“Definitely worthy of a celebration. Eh?”
The hit seems to jolt Richard out of his private world. “What was that, Edmund?”
His friend frowns. “I was saying we need to round up some of the gang and celebrate. You know, get a few pints. And a few girls.” Edmund winks and jabs his elbow into Richard’s arm. “The old game. I know London’s not as fun as Eton—but we’ll make do.”
The prince wipes the sweat off of his brow, adding another stain to the sleeve of his polo uniform.
“The old game?” The words fumble in his mouth, sludgy and slow, like he’s saying them for the first time.
“Yeah,” Edmund goes on. His thick, charcoal eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. “Did you take a mallet to the head? You’re acting a bit slow.”
“I’m fine. Just thinking.” Richard isn’t looking at his teammate. He’s still searching, eyes wandering the smooth concrete floors of the stables, where flecks of hay and dirt clods wait to be swept by the grooms. “Mind if I bring a friend along?”
“S’long as it’s not that prat McCrady.” Edmund’s nose scrunches into the rest of his painfully white face. “God, I can’t stand him.”
“Not McCrady.” He finds me. It was only a matter of time before Richard rooted out my hiding place, tearing back the shadows placed by the door. I don’t know if he’s relieved or terrified at the sight. “Someone . . . else.”
“You can bring whoever the hell you want, Mr. Four Goals. Nine o’clock. The Blind Tiger.” Edmund’s hand falls on the prince’s back with another smack. “Be there.”
I stay still by the door, waiting for the prince to make his way to me.
“I guess you heard all of that.” Richard’s long arm waves to where the scene played out. Edmund is on to the next cluster of teammates. His cursing and jostling echoes off the arched ceiling, making every soul in the stable acutely aware of his presence.
“It was a bit hard to miss,” I admit. It’s all I can do to keep the dread out of my face, my sentence. Another night out. More drinks, more dancing, more soul feeders. More awful, pounding machines.
But I can’t say no. Whether I’m visible or not, this is still Richard’s life. I’m just an accessory, part of the backdrop. Where he goes, I go. That’s the way it works.
“You can come,” he offers as if there was some possible scenario in which I might leave him behind. “As your real self, I mean. So Edmund and the others can see you. It would be nice to have a little more solid proof for my sanity.”
My real self. These words slide a knowing smirk across my lips. My real self, my core. The Emrys before mortals. The Emrys without body, without name. She’s a wild, feral thing. All power, magic, and fierceness. Richard and his friends don’t want to see her. They can’t. The creature I used to be—that deep, deep down inside I still am—might kill them.
No, they want what the prince can see now. The thing of fire and grace stitched into the form of a girl: speaking mortal languages, holding human memories. They want the diluted, pretty face I’ve been for a long time now. It’s the only side of me they might be able to understand. The side meant solely for their world.
“Don’t worry,” I say, checking my voice against its weariness. “I’ll be there.”
The night starts early. The molten sun is just diving behind the skyline, creating blackened silhouettes of Saint Paul’s Cathedral and the looming skyscrapers. Despite this, the pub is crowded. Tightly dressed women wobble like newborn colts in their stilettos as they make a path through the bodies, holding their glasses high above their heads. The men eye them with appreciation, taking long draws from their own pints and yelling across the room in booming, flustering syllables.
As soon as Richard steps in, his razor shirt casually paired with jeans, a lull falls over the pub. He ignores the hushed attention, pulling me back through throngs of
The hit seems to jolt Richard out of his private world. “What was that, Edmund?”
His friend frowns. “I was saying we need to round up some of the gang and celebrate. You know, get a few pints. And a few girls.” Edmund winks and jabs his elbow into Richard’s arm. “The old game. I know London’s not as fun as Eton—but we’ll make do.”
The prince wipes the sweat off of his brow, adding another stain to the sleeve of his polo uniform.
“The old game?” The words fumble in his mouth, sludgy and slow, like he’s saying them for the first time.
“Yeah,” Edmund goes on. His thick, charcoal eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. “Did you take a mallet to the head? You’re acting a bit slow.”
“I’m fine. Just thinking.” Richard isn’t looking at his teammate. He’s still searching, eyes wandering the smooth concrete floors of the stables, where flecks of hay and dirt clods wait to be swept by the grooms. “Mind if I bring a friend along?”
“S’long as it’s not that prat McCrady.” Edmund’s nose scrunches into the rest of his painfully white face. “God, I can’t stand him.”
“Not McCrady.” He finds me. It was only a matter of time before Richard rooted out my hiding place, tearing back the shadows placed by the door. I don’t know if he’s relieved or terrified at the sight. “Someone . . . else.”
“You can bring whoever the hell you want, Mr. Four Goals. Nine o’clock. The Blind Tiger.” Edmund’s hand falls on the prince’s back with another smack. “Be there.”
I stay still by the door, waiting for the prince to make his way to me.
“I guess you heard all of that.” Richard’s long arm waves to where the scene played out. Edmund is on to the next cluster of teammates. His cursing and jostling echoes off the arched ceiling, making every soul in the stable acutely aware of his presence.
“It was a bit hard to miss,” I admit. It’s all I can do to keep the dread out of my face, my sentence. Another night out. More drinks, more dancing, more soul feeders. More awful, pounding machines.
But I can’t say no. Whether I’m visible or not, this is still Richard’s life. I’m just an accessory, part of the backdrop. Where he goes, I go. That’s the way it works.
“You can come,” he offers as if there was some possible scenario in which I might leave him behind. “As your real self, I mean. So Edmund and the others can see you. It would be nice to have a little more solid proof for my sanity.”
My real self. These words slide a knowing smirk across my lips. My real self, my core. The Emrys before mortals. The Emrys without body, without name. She’s a wild, feral thing. All power, magic, and fierceness. Richard and his friends don’t want to see her. They can’t. The creature I used to be—that deep, deep down inside I still am—might kill them.
No, they want what the prince can see now. The thing of fire and grace stitched into the form of a girl: speaking mortal languages, holding human memories. They want the diluted, pretty face I’ve been for a long time now. It’s the only side of me they might be able to understand. The side meant solely for their world.
“Don’t worry,” I say, checking my voice against its weariness. “I’ll be there.”
The night starts early. The molten sun is just diving behind the skyline, creating blackened silhouettes of Saint Paul’s Cathedral and the looming skyscrapers. Despite this, the pub is crowded. Tightly dressed women wobble like newborn colts in their stilettos as they make a path through the bodies, holding their glasses high above their heads. The men eye them with appreciation, taking long draws from their own pints and yelling across the room in booming, flustering syllables.
As soon as Richard steps in, his razor shirt casually paired with jeans, a lull falls over the pub. He ignores the hushed attention, pulling me back through throngs of
Similar Books
