Ezra

“Did you know about this?” I ask Edgar.

It is well past closing. The restaurant is dark and empty. From the kitchen, I can hear the staff going about their last cleaning tasks, but otherwise, we are entirely alone. Edgar has collected an impressive number of glasses in all shapes and sizes, most of them empty.

“Oh yes,” he drawls sarcastically. “I knew all about it. But I figured, what’s the harm in reminding her of being tortured and starved in the castle dungeons for weeks— of course I didn’t know!”

He slams his current glass onto the table with such force that a champagne flute tips over. I catch it just as it threatens to roll off the edge. I wait until after Edgar slams down another thing, this time his head, before placing the glass back down.

“Gods,” he mutters. “This is fucked .”

I glance at my pocketwatch. By now, the carriage that I called for Mom, Pansy, and Lucienne has likely arrived back at Lavendel Road, and they are hopefully helping her get settled in bed. “Your Highness, if you’re done with your drinks, you are overdue back at the palace. They still think you are closed in your office, working past the hour.”

“And of course, it’s only a matter of time before they check on me,” Edgar mutters. “Me, an adult man, who needs a guard to poke his head in every five seconds to make sure I am not chewing on a choking hazard, or stifled in his crib, or visiting an ex-lover, oh my.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’ll go home whenever I fucking want to—you can just sneak into Ezra’s room and pick the guard’s log out of his inbox.”

“I am not doing that.”

“Pym did.”

“Don’t even mention that man right now,” I snap, and leave to inform the kitchen staff that we are done. I write them a hefty tip as an apology and bill all of it to Edgar’s bank account.

Edgar is in far too dire a condition to ride the horse he took here, so I call a carriage for him and ride his horse myself. I am too exhausted, and Edgar far too drunk, to even attempt a stealthy entrance; I just tell the guards to handle everything and trudge to the guest rooms. Fortunately, Thorunn is well-accustomed to my routine. He knows that if he is awoken in the dead of night by a knock at his door, it is always me, just having completed some grueling task on behalf of Edgar and in need of simple, quiet comfort.

“What did he do this time?” Thorunn asks.

I do not want to lift my face from where it rests on his chest, buried deep in his cotton nightshirt. I just want to go to sleep and forget everything that happened today. But Thorunn, at least, deserves to know what has got me in so dour a mood.

“It wasn’t him,” I finally mutter. “It was me. I messed up.”

He exhales. “Oh, dear. I’m sure you didn’t—”

“No. I did,” I reply. Thorunn begins to stroke my hair to comfort me, and I close my eyes. “Worst of all, I have to fix it. I get to see Prince Ezra tomorrow.”

“Want me on standby?”

“No, that’s alright.”

“Are you sure? Even after his…proposition?”

I then recall the first time I delivered records to Prince Ezra, when he asked me to join the prostitutes in his bed. Ugh. “On second thought,” I tell Thorunn, “maybe.”

The next morning, I have him stand at the end of the hall while I head towards Prince Ezra’s office. The office itself is unguarded and seldom used, since Ezra usually does his work in his bedroom (gross) so I am not expecting to actually need Thorunn. Just go in, find the night watch’s logs in his inbox, make the changes, and get out.

Then I open the door and come face to face with Prince Ezra and my whole plan goes out the window.

Not quite face-to-face, actually, since he is reclined on a couch to the left of his desk, with a stack of dossiers on the coffee table beside him. And at least this time, unlike any of the other times when I deliver records at night, Ezra is fully clothed. But he sees me and I see him and that is just as horrifying.

“Can I…help you?” he asks slowly.

“Just a moment,” I tell him, stick my head out the door, and motion for Thorunn to come closer. Once he is positioned right outside Ezra’s office door, I feel secure enough to step fully inside, let it shut, and curtsy. “I apologize for the disturbance, Your Highness.”

Ezra raises an eyebrow, or I assume he does, as it is soon lost in the curly mass of dark hair spilling over his eyes. But then he just lets out a bemused chuff and points to my right. “Inbox is by the door. I assume you’re going to…what, scribble it out? Or just take the whole page?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“My little brother snuck out last night, came back piss drunk, and now you’re covering his tracks. At least try to be subtle about it. Pym would prepare a whole ‘nother dossier for me, make up some urgent reason to look at it immediately, and steal the log while I was distracted. So sophisticated. You could learn a thing or two.”

I grit my teeth. I wish people would stop comparing me to Pym. But I do relax a little, knowing that I have no reason to lie or dance around Ezra. He already knows. Now I am just unsure what to do about that. “Then…I think I’m just going…to go…”

“No, no.” He looks back down at the file folder in his hands. “Don’t let me get in the way of your job. Go on, take a look. Redact whatever you need.”

Is he serious? I examine him for a few moments, wondering if he is just trying to trick me. When he does not look up, simply continuing to flick through the file, I am forced to assume he is, indeed, serious. Slowly, I reach for the inbox and start my search, glancing up occasionally. For all intents and purposes, Prince Ezra does not seem to care. I find what I am looking for and tuck it into my pocket to be shredded later. Ezra does not say a word. Then, just as I am about to turn and leave, he clears his throat.

“You should be aware, by the way,” he mentions casually, “I know what you are.”

My heart stops.

“I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness,” I say.

Ezra reaches across the coffee table to a bowl. He withdraws a handful of nuts and starts crunching them loudly, slowly. All the while, he is staring at me, gauging my reaction. I let my annoyance show plainly upon my face, as it is a good cover to conceal my stone cold terror. Finally he swallows and waves his hand dismissively.

“Come now. No need for all that,” says Prince Ezra. “I know you’re Edgar’s spawn. It’s my job to know that sorta thing—intelligence, rumors, secrets. I know everyone in this palace better’n they even know themselves. Besides,” he cracks a wry grin, “we bastards have got to stick together, don’t we?”

We bastards?

“Oh, don’t give me that look. That one’s an open secret by now—you can’t get a dark-haired kid from two blondie parents, unless one of ‘em ran off and put his dick in a brunette. But nobody knows about you, s’far as I’m aware.”

In general, speaking with Ezra is like getting punched in the gut over and over, with little time in between for reprieve. One can reasonably expect that what he is about to say will be fast and brutal, but one can never predict how much it will knock the wind out of you. This time is no exception.

At last, I manage a weak, wobbling, “Is it that obvious?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the spitting image of your old man,” Ezra cackles. “Come on, sit down.”

He saunters to his desk and, with a theatrical flourish, withdraws a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Then he waves me over to the sitting area. Warily, I approach and sit, but do not take a sip from my glass until Ezra drinks from his. The alcohol is strong, but most importantly, incredibly fine. I have not tasted anything so beautifully smooth since my past life of luxury.

“Course, in all fairness, I didn’t realize it right away,” Ezra prattles on. “That first time you came by. When I invited you in? Sorry about that, won’t happen again. We don’t fuck family around here. Not like some kingdoms. Anyway, you’re too young. I like my women a little older, more meat on their bones. More cushion for the pushin’.”

“You’re…disgusting,” slips from my mouth before I can stop it. Hastily, I add, “No offense, Your Highness.”

Ezra just grins. “Please, call me Your Vileness. Commit to the bit. Where was I? Oh yes. Family resemblance. Swear to fuck, every time you barge in here, I’m half ready to hear my little brother yapping at me.”

“Okay.” As long as he is fine with me calling him names, I am fine with that too. “You’re delusional. Edgar and I look nothing alike.”

“It’s not what you see in the mirror, not exactly. Well, that’s part of it. You’ve got his nose. His facial features. But it’s more...how you hold yourself. How you talk. You say the same things, same figures of speech, intonations. And you’re both so…self-righteous. Completely full of yourselves. You walk like him, with a stick up your arse, and you’re always scowling, and you never use your hands when you talk, which is fuckin’ weird, by the way, it’s like talking to a statue. Gesticulate a bit. People will like you more.”

“I don’t care about being liked.”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about—he says that too. Saints, it’s fuckin’ uncanny.”

Ezra finishes off his drink before leaning far back on the couch and propping his shoes up on the coffee table. I wrinkle my nose. I suppose Edgar and I must get that bad habit from the king’s side of the family.

“Anyway,” Ezra continues, “the reason I’m telling you this is— hic —you and Edgar are going about this all wrong. I’ve been watching you, y’know—sorta my job, after all—but I really figured I would have to do more work about it, honest. You’re too obvious. L’Magnifique is a terrible rendezvous point. It’s practically swarming with the Queen’s agents, not to mention my own. And their shrimp cocktail sauce is disgusting.”

I interrupt him. “What the hell are you on about?”

Ezra scowls. “Are you dense? I’m trying. To. Help. You.”

“Why?”

He holds up one finger. “For one, Edgar’s my baby brother. He’s the only one in this family who ever gave a damn about me, so, might as well help him out.”

I frown. That does not make much sense to me, especially considering how Edgar speaks of Ezra as more of a liability than a beloved family member. But since I am an only child, I can only guess as to the intricacy of sibling relationships.

“And for two,” Ezra continues, holding up a second finger, “I’m curious. I want to know what will happen. Edgar is pretty hard set on you becoming his heir, but we all know that’s possible. I’m not interested in that. I’m interested in what’s not supposed to be possible, the thing that is the true object of his fascination: turning a slave into a princess. I think your mother will be a fantastic addition to the family; so, I’m helping you and Edgar out.”

He flicks out a pen, scribbles something down on a slip of paper, and hands it to me. “This is a referral to one of my best lawyers, El Visconte Niccolo Moretti. Anything you need done, he can do it…and I do mean anything. He is an unparalleled sharpshooter as well as a brilliant litigator.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I say, “but I have a feeling that Edgar is reluctant to accept outside help.”

Ezra yawns. “You’re probably right. But whether or not he wants it, he will need it. For what it’s worth—I did you both a favor and just told Moretti everything. So, hire him if you want, and secure his silence with coin. Or leave him as a loose thread and a liability. Your call, Miss Odric…or Rossach, or whatever you prefer. I’m just here to watch the show.”