Page 83 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

“Is he going to beat you?”

“No.”

“Then come on! We’ve got a game, and we need a fourth player!”

The mention of a game perks my interest. I quickly shove it away and keep walking. A second later, all three boys block my path. I try to step around them, and they move to block me again.

“Let me past,” I growl.

The redhead—the tallest of the group—folds his arms across his chest. “We need a fourth player.”

“It’ll be fast,” one of the others says. “Your master will not realize you’ve been gone.”

“I shouldn’t—” I start to say.

“Aw, come on.” One throws his arm around my neck, making me flinch, and forcibly pulls me toward the corner of the building. He’s surprisingly strong. “We just need a fourth player. We’ve been waiting for hours to find one.”

“Where are your masters?” I ask, changing my tactics. “Don’t they miss you?”

“Nah, they’re old and they go to bed before the sun goes down. We’ve got hours to kill tonight.”

“Fine,” I say, when they clearly won’t take no for an answer. “But just one game. Then I must leave.”

The boys holler in triumph and all but drag me to the base of a tree where they sit in a circle and beckon me to follow suit. I sit in the dirt and spare a thought for how Edvear will rebuke me for getting my nice breeches dusty.

“That is Jack,” says one of the boys, gesturing to the redhead who shuffles a deck of cards. “I’m Finn, and that’s my brother Arthur. What’s your name?”

“Nat.”

Arthur pulls something from behind a raised tree root as Jack deals the cards between us. My eyes bug when I see what it is. “Is that—”

“Whiskey?” Arthur says. “Yes. Don’t you daretell anyone. We workedveryhard to get this, and you’re not going to ruin it.”

“If you do,” says Jack, finishing his dealing and sitting back on his haunches. “We’ll steal your clothes, and your master will be furious.”

Steal my clothes? They don’t even know how dire of a threat that is. I shut my lips tight, suddenly afraid that if I try to leave, they’ll dogpile me and do exactly what they’ve threatened. My voice comes out a little shrill as I ask, “What are we playing?”

“Crowns,” Finn replies.

“I’m terrible at this game!” I cry.

“That should work in your favor,” laughs Arthur. “Whenever you win a trick, you have to take a swig of the whiskey.”

I get up. “I did not agree to a—”

Arthur and Finn lean forward and grab the edges of my trousers and yank. I barely grab the waistband and hold on tight before disaster ensues.

“Fine! Fine!” I growl, sitting back down. “I’ll play your stupid drinking game! And I won’t tell our masters and I will lose every trick on purpose!”

“I told you we should have gotten Count Buchard’s servant boy instead,” says Finn under his breath. “Even he would be better than this stick in the mud!”

“He is a tattle,” says Jack. “But Nat here isn’t a tattle. Right?”

I huff irritably and pick up my cards. One game—that was the deal. I’ll play this game, lose it on purpose, and then get out of here.

As we begin, it quickly becomes apparent that I’m not good enough at Crowns to lose every trick. I waste all my low cards at the beginning, and before I know it, I have nothing but high cards for several rounds.

“Your trick,” says Jack with a toothy grin, sliding the pile of cards my way.

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