Page 85 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
“It’s nice to have you back, Beth. I’ll be back before sundown,” Kiro says with a boyish grin.
“Lots of new friends, eh?” I quip.
He gives a dismissive shrug. “The guys from the new school are alright. Mum told me I could hang out with them if it didn’t interfere with my schoolwork.”
Marge’s nose wrinkles. “Mum felt guilty for leaving us to our own devices. I just wish she didn’t have to work in the mines all summer.”
“You know she has to work while the weather’s good enough to allow for safe travel on the mountains.” The miners hire a ton of city moths to chisel the gems, and while it’s hard work, it’s a decent pay.
“But she could find a safer job here,” Marge says, gnawing at her bottom lip.
With Aunt Paola’s salary, along with the money I’ll earn as a clerk in the Winter royal bibliotheca every summer before I graduate, the twins won’t have to quit school, and maybe even go on to the Tundra university, Thanatos willing.
“Oh, this is divine,” Marge holds my academy corset to her chest, her big round eyes full of admiration, her chatterbox attitude drowning the constantploc, ploc, plocof the ceiling leak in the corner of our bedroom.
I grin. “Be careful with that.”
I left most of my uniforms at the academy but brought along the fanciest one. If I get expelled, I can sell it for a nice price. It won’t make much of a consolation prize, but it’ll be something.
After months of handling invaluable books and having my pick of round-the-clock, all-you-can-eat buffets, it’s humbling to be home and dealing with the day-to-day reality of being poor again.
“Are you excited to start work tomorrow? I heard tons of lords visit the palace bibliotheca every day,” Marge says.
“Sure,” I mumble, my mind elsewhere.
She pokes my arm with one finger. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d be thrilled to recount your adventures, but you’ve barely said a word about school. Do you miss your drop-dead-gorgeous fiancé?” She clasps her hands together and lets herself fall back onto the mattress, her brown pigtails sprawled on either side of her youthful face. “Oh, are you in love with him, Beth? Your prince? It’s so romantic. I wish I had a prince.”
I can’t bring myself to shatter her sweet, unrealistic romantic notions. She just turned thirteen. I’d rather she remains a kid for a little while longer.
Aidan’s smile pops into my mind. “My prince is very handsome,” I say, skirting the truth.
“And you love him?”
Air whistles out of my lungs, and I look down at my hands. The memory of Aidan’s fingers entwined with mine is vivid enough to hurt. “I do.”
Marjorie crashes into my side and hugs me tight. “Oh, I’m so glad.”
We cook dinner together as we have countless times and eat once Kiro gets home. Afterward, the twins retreat to their bedroom to study. We usually all share a room, but their mother relinquished her small bedroom on the other side of the thin partition wall during her absence.
The familiarity of it all forms a raw ache in my chest. I clean out the bedroom leak bucket, each of the tiny bumps and dents in its surface telling stories of the years of use. The water sloshes out into the sink, and I wipe away the droplets that cling to the sides, the old habits coming back to me in an instant.
The academy was such a different world. A different life, almost.
Aidan fills my thoughts as I tidy the minuscule kitchen. My family’s entire life could fit into the little cabin he built for fun in the gardens. The contrast stings—his luxuries, our struggles, and the impossibility of my fantasies.
Despite the promises I made to myself, my planned marriage to Zeke would ensure both of my cousins a life they’ve only dreamed of. But at what cost?
The click of the latch pulls me out of my dark thoughts, and I press my lips together.
Papa cracks open the door, the hinges whining from the cold and humidity, and slips inside. “Welcome home, Lizzie,” he says, resting his work binder on the hall table.
I scurry over to hang his jacket and peck his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.” The uniform smells of oil and winter air, a familiar scent that grounds me to reality. He’s munching on his bottom lip the way he does when he’s stressed, and I ask, “Do you want some stew? I could reheat supper if you want.”
The tensed lines of his brows soften. “Oh, it’s nice to have you home. But if you don’t mind, I’m going to go straight to bed. I’m exhausted.”
I grimace, hesitating. After wracking my brain all day about this siren business, I don’t think I can wait any longer. “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I hand him the cup of hot cider I’d prepared, the steam curling between us, and pull out a chair for him at the kitchen table.
