These people had done nothing but provide unhelpful commentary all morning. It was our first day, there was no caffeinehere, and a cheerful man had given us a hearty beatdown. Anyone would shed a few discouraged tears, but these people looked at Bryce like one drop of water from his eyeball discredited his abilities completely. It waswrong. Tears didn’t make Bryce pathetic. His personality did.
Grabbing Gruff Guy by his collar, I yanked him down to eye level. I lowered my voice so Bryce wouldn’t hear me defending him and get the wrong impression. “I swear, if you or your pathetic peasant pals say one more negative thing about Bryce, I’ll request the king have you hung—hanged? Hung.” I deliberated a second more, then whispered, “Hanged?”
Gruff Guy swallowed hard. “Apologies, miss, I didn’t mean nuffin’ by it.”
“Sure.” Releasing him, I stepped back and raised my voice. “Everyone, back to work.” The words, which had often been yelledatme, felt odd comingoutof me. “Or at least go slack somewhere else,” I called after their retreating backs so I could sleep at night without hating myself.
Meanwhile, Bryce staggered to his feet, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. “What did you say to that guy?” He pointed at the dissipating crowd.
“Nothing. I think watching you repeatedly fail got monotonous.”
He gave me a weird look. “You must’ve said something to get them to leave me alone. They clearly hate me.”
I smiled gently. “I don’t think your issue is that you wield a sword like a toddler playing T-ball, or that your leather pants make it super clear you’ve skipped leg day one too many times, or even that you bear an uncanny resemblance to a garden gnome.”
“Gee, thanks.” Bryce tried to pull away, but I hooked an arm around him and pulled him back. His skin burned through the thin linen of his shirt.
“It’s the tears. Fantasy heroes aren’t allowed to cry. Like, sure,unicorns are real, and magic is a thing, but a place without toxic masculinity? Inconceivable.”
“I wasn’tcrying. It’s my allergies. The real evil lurking here is this world’s astronomical pollen count. I can practically see it in the air. How am I supposed to fight anything without my Claritin? God, and hand sanitizer. I miss hand sanitizer.”
Bryce looked about one second away from losing it, so I didn’t push the issue. Though I had noticed he had no problem braving pollen every time he helped Doris, our elderly next door neighbor, mow her lawn.
“Whatever the reason for your watering eyes,” I said instead, “it’s not okay for men to show emotion—not even in a fantasy world—the one exception being if their entire army has been massacred by the evil foe, and they’re alone on their knees in the middle of a foggy battlefield. Then, and only then, are they allowed one singular tear. And only if their face is super battered and dirty, and their loyal companion has been captured, and also their girlfriend has dumped them for some obscure reason.”
Bryce looked down at me, his blue-fire eyes bright in the midday sun, orange hair a messy halo around his head. He let out a soft puff of air through his nose, almost a laugh, though his face remained set, and I knew he caught my sarcasm. The settling dust lit golden around us made me feel like wewerein the middle of a foggy battlefield. That was the only explanation for why the air felt charged with significance.
“I don’t have one, you know,” he said. “A girlfriend.”
“I know you don’t” popped out of my mouth. “I mean, not because I care. I just noticed you stay in on weekends, so I figured.”
“And you?” Bryce asked, averting his eyes. “Do you have someone special you keep locked up in your basement?”
“Believe it or not, I’m more of a serial dater rather than a serial killer.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed.
Some weird urge to explain made words build up in the back of my throat until they burst free. They tumbled over one another, each one faster than the last. “It’s easier that way, you know? Besides, it’s not like anyone is lining up to date me long-term. There’s a list of questions everyone asks when they’re looking for a relationship.” I ticked them off with my fingers. “Kids, job, aspirations, and with each box you fail to check off, their interest goes down. My life is enough for me, but it’s not enough for anyone else. Even you told me I should change.”
Bryce frowned for a second, then his eyes widened as though he’d had an epiphany. “That’s not what I—”
“I thought I might find you here,” a decrepit, crackly voice interrupted. The old guy—or Amy, as we’d been calling him, since he had a keyboard smash of a name—wobbled across the courtyard, his purple robes billowing underfoot. “The servants have prepared a luncheon for you. After that, it’s time for magic practice.”
The luncheon had been set up in the castle gardens and appeared to be attended by everyone who was at the dinner last night. This was good news, as I hoped to get a chance to interrogate the princess a little.
The gardens looked like a surrealist painting, with twisting topiary spiraling from sparkling rock gardens and strange trellises supporting flowering vines that coiled and arched over cobblestone pathways. Vibrant purple, green, and blue foliage spilled over garden beds, and pillowy trees with blooms the size of my head cast pleasant shade over the center of the garden, where a long table had been erected. A fountain gurgled to the side. The bizarre statue in the middle was of a woman with cropped hair wearing a fringed flapper dress, of all things, while she rode a rearing horse and wielded a broadsword. A Chosen One from days past, maybe.
Beside me, Bryce dissolved into a sneezing fit, the fragrantpollen in the air apparently rendering him helpless. I abandoned him in his time of need, spotting the princess seated toward the far end of the table.
The meal appeared to be a free-for-all—people coming and going, some eating at the table while others milled about with their plates of finger food.
I slid into a chair opposite the princess and began piling my delicate porcelain plate with a heap of bite-sized sandwiches, some kind of fruit that looked like purple watermelon, and a delightful array of poofy pastries. As I shoved an herby sandwich layered with something that resembled a cucumber into my mouth, I let my eyes roll back into my head. After a morning of exertion, I was famished.
“So,” I said to the princess, after I’d swallowed. “I feel like we didn’t get a chance to talk the other night. Tell me about yourself.”
The princess looked pleased to have been addressed by a potential Chosen One. “My name is Clementine. Princess Clementine of the Seven Isles.”
“Ah, we come from similar backgrounds. I looked after sixty-eight aisles in my land,” I said, thinking of the store where I worked. “Do you ever have intrusive thoughts, Clementine?”
