“Who’s Vidal?”
“His Serene Highness Prince Vidal of Cardona.” Barnaby said it the way most people said their postcode. “A friend of mine that I haven’t been able to shake since Eton, god help me.”
“Don’t you have any friends with normal names?”
Barnaby considered this. “James.”
“James.” Lex snorted. “James, King of the United Kingdom, Defender of the Faith, Supreme Governor of the Church of England, and whatever other mad titles he’s got. That’s your actual example of someone with a normal name?”
“It is a normal name. It’s not his fault about the rest of it.”
“Right. Anyone else?”
Barnaby looked at him. The corner of his mouth shifted. “Lex.”
It landed before Lex was ready for it. A warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the chilli crackers he’d been cramming into his mouth, and everything to do with the quiet, matter-of-fact way Barnaby had placed his name alongside a king’s, and claimed him as a friend.
Lex opened the packet of matcha treats and ate one. It was fine. Grassy, sweet and a bit odd, but fine. “You’re mental. These are decent.”
“You also thought the squid ink crisps werequality. Your palate isn’t a reliable instrument.”
“Like my body, my palate is a finely tuned machine.”
Barnaby smirked. “You’d be fine licking the bottom of a skip.”
Lex grinned and fished out a small red packet from the bottom of the bowl. This one had a chilli pepper on the wrapper and Japanese text that his phone had translated, unhelpfully, asFIRE TASTE EXPLOSION RICE SNACK. He’d bought it as a test. A trap, really. This would make most people’s eyes water and their sinuses declare independence from the rest of their face.
He opened it, took one, and put it in his mouth.
His tongue ignited. Heat bloomed across the roof of his mouth and spread backward toward his throat, sharply chemical and building steadily. His eyes watered, and he exhaled through clenched teeth like a man who’d just been punched in the diaphragm.
“Fuck me,” he wheezed out.
Barnaby watched him with open interest. Then he reached into the packet, took one, and ate it. Nothing happened. His expression didn’t change. He chewed at a measured pace, and reached for another one. “These are rather nice,” he said.
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. They’ve got a good kick. Reminds me of the Scotch bonnets Eleanor grows in the greenhouse at Chatham.” He ate a third one.”She puts them in her jerk chicken. I’ve been eating her jerk chicken since I was six.”
Lex stared at him. His own mouth was still on fire. His lips were tingling. He could feel the heat tracking down his oesophagus like a slow-moving chemical spill. Meanwhile, Barnaby Fitznorman-Bicester, who looked like he’d been raised on cucumber sandwiches and the mildest of mild cheddars, was hoovering down FIRE TASTE EXPLOSION RICE SNACKS like it was a fucking digestive.
“That’s not right,” Lex said. “That’s not natural. You should not be able to do that.”
“Perhaps your palate isn’t as finely tuned as you thought.”
“My palate isdying, Barnaby. I can feel it dying. I’m going to taste nothing but pain for the next forty-eight hours.”
Barnaby ate another one and looked at him with an expression that was, unmistakably, smug. His grey eyes were bright, and there was that almost-smile again, right there on the surface.
On screen, a woman in a silver bodysuit was approaching the final gauntlet. Lex leaned forward, grateful for the excuse to look away from Barnaby.“Right. Silver Suit. Go.”
“She’s a retired schoolteacher,” Barnaby said, reaching into the bowl for another chilli cracker. “Specialised in primary maths. She’s here to prove to her former students that she’s still capable of physical excellence.”
“Brilliant. Beautiful. I hope she destroys every sumo in that corridor.”
“She will. Watch her hips. She’s got a low centre of gravity and she’s reading the door timing.”
Silver Suit made it past three doors and the audience lost their minds. Lex grabbed Barnaby’s wrist and pumped it in the air. Barnaby tolerated this for a few seconds before extracting himself. But his ears were pink, and Lex could feel the heat of his skin lingering on his palm.
