One entire bookcase held slider puzzles in various shapes and sizes. Violet had never seen so many before, and she peeked at Roman from the corner of her eye. She knew he enjoyed them, but she hadn’t realized how much. She filed the information away for later.
Violet quirked her lips to the side at how veryRomanthe space was. “This suits you,” she remarked and studied the game set on the table. “Who were you playing with?”
“Slayton.”
Violet’s head snapped up in surprise. “My Slayton?”
Roman scowled. “He is notyourSlayton.”
Oh, this is too good.“You and Slayton are friends,” she accused gleefully.
Roman stood firm and folded his arms across his chest. “No, we’re not.”
“You like him,” Violet taunted with a laugh. Stepping forward, she pried Roman’s arms apart and slid her own around his middle. “That makes me happy.”
Tenderness filled his gaze. “You’re delusional.”
She chuckled and spun around. “Let’s play a game.” Grabbing a familiar game from the shelf, she went to her knees on the soft rug before the fireplace and started to set up.
Roman crouched down and stayed her hand with his. “It’s late. We can play tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She sighed dramatically. “I was hoping we could play for articles of clothing, but I guess it can wait.”
Roman’s fingers curled around her wrist. Whatever he’d intended to say drowned out when a tinkering bell and clucking sound came from somewhere beyond the door.
Violet dropped the game pieces and pivoted to stare at the door. “What is that?”
The prince shot to his feet, mumbling under his breath before saying, “Babs. She must have escaped again and slipped in through War’s door.”
He made to leave, and Violet scrambled after him. “Who is Babs, and why does she sound like a bird?”
Roman peered over his shoulder, opened the door, and stared at a plump auburn hen with a pink string attached to the tiniest bell tied around her neck.
Violet jumped back, and the hen stared at Roman. She clucked with all the indignation a hen could possess and ran forward. Violet screamed and ran backward. The bird pecked Roman on the shin once and flapped her wings.
“You’re being a brat again,” Roman told the hen before picking her up and stroking her head gently. “Violet, this is Babs. Babs, this is my mate, Violet.”
Babs clucked in greeting.
Violet stared warily at Babs. “Roman, why are you holding a chicken with a name?”
“I was speaking with the head cook about moving a cook to our house, and Babs ran into the main kitchen, sending the staff into a fuss. A few tried to chase her down.” He chuckled. “She’s a slippery little thing. Cook said to use her for dinner, and I don’t know… It didn’t feel right.”
Violet’s eyes ticked from Roman to Babs. “You eat chicken all the time.”
He hiked a shoulder. “I didn’t want anyone to eat her.”
Violet rolled her lips together and took a tentative step forward. “You tied a bell to her.”
“She likes to hide,” he explained. “She’s not supposed to come into the house, but she keeps breaking out of her coop somehow.”
“If she poops in our house, I’m closing War’s door permanently,” Violet warned. The thought of stepping in chicken droppings made her want to puke. “I’m serious.”
Roman frowned. “She doesn’t come into the house often, and there have been no accidents yet.” He petted her again, and to Violet’s utter delight, raised his tone as if speaking to a small child. “You just wanted to meet Violet, didn’t you girl?”
Roman looked up to say something, noticed Violet’s barely leashed laughter, and frowned. “What’s so funny?”
Shaking her head, Violet waved her hand at him. “This. All of it. I’m bringing in an artist to commission a painting of you and Babs.”
