Page 99 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

“I know it’s not the most comfortable way to ride back to Salt Lake,” I say.

“But you wouldn’t have fit in the back of the Mercedes,” Leonid says.

“And neither would all of my stuff,” Izzy says.

“Which we could have sent back with my people,” Leonid says. “Along with the boxes and boxes of things you’re worried you won’t be able to buy in Russia, like peanut butter and Nutella.”

“It’s a miracle your people got this old bucket to run at all,” I say, “especially with all the errands Izzy kept sending them on.”

“I like having people,” Izzy says. “So sue me.”

“Diplomatic immunity,” Leonid says.

Izzy smiles.

“As for the truck, we Russians are pretty good at getting old, crappy cars to run,” Leonid says. “Russia’s doing much better now, but for years, almost all our cars were crappy. We either had to keep them running or walk.” He’s a good sport about things, though I suppose laughing at yourself is sort of an age-old comedy schtick.

“I still can’t believe you found a guy like this attractive, Izzy,” I say. But really, I’m covering up my jealousy. After she spent two years dating the world’s biggest loser, I haven’t found myself jealous of Izzy much at all.

Until recently.

Her new fiancé’s gorgeous, rich, strong, powerful,magical, and he looks at her like she’s made of stardust or something. I’m happy for her, but it feels like someone like him might have actually understood me. It’s a waste to put someone broody and powerful and half-evil, to hear the others talk, with Miss Sunshine and Yellow Daisies.

“Why are you so sour?” Izzy asks.

I consider telling her it’s because I think she’s a bad fit for her boyfriend and she should hand him over to me, but I’m pretty sure they’d both think that joke was being made in bad form. “No reason.”

“When should we get married?” Izzy asks.

I roll my eyes.

“How about the winter?” Leonid says. “All that white—whatever colors you choose will really stand out.”

Izzy blinks. “Is that some kind of joke? I would freeze, and so would all my family and friends.”

“Fire, remember?” He holds up his hand, and the entire car heats up ten degrees. “We’ll all stay warm.”

Must be nice.

“No magic,” Izzy snaps.

He sighs.

“Okay, how about the colors?” Izzy’s flipping through a bridal magazine, which I thought hadn’t existed for a decade or more. I can’t help wondering how on earth she got one of those in sleepy little Manila, Utah. “This is nice—ooh, wait. We could do Christmas colors. Red, white, green, and gold.”

“So we’d get married. . .in five weeks?” he asks.

“That’s way too soon,” she says.

“So. . .a year?” He looks sick.

“How about powder blue and white,” I say. “Do a winter queen theme.” I can’t help my smile. “You could wear black, and everyone else could look like fairies.”

“Black?” Izzy looks horrified. “Is it my wedding or a funeral?” She’s frowning.

Until she looks back at me.

“Okay, you got me.” She laughs.

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