Hurt feet! Carry?Brumous whined, holding up one paw.
“Nice try, Drama Llama.” My fingers found the scar tissue under his chin. Smooth now, thanks to our relentless care. “Your paws aredirty, nothurt.”
Shoving the letter into my pocket, I took off at a sprint back toward the house, Brummy loping easily beside me. My mind raced faster than my feet.
“What the fang-rotted fuck does she want?” I growled as we cleared the orchard and the manor came into view. Home. Safe. Except in approximately seven hours, it would be a battleground of awkward family dynamics.
I burst through the back door into the kitchen, where Mrs. Wentzel was elbow-deep in bread dough. She didn’t even look up as I skidded to a halt before her.
“Make sure he doesn’t get into anything, Prince Zane,” she commanded, punching the dough with surprising force.
Brumous instantly sat on his haunches, tail still wagging, but at a more respectable tempo. Smart wolf. Never cross the kitchen witch.
“Mrs. Wentzel,” I began, trying for charming and landing somewhere between desperate and manic, “culinary goddess ofEvermere, have I told you lately that your chicken pot pie changed my entire existence?”
She finally looked up, flour dusting her forearms like war paint, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits.
“What did you do?”
“Me? Nothing!” I pressed a hand to my chest in mock offense. “But, uh, hypothetically speaking, how would you feel about two unexpected dinner guests tonight?”
“Depends.” The bread dough received another punishing blow. “Are they carnivores, herbivores, or blood-ivores?”
“Regular food is fine, but one of them might appreciate something celestial?”
“Celestial,” she repeated, and I took a deep breath.
“Mum’s coming.”
“Yourmother.” Mrs. Wentzel’s hands stilled in the dough.
“Yep.”
“Tonight.” Each word dropped like a lead weight. “For dinner.”
“Surprise?” I tried with my most winning smile.
Mrs. Wentzel closed her eyes, lips moving silently. I strongly suspected she was counting to a hundred. When she opened them again, her expression had shifted from murderous to merely homicidal.
“And what time shall we expect Her Majesty?”
“The letter didn’t specify, but she usually likes to make an entrance right at sunset. Dramatic lighting and all that.”
“Of course she does.” Mrs. Wentzel wiped her hands on her apron very slowly. “And I suppose you’ll be wanting something suitably impressive? A feast that would normally take three days to prepare? Shall I roast the cockatrice or grill the minotaur?”
“I know she likes those tiny squids in ink sauce,” I offered.
“Calamares en su tinta,” Addison corrected from the back doorway, a tower of heirloom squash balanced in his arms.
“Does it look like I keep cephalopods in stock?” Mrs. Wentzel threw her arms out and looked mockingly around the kitchen.
“Look, I didn’tinviteher! It’sMum!” I flapped the letter like a white flag, which only earned me a squinty-eyed glare for my impudence. “She just declared she was coming! That’s how she operates. But I’m sorry,” I added and meant it. “If it’s too much, I can try to tell her—”
“Tell the Storm Queen she’s not welcome? Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Wentzel pulled out a notebook from a drawer and began flipping through it. “We have that venison. Perhaps with ajuniper reduction. And the elderflower honey for the roasted squash.” She glanced up at me. “Does Her Majesty have any dietary restrictions?”
“No. And her consort, Caelyr, will eat anything you put in front of him, but he really likes fruit.”
“Fruit.” She scribbled furiously. “And how many courses would be appropriate for royal dignitaries from the Sky Realm?”
