“Un-xaggerated,” said Kuni. “Graham can do tricks you cannot imagine.”
“Un-xaggeratedisn’t a word,” her husband whispered.
“It should be,” she grumbled. “Your language is woefully incomplete.”
“Minimized,” Viv suggested. “Understated. Underreported. Misconstrued. Underestimated. Miscalculated.” She remembered Kuni was Balcovian and switched to Dutch for the next dozen synonyms, since the two languages were close enough to be mutually intelligible.
Kuni and Graham both opened their eyes to stare at her.
“Writer,” she mumbled. “I like words.”
“Apparently.” Graham pushed himself up on his elbows. “Do you know who else likes words?”
“So help me, if you attempt to match-make me to your brother—”
“Sir Gareth Jallow,” Graham finished with satisfaction. “Now, there’s a poet’s poet. I cannot wait for his new book next week.”
“Jacob hates Jallow,” whispered Kuni. “We’re not to mention his name.”
“Not in front of Jacob,” Graham agreed. “But we are allowed to say ‘Sir Gareth Jallow’ in front of Miss Henry.”
“Vivian,” Viv said. “We did the first-name thing yesterday.”
“Do you know what the biggest problem with Jallow is?” asked Graham.
Kuni covered her face with her hands. “Here he goes. If you have any ability at all for running away over rooftops… this is your cue to deploy your emergency evacuation skills.”
Graham threw his arms out wide. “Jallow isn’t a prince! He’s a meresir.”
“Knights are respectable,” said Kuni. “Baronets are respectable.”
“They’re not royalty,” Graham said. “Just think how much better that poetry would be if it had been written by a king.”
“It would be the same poetry,” Kuni said. “Literally the exact same words in the exact same order. Just by a man with a different name.”
“Precisely,” Graham said dreamily. “So much better.”
“Words should be written by whomever they’re written by,” said Viv. “Man, woman, Black, white. It shouldn’t matter.”
“You’re new here,” said Graham. “Gender and racial equality is definitely not how England works.”
“Or anywhere,” Viv muttered.
“Actually,” began Kuni, her eyes lighting up.
“Now you did it.” Graham pulled his wife to her feet. “You gotherstarted. Prepare for waves of vomit-inducing jealousy.”
“We can all move to Balcovia at any time you want,” Kuni scolded him. “Winter at the Summer Palace, then move back here in time for spring.”
“Winter… in the Summer… Palace?” Viv echoed blankly.
“That’s when the royal family isn’t using it,” Kuni explained, leaving Viv even more confused than before. “I suppose we could take summers in the Winter Palace, but honestly, if you force me to choose—”
“No more choosing,” said Graham. “You already chose the exquisite fairy tale that is England.”
Kuni sent Viv a speaking look. “Something is definitely lost in translation.”
“My cousin would love to winter in the Summer Palace,” Viv said. “He would wear his all-blue ‘Baron Vanderbean’ outfit—”
