“Bash, Your Majesty,” the pirate says at my shoulder, reaching past me to offer Driz his hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Bash, I think. Unusual, but…well, it suits him.
Driz takes his hand with an expression of mild confusion. “Your Majestyis my father, don’t you know,” he says, a little of his native bonhomie returning to his voice. “ ‘Your Highness’ will be sufficient.” I wonder if he’s ever shaken anyone’s hand before.
“Oh my actual dragon goddess,” Sasha whispers, somewhere behind me. “Best dayever.”
Chapter 17
For better and for worse, my guilt overwhelms my good sense, and I wind up inviting Driz back to my little room for a cup of tea. I can’tnotinvite Sasha, of course, and the pirate—Bash, my mind whispers—won’t leave. The only spaces we have that are large enough for all four of us are the cleared-out third floor and my little apartment, and the idea of trying to get a pot of tea up three flights of stairs strikes me as much too much to deal with. I chivy everyone away from the door, flip the rock so that the shop closes up, and then direct my guests—and unwanted pest—into my apartment. I have two chairs, a bed, and just enough space for a fourth person to stand, so we can all just about fit. The only tea I have is the bitter stuff Mrs. Gooch left behind—which I am ever more certain is dried turnip leaves—but I’ve been experimenting with tisanes made with herbs from the garden, so I think I might be able to offer something reasonably potable.
I stop the pirate before he enters my apartment, however.
“Empty your pockets, please,” I say, straightening my spine and hoping I sound commanding.
“I beg your pardon?” he says, the damnable dimple reappearing in his damnable cheek.
“There are reasonably powerful anti-theft hexes all over this shop, and yet you managed to make off with several of my books,” I say, hoping I sound severe and not petulant. “It stands to reason that you must have an amulet or some item that allows you to slip past my protections somewhere about your person. Empty your pockets.”
He shrugs and turns out his pockets, which I hadn’t truly believed he possessed at all, given the tightness of his breeches. They contain nothing exciting: an ancient florin, rubbed nearly smooth, a few tiny shells, and a bit of a crab’s claw.
“Ew,” I say. “Hand those things to me, if you please.”
“They’re not amulets,” he says. “I swear.”
“And I’m not a cursed princess having a really strange day,” I say. “Give them over.” I hold a little bowl out to him, and he obligingly drops his odd little collection into it.
I set the bowl aside and glare at him, too tall and toomuch, in the dim hallway leading to my tiny apartment, already full of people. I swear I can smell salt air about him, even though we’re nowhere near the sea and he’s been hanging about in town long enough for Sasha to know he lives in a barn. “Necklace? Bracelets? Rings?” I demand, dragging my thoughts away from the way he smells and racking my brains for anywhere an enchanted amulet could be secreted about a person.
He huffs, a little puff of air like a laugh, and rolls up his sleeves to show me his bare forearms, then wiggles his ring-free fingers at me. “Satisfied?” he murmurs, too close to my ear. A chill runs down my spine.
“Necklace,” I say, willing my voice to sound normal, unprovoked.
Holding my gaze, he moves one hand up to his collar and tugs it aside. I swallow as my eyes trace the line of his neck, the expanse of his shoulders. “Perfect,” I say. “I mean, that is, yes. Perfect. No necklace. Very good.” I cough. He lets his collar go, slightly too slowly, and I brusquely usher him into my tiny apartment, wondering wildly what in the seventh hell I’m doing.
Sasha and Driz take the chairs. I bustle about, boiling water and adding mint and chamomile flowers, then perch on the open side of the box bed while the damnable pirate lounges along the wall, one foot crossed over the other, my ugly little teacup small in his hand, his head just about brushing the low ceiling of my little room.
“Oh, my dear Tanadelle,” Driz says, looking about himself. “To think of you reduced to such…such matriculation!”
It takes me a moment to decide he probably means “immiseration.”
“It’s really quite cozy, Driz,” I say, then feel my cheeks heat up again, and flash a glance at the pirate, who’s watching me with a glint in his eye, that horrible dimple back in his cheek. He’d called it cozy, too, curse him.
I shift and take a sip of my tea. It’s not bad. It’s certainly not dried turnip leaves, thank heavens.
“I can’t think what I’ll tell your poor parents,” Driz says, sounding morose. “Perhaps, if we were to clear out all the books, we could make this little building somewhat habitable for you…?” He trails off.
“Get rid of the books?” Sasha says, having more or less recovered from her earlier attack of the hysterics. “This is abookstore.”
“Madam,” Driz says, rather airily, “this is the abode of aprincess of the royal blood. Fourth in line for the throne of the Widdenmar.”
“Third,” I murmur.
“Your sister is, erm,” Driz begins, then blushes and looks away. “I should not be the one to tell you.”
“She’s pregnant?” I gasp. “What marvelous news!” One more person between me and the throne; I couldn’t be happier. I hope she has six more.
“You didn’t know your own sister was pregnant?” Sasha says.
