Author's Preface
Ezra turns to Lucienne. “Miss…Lisle, is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” she responds, unflinching. “Lucienne Lisle.”
“ You have an interesting file,” says Ezra. “From a baby dropped on a church doorstep to a veritable world record. Miss Lisle, did you know that you are the highest recorded instance of idle arcane output from a single individual since Pietro the Mad back in 342? Of course, that doesn’t mean anything if you’re not channeling it. But it’s a marvel the universities haven’t snatched you up on a full scholarship yet. You could do wonders in academia, yet you waste away in that church basement.”
Lucienne seems nothing short of shocked. Then, ashamed. But she steels herself and responds flatly, “Nobody will hire an albino freak who can’t fix her own legs.”
Ezra shrugs. “We’ll find a use for you. You’re one of those tinkering types, right?”
“I prefer ‘inventor,’” says Lucienne.
“You make those fancy-schmancy thingamabobs. Doodads. Macguffins.”
“ACCs. Arcane convection circuits.”
“Yes, that. I have a few projects I need done—some related to this matter, some just personal fascination, but I need someone who can work fast, isn’t connected to the church or its subsidiaries, and…understands that to make any meaningful scientific progress, rules may need to be broken. If I get you a lab, can I trust you to develop some ACCs for me, no matter what?”
“What’s it for?” I cut in. “Your Highness, with all due respect, I don’t appreciate you volunteering my friends for dubiously moral scientific research—”
“Yes,” Lucienne interrupts me. “I’ll do it.”
“Luci?” Pansy says, eyes wide.
“When you say that science requires ‘breaking rules,’” says Lucienne, “you really mean breaking laws, is that right?”
Ezra opens his mouth. Moretti shakes his head. “Don’t answer that, Your Highness.”
“My lawyer has advised me not to answer,” Ezra says instead.
“Fine,” Lucienne shrugs. “I don’t care. I’ll do it, whatever it is. Just make sure my lab is wheelchair accessible, shield me from the legal consequences of my research, and you won’t have a problem with me.”
“Luci,” I lean across the table, “we should probably talk about this.”
“Ellie,” she meets my gaze, and I can see by the steely cold glare in her pink eyes that she is not budging, “I don’t think you understand how much this means to me.”
“Wonderful! I’ll have my people draw up the contract later today.” Ezra claps his hands together with a cheerful grin. I, on the other hand, am fuming. I am beginning to realize exactly what this meeting is for. “Now…next up, Miss…oh, gods, I can never remember your full name.”
Pansy offers a tense smile. She clearly sees right through Ezra just as I do, and she has just witnessed how quickly the prince can take control of a person. “It’s because I changed it,” she says tersely. “Pansy Thudovarius.”
“Of course! Ahh, the youngest of the Thudovarius clan—they must be thrilled to finally have a daughter, after so many generations of only sons. Nontraditionally, of course, but I can imagine your mother is ecstatic. She always wanted a baby girl. And I am being genuine, my lady; I really think you underestimate how positively they will take this new development. You’re even young enough to have a debutante ball.”
Even I have to admit, Ezra raises a very important point. For noble families, a son is important to carry on the family name, but a daughter is important to fill the family coffers. When I was much younger, I used to have very strong opinions as to the ethics of women being sold on the market like cattle, but now that I have done that exact thing myself—pledging myself to Thorunn in exchange for his devout loyalty and protection—my perspective has shifted somewhat. Some marriages are more like an auction, true. But other marriages are more like business strategies, where, in the end, the woman holds all the power. Pansy’s family, like all other noble houses, seeks to expand their wealth, but there is only so much a smattering of sons can do to grow it. A daughter, on the other hand, attracts wealth like moths to a flame. At a debutante ball, her introduction into proper society, Pansy will get her first glimpse into a market full of men, which I know she has always dreamed of.
“Here’s what I have in mind,” Ezra continues. “Lady Thudovarius—I won’t beat around the bush, you’re rather new to this whole ‘being a lady’ thing. But so is someone else at this table…Imogen.”
Mom looks up, eyes wide. It doesn’t help that she has a singular breaded shrimp pinched between two fingers and a smear of sauce on her chin. In her defense, eating breaded shrimp with utensils seems overly pretentious, even for royalty, so I personally believe she is correct. But it is still an inopportune time to be caught doing it.
“If we plan to move forward with reclaiming Imogen’s gifts,” Moretti chimes in, “one argument that the Crown will raise is that she is a commoner, unfit to receive so much wealth. They might say she is not capable of handling the money.”
“I can handle it for her,” I say.
“No, you can’t,” Moretti responds brusquely. “Either Imogen shows she is capable of administering her own affairs, or ‘Elizabeth’ must come home.”
“Ellie, I’ll be fine,” Mom smiles. “So, what do I need to do? Etiquette lessons? Dancing and piano?”
“You can’t learn piano that fast,” says Ezra, “but etiquette, that’s doable. I’m reluctant to welcome any new people into this fold, so for now, I am assigning Lady Thudovarius to be your instructor. She’s new to it too, like I said, but from what I have observed she’s picked it up like a natural. You’ll learn together.”
“Ezra, can I ask for something?” says Mom.
“Anything, darling.”
“If I’m already studying to become a proper lady, I should be able to protect myself. I don’t have guards or informants, not like you all. So I want to learn how to shoot.”
My sweet, tiny, innocent mother? With a firearm? The idea is almost too ludicrous to believe. But I remember vividly how she was reduced to tears at the mere thought of being taken back to the castle dungeons—if a weapon would restore her confidence and assuage her fears, then that is what we will do.
Ezra glances to Moretti. “I don’t see a problem with that. You wouldn’t mind taking a student, would you?”
“Respectfully, Your Highness,” Moretti responds, “I have a lot of work to do.”
“You can bill for it. Call it…trial preparation.”
He frowns. Then he shrugs. “Alright.”
None of this is going how I wanted it to. Pansy and Lucienne are now both firmly under Ezra’s thumbs, and Mom will be taking marksman lessons from Moretti? I never imagined keeping Mom away from Edgar would involve tossing her—as well as my closest friends—into Ezra’s lap instead.
The banquet doors open, and the waiter steps in with more wine. I had declared that I would not have any, as I wished to stay as clear-headed as possible, but suddenly, a tall glass of golden wine appears in front of me.
“Mm, and what is this one?” asks Ezra.
“This is a pinot grigio from the year 448, sourced from L’Magnifique’s own vineyards,” says the waiter.
“Ugh. Your vineyards are landfills. But fine, go ahead, maybe the girl will like it.” He waves his hand dismissively, and once the waiter has left, turns to me. “Of course, Baroness, I don’t mean to neglect you in this discussion.”
Wary, but curious, I take a sip of the golden wine. It is fantastic, and I will absolutely be taking the bottle home with me. Ezra is paying, after all. Still, I sip slow so as not to overwhelm myself. Prince Ezra has just about declared total war against me. “Yes,” I manage through clenched teeth. “If you would lend me your ear for a moment.”
“By all means.”
“With all due respect, Your Highness,” I say, with no respect at all, “I would like you to get your paws off of my mother.”
Normally, I might try to be more tactful. But Ezra has been pressing my buttons all day and his closeness with Mom pushes me to the breaking point. He is not physically touching her now, but when I call it out, it becomes patently clear to the whole table that he has been gradually shifting his chair closer to hers until he is practically in her lap. Mom, too, seems to realize this for the first time and laughs awkwardly.
“She has a point, Ezra,” says Mom. “Out of context, this is…pretty odd.”
I do not hide my pointed glare at Prince Ezra. “I thought you said you don’t fuck family. She’s your sister-in-law, isn’t she?”
“Not with that attitude, she’s not,” Ezra grumbles, then sighs. “Listen, Baroness. I’ll explain this once, and never again, because if you don’t understand it the first time I doubt you’ll ever get it. Imogen and I are just friends. We go back a long time, about as long as she and your old man, actually.”
I look at Mom. She was the one who told me the whole bit about Ezra being “sweet” on her, but she is just nodding along. “Mom, is this true?”
“There was that time where you were sweet on me,” Mom nudges Ezra with her elbow. “Wasn’t that the reason you talked to me at all?”
“Oh, yeah. And fat lot of good it did me.” Ezra snickers. “Tell them about it, Imogen.”
“Well, it was a couple years after Edgar proposed to me. The first time, with the little ribbon-ring. One day, we agree to meet out in the gardens to go fishing at the pond, but Edgar is running late. So I sit by myself for a while on the little rope-swing, and while I am waiting alone by myself, who should stumble upon me but poor old Ezra? Not old. You were…thirteen?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen. Though I would’ve guessed you went all those years without ever seeing a woman in your life. You hardly knew what to do with yourself—as I recall, the first words out of your mouth were, ‘Will you be my concubine?’”
“And then she slapped me,” Ezra adds.
“And then I slapped him,” Mom agrees. “I was just a servant, but my word, even I knew that was beyond the bounds of decency. Apparently you didn’t.”
“In my defense, I had just learned what a concubine was yesterday. And I was fourteen, for gods’ sake. How about you try being a horny teenager and then your tutor tells you, ‘Because you’re a prince, you’re entitled to as many girlfriends as your manhood desires’. Then you try to be normal and well-adjusted around women.”
“And we’ve been best friends ever since,” Mom grins cheerfully.
The back-and-forth storytelling is making me dizzy. Or maybe it is just the strangeness of it all. The whole time leading up to this meeting, I wondered if Mom knew about Ezra’s decadent lifestyle. From the sounds of it, though, he has always been a pervert. And for some reason, she does not seem to mind that much.
“To answer your question, Baroness,” says Ezra, leaning on his elbows, “I suppose I can keep my ‘paws’ off of your mother. But rest assured, I pose no threat to her, nor to her relationship with baby Edgar. It’s true, I was sweet on her for about five minutes—but I don’t love her. I don’t love anybody.”
“Weren’t you married eight times?” asks Mom.
“And divorced eight times. All my exes will all tell you the same thing—that I am fantastic in bed and dogshit at emotional connection.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s fair,” Mom puts her hand on his shoulder. “You’re good at emotional manipulation. That must count for something.”
Alright. I’m convinced. They are best friends. At least, Mom believes them to be. I still do not trust Prince Ezra as far as I can throw him, but that would be a given even if he confessed to being a eunuch with a total vow of celibacy. Whether aromantic, asexual, both, or neither, he’ll find some way to fuck us.
Even if Ezra is just playing one of his games, his and Mom’s dynamic makes more sense with the context that they are just very good friends. Once again, I am quickly forgotten in favor of them making plans to go shopping, get makeovers, and sample every bar in the upper city. With a scoff, I finish off my wine and decide that speaking directly to Ezra is likely a moot point by now. I will just go behind his back and demand answers from his lawyer.
“Have you spoken to Edgar yet?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, yes,” says Moretti. “I’ve been meaning to update you. Though I’m surprised His Highness hasn’t brought it up yet today.”
I glance back at Mom and Ezra. Mom is artfully telling a tale about something stupid her coworker did, to the uproarious laughter of Ezra. They are getting drunker by the second. “I don’t think he intends to,” I sigh. “I hope he has a designated driver.”
Moretti chuckles. “The carriage is waiting, yes. Shall I call one for you and Imogen, as well?”
“I don’t plan to keep drinking,” I shake my head. “As for Mom, well, we just planned to have Thorunn carry her.”
This is a joke, but I have noticed that Thorunn gets progressively tenser the longer that I speak with Moretti, so it seems like a good time to include him. I reach over and make a show of taking Thorunn’s hand, which, as a bonus, lets my diamond ring glimmer in full view. I quite like being engaged. Moretti is not the only one carrying a lethal weapon. He looks over my shoulder at the enormous Northman, swallows, and offers a pressed smile. Then he reaches for the bottle of pinot grigio, uncorks it, and fills my glass again.
“I suspect you may need it,” he says cautiously, nudging the glass towards me. “So I spoke to Edgar. The good news is that I was able to talk him down from planning any weddings.”
“And the bad news?”
“The bad news,” Moretti inhales, then pours another glass of wine for himself, “is that he is planning an engagement party.”