.”

There’s a flicker in Mabel’s expression before it smooths into a masklike blandness. “She’s good, last time I spoke to her.”

“Where’d she end up?”

“Don’t you leave town to make sure nobody knows where you end up?”

Lyra sniffs and stiffens when Kate tries to push her aside. “I talked to Gunnar about what happened between the two of you,” Kate announces.

I hold the bottle of vanilla vodka aloft and hold my breath.

“Did you now?” Mabel narrows her eyes. “And what did the Playboy Princeling say about that?”

“Nothing. He said nothing happened.”

Another flicker; I only notice because I’m watching Mabel. It almost looks like relief. But her voice is cool. “If that’s what he says,” she says with a shrug.

“It’s what he says. And I believe him.”

“Goody for you.”

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