Page 32 of The Prince and the Ice King

The washing room was in the cellar, with a large basin fit for half a dozen people to encircle it around a water pump. Jack knew exactly how every contraption in his castle worked, but much of the ingenious additions had come after the curse, created by the people sent here, whether through magic, engineering, or both.

The pulley system and rows upon rows of line above those doing the washing allowed each person to hang their finished garments without moving and then send them aloft. Prince Reardon was among them, a seventh to the usual six, given room by Shayla, who stood just off his shoulder. Reardon knew how to scrub and rinse and wring, but the pulley system was clearly a fascination for him, a smile adorning his face whenever he used it.

Everyone in the castle rotated as a washer throughout the week. It was the sacrifice’s job to be added to a shift their first day, but Jack had never seen anyone excited by it.

The other five in attendance were a mixed bag of older and newer offerings, including an elf, nearing almost one hundred years here now, who’d created that pulley system and improved it over time. He got enthusiastic every year on the night of the offering, eager to meet someone new, but he’d remained quiet last night upon discovering that Reardon was the Emerald Prince.

Now he looked as eager and enamored as usual.

“It’s really very simple,” he said with a shrug, seated beside Reardon.

“But at such scale!” Reardon exclaimed. “Look at how many clothes it can handle, and barely a drop on any of our heads while they dry. It’s marvelous! I’m sorry… what was your name again?”

“Wynn,” the elf replied, holding out a hand slightly wrinkled from the washing—even though it had been another Emerald Prince who discovered the glamour hiding his ears so many years ago and banished him to the Frozen Kingdom. “Discovered as an elf, ninety-two years ago. It’s nice to meet you, Reardon.”

“You too.”

Even the veterans were falling for Reardon’s charms, unable to resist the way he looked at the whole world seeing rainbows behind his eyes. But that was easy for a well-fed royal who’d never had anything to fear. Even in this castle, surrounded by people who should be his enemies, Reardon believed he was in no peril.

Naive. Ignorant.Jackkept thinking those same slights, yet he was drawn to Reardon as well and watched raptly from his hidden corridor as the prince worked just as hard as anyone else and made quick friends of everyone around him.

“Looks like that cloak of yours has a ripped seam.” Shayla nodded upward at the cloak hanging with the other drying clothes—deep purple, edged in gold embroidery and lined with thick tan fur. It was beautiful, but there was an obvious tear near the clasp at the collar. “I can fix it for you once it’s dry.”

“I can sew,” Reardon said proudly. “I don’t mind mending it myself. But maybe you can show me how you would do it. I’m sure your techniques are better, given these garments.” He indicated the shirt he wore, his doublet folded up nearby, as Zephyr had said.

With his sleeves rolled up, the emerald green shirt brought out his eyes even more, and his forearms strained with taut young muscle as he worked.

He was indeed fetching, especially with his front laces untied to reveal the line of his collarbone.

Jack saw the people around the basin sitting closest to his spying wall shiver, and he pulled back, realizing he’d gotten too close and had pressed a hand to the stones, causing them to frost over. If any of those who’d felt the cold realized what the chill meant, none paid any mind.

“My mother taught me how to sew,” Reardon continued, “and I always mend my own clothes if it’s simple enough. I’d hoped to learn weaving eventually too, and embroidery because… well, it’s fun, isn’t it? Having something new and interesting to wear, especially if you made it yourself? Barclay likes tailoring too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Shayla said in surprise. “Once Liam found out he’d been an alchemist’s apprentice, he stole him away from anyone else. I’ll have to conscript him sometime. You as well.”

Reardon flashed his lovely smile at her over his shoulder—and then hissed as he scraped a shirt down the washing board. Jack thought it was because a knuckle had missed the barrier of the fabric, but whenReardon pulled his hand from the water, there was a cut that had to have been made from something else.

“I guess the wolf got me after all.”

Wolf?

“We have supplies down here,” Wynn offered, rising from his work to head toward a row of shelving along the wall. “Let me wrap that for you.”

“I won’t be able to help then. It’s not so bad.”

“Listen to you,” Shayla huffed. “Fended off a dire wolf your first day and taking it in stride.”

Dire wolf?

The closer row of washers shivered again. Jack needed to stop leaning in.

Thank goodness Shayla had been with Reardon. Jack still wanted to see the prince’s fighting skills, but it appeared he had a way of averting the danger snapping at his heels.

“Yet you only got that small scratch after leaving it alive.” Wynn shook his head, gathering some ointment and bandages, obviously having heard the tale before Jack arrived. “Don’t fret. If you’d still like to help, you can switch to gathering up the dry garments. Everything gets folded and placed on top of these shelves, and anyone waiting on clothes pick them up themselves. Easier than remembering who wears what.”

Wynn sat with Reardon, attending to his wound as if they’d known each other for years, which was saying something for an elf who was so much older than he looked. Almost everyone here was older than they looked and set in their ways. Too often Jack felt his two hundred plus years compared to the young king he’d been when his life changed.

“Did you build anything else in the castle?” Reardon asked Wynn with an earnest scoot closer.

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