“Having fun doesn’t require looking ridiculous.”
“You don’t look ridiculous,” I promised, though I’m sure my poor attempts to hide my amusement undermined my words. I leaned closer so that no one else would hear us. “And you’re aprince. You should have a crown.”
He stiffened. I could feel the cords of his muscles go rigid beneath my grip on his wrist.
Realization hit me like a slap—I was only inches from his face. Far closer than I meant to be. I knew how all this must look to him—the teasing, the touching, all of it—and frankly, it turned my stomach.
My hand flew open, releasing his wrist as if his skin burned me. And I jumped back.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him quickly. “I’m not trying to come on to you or anything. I just wanted to give you a crown.”
He was quiet, his lips pressed together in a hard line, and naturally, as the awkward silence stretched between us, I found myself rushing to fill it.
“You don’t have to wear it,” I told him. “I mean, who knows where it’s been or who was wearing it before? I don’t know if lice are a thing in this world, but maybe—”
“It’s fine,” he said, as if he had to choke out the words. “I’ll wear it.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“You don’t have to look so bloody surprised. It’s just a blasted flower crown.”
You could’ve fooled me, I thought. But before I could say anything, he’d already turned away.
“Come on. Let’s go enjoy the Festival,” he said, stalking down the street.
The awkwardness of a moment ago dissolved as I watched him march off to “enjoy” himself with the rigidity of Frankenstein’s monster. All weirdness forgotten, I bit down on a laugh and hurried after him.
I wonder how far I can push this, I thought, understanding why Octavian and Radven got so much enjoyment out of egging him on. It wasso easyit was kind of hard to resist.
We’d made it halfway down the block when a stall caught my eye. Beneath the blue-and-red striped fabric, a man was serving flagons of a thick, steaming liquid that smelled intoxicatingly like pumpkin pie. And as a shameless pumpkin spice whore, I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing Alastor’s arm.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I believe that’s what they refer to as ‘Hill Brew’,” he remarked, eyeing it suspiciously. “It’s probably most similar to mulled wine. Or spiced cider blended with brandy. The exact recipe is a secret, and this is the only place in Therador you’ll find it.”
Well, that settled it.
“We should get some,” I said, dragging Alastor by the sleeve over to the stall.
“I should warn you,” Alastor drawled, “it’s quite strong. Especially for someone who’s never had it before.”
That made me pause, but only for a second. “Then I’ll sip it slowly.”
He gave me one of thoseI-really-want-to-roll-my-eyes-but-I’m-too-dignified-to-do-itlooks but said nothing. And when we got to the front of the line, he didn’t object when I ordered one for him, too.
It wasn’t until the man pouring the brew held his hand out for payment that I remembered I had no money. I looked up at Alastor hopefully.
He sighed, then shoved his hand into his pocket and passed a handful of coins to the man’s waiting palm.
And I suppressed another smile.
Seconds later, we each had a steaming flagon in our hands. I took a deep breath, inhaling that delectable pumpkin spice aroma, and the burn of alcohol hit my nostrils. Alastor was right—this stuffwasstrong. I could probably get drunk on the scent alone.
Tentatively, I took a sip. A dozen flavors hit my tongue at once—cinnamon, nutmeg, syrupy sweetness, and an earthiness that rounded out everything else. The drink was surprisingly smooth, sliding down my throat with only the subtlest burn from the alcohol.
Alastor was watching me.
“What?” I asked lightly, my eyebrow raised in a challenge. “Afraid I can’t hold my liquor?”
