This will be fun, p.26
This Will Be Fun, page 26
It was true. By being themselves, they were somehow not themselves at all. And Hugh was in a ballcap, so apparently they were all effectively disguised.
“The downside is, it will be difficult to distinguish Order members from Clares,” Beatrice noted.
“No Grandhart worth his salt would ever join the Fraternal Order,” Clare protested.
“If there are duds among the apparent diamonds, we have to spread out to find them,” Elowen said, sensing an opportunity to handle some of her personal matters while also attending to the realm-saving ones. “Why don’t Vandra and I search the card tables and see if we can scrounge up any information? Then someone else can roam the pools, and others the tavern?”
Elowen did not wait for a response. It wasn’t often that she found herself giving orders in the first place, and she correctly assumed the event was exceptional enough that everyone would comply without protest.
Elowen walked ahead of Vandra, combing through Clares for the seediest-looking men she could find, figuring they were the most likely to be Order members. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it seemed the most logical way to find evil among Grandharts.
Plus, Elowen wanted Vandra to see her as a woman who took initiative without hesitation. A competent person who didn’t fear every miserable, daunting unknown ahead.
She stopped near a stackjack table where four of the most composed men she had ever seen had gathered to play. All of them had blond hair and aventurine-colored eyes, and they wore matching sandy tunics. If they were not Order members, they had surely started a cult of some kind. They’d have made decent Clares, actually, if they weren’t so committed to the ominous poise they’d cultivated.
“Let’s listen to them,” Elowen said, lingering nearby. “They look the part.”
“Why not join them?” Vandra asked in return. “We can get better intel that way.”
Elowen flushed. “I don’t know how to play stackjack.”
“No one knows how to play stackjack.” Vandra headed for the table, forcing Elowen to follow. “Care if I jump in?” she asked the men.
They startled at her presence. She had all of the command Elowen lacked, and the fearlessness, too.
“We’ve got room for two more,” the stackjack dealer confirmed, pushing stacks of colored chips toward Elowen and Vandra.
“All you have to do is stack,” Vandra told her.
“And jack, I presume?” Elowen bit back, already tortured. She hated this confusing game and the way that she could never seem to make herself enough. No matter how she tried to change, her emotions always pulled her back down. She didn’t know how to play, but she knew she’d lost before she’d even begun.
“What brings you all to town?” Vandra asked cheerfully, ignoring Elowen. The four men stared, no one answering. Vandra stared back, smiling at each of them while making such meaningful eye contact that one by one, the men looked down, intimidated. It was skillful, the way she asserted dominance without uttering another word.
“We are constituents of the Collective of the Resurrected Ghosts,” one finally muttered.
Ah. They had not found Order members at all. They’d somehow stumbled upon monks. Gambling monks.
Elowen, like most Mythrians, saw the Ghosts as what they were, dead heroes from their past, forever honored for how they’d brought Mythria to life. These men saw them as something much grander. They really believed the Ghosts walked again, reborn to save Mythria once more. Where the Ghosts were, none of them could say . . .
Sighing, Elowen got up to leave, but Vandra tugged her back to the table. “You wanted to ask me something, didn’t you?”
Elowen fumbled for words.
“That’s why you broke us off, yes?” Vandra continued, whispering into Elowen’s ear, “These men are too focused on Ghostliness to care about our personal drama, and I’d like to play a round of stackjack. We can sit here and freely discuss whatever is on your mind.”
Vandra had figured out Elowen’s entire game plan. It was utterly stressful, being seen. Worse, because Elowen had no money, Vandra had to pay for both of them to play. Vandra put forward a handsome amount of farthings, and Elowen gulped, knowing already that she’d drain every last bit of it.
“You know what they say, you have to bet big to win big,” Vandra told the monks, winking.
And so they began their game of stackjack, which did indeed involve stacking, yet was also somehow about counting? Elowen could not bring herself to understand. “I thought you didn’t like to play games,” she dared to say, balancing a red chip atop two blue ones.
“Fourteen,” the stackjack dealer announced. Whatever that meant.
“I never said anything of the sort,” Vandra rebutted. She put four yellow chips beside Elowen’s red. “Truth or Dare got boring, so I stopped participating. This one has clear stakes, which I enjoy.”
“Seven,” said the dealer.
The monks strategized their turns as Elowen glared at Vandra. “You avoided answering my question, then,” Elowen said. “That wasn’t you being bored. That was you being evasive.”
“And what did I have to gain by being honest?” Vandra asked.
One of the monks put down a single blue chip.
“Twelve and three,” the dealer called out.
“You know exactly what there is to gain,” Elowen said, the heat in her cheeks spreading to her neck. She needed to say more, but she couldn’t bring herself to offer it up.
Frankly, she was terrified. She was also difficult. And she had yet to make the right move at the right time. She’d crossed the line when playing Truth or Dare, overwhelmed by the depth of her own feelings, especially because Vandra always moved through the realm with such ease. Nothing ever seemed to overwhelm her. An entire cave had collapsed with her trapped inside it and she’d somehow gotten out unscathed. During the game, Elowen had hoped to find Vandra’s weak spot. Love, it seemed, was everyone’s weak spot. And that was the wrong instinct for Elowen to have. Why did she want to make things harder? A woman like Vandra would only ever be dragged down by loving Elowen.
In the time it took for Vandra to craft her response, the three other monks played their hands. Vandra was so unflappable. It unnerved Elowen to no end, which then bothered Elowen that she could not remain cool in response. Feeling Vandra’s emotions would never be enough. She wanted to crawl inside her brain and understand how Vandra always kept her composure.
“I like games where I understand the outcomes,” Vandra said. “With stackjack, we can either win or we can lose. There are no other choices. There is no consolation prize or secondary loss. Whatever you put in is what you give up. Nothing more, nothing less.”
At that moment, Elowen shoved forward all the red chips she had, placing them on the single blue chip the monk had put down earlier.
“Two,” the dealer said, perplexingly.
“When we played Truth or Dare, it seemed to be a chance for all of us to laugh together, which I welcomed after the hell we’d been through,” Vandra continued. “Everything had become so dreadfully serious. But you changed the rules. You made it about something personal. I didn’t know what you wanted from that moment, because you were the one who told me that we were questmates with benefits. What you were asking me went far beyond something as casual as two people who romp together for fun, so I decided not to play anymore, because I no longer knew exactly what I was risking.” She paused, leaning closer. “So tell me, Elowen, what am I risking?”
“I don’t know,” Elowen fumbled out defensively, hating herself even more. She should have stayed quiet, giving herself a moment to think. But she turned feral when she was scared. She lashed out. And truly, if Elowen could not even do something as simple as admit the depth of her feelings, how could she ever do something as complex as love Vandra in the way she deserved?
Vandra sighed, then waved her hand at the dealer. “All aboard,” she said.
The four monks, plus the dealer, held their breath. Elowen sensed great anticipation.
Vandra gathered up all her chips, then stacked them one by one atop Elowen’s last play. With every new chip added to the pile, the suspense grew. Whatever Vandra was doing, it was gutsy.
Before she placed the last chip, she looked at Elowen. “Bet big to win big,” she said. She put the red chip atop the tower, and the whole thing fell, eliciting a loud gasp from the table.
“Thirty,” the dealer declared.
Elowen assumed Vandra had somehow become victorious. But the dealer pushed the coins toward Elowen instead.
Vandra stood up. “Congratulations,” she whispered. “You’ve won again.”
At that, Vandra walked away, leaving Elowen and her mountain of coins at the stackjack table with four disgruntled monks and a thousand words left unsaid.
26
Beatrice
There were simply . . . too many Clares.
Indeed, one Clare was very nearly too many, in Beatrice’s consideration. Yet she now found herself overwhelmed by Clares of every manner in every corner of Vermillion Vale. Of course his legend earned him his own convention.
The real Clare was, of course, delighted. Once the surprise of the development wore off, he settled into pointing out every version of himself like they were visiting the exotic creatures of the Beastuarium.
“Oh, there’s me from the masquerade we had to go to!” he cheered. “How clever. Ghosts, next to him is my deluxe-edition Hero Card outfit. Not the ordinary portrait for common collectors. The deluxe,” he explained.
She’d had enough.
Beatrice halted them in the center of the casino floor, rounding on the infuriatingly real Clare. “You do realize we’re here looking for Order members,” she snapped. “Not . . . Clares.”
He was unmoved.
“I’m capable of both, thank you very much,” he informed her.
She was formulating some jab on the theme of him overestimating his capabilities—it was going to be quite savage, in fact—when the future king interjected enthusiastically. “Oh, you must note this one,” Sir Hugh commented, pointing. “It’s you when you escaped the Grimauld Mines.”
“Where?” Clare whirled.
Beatrice frowned, robbing the boys of their fun. “You’re a bad influence on him,” she informed Hugh.
Hugh hung his head in good-natured contrition. “Very sorry, Lady Beatrice,” he replied.
She did not correct him on the lady part, wishing not to remind everyone once more of her divorce.
Indeed, she could not withstand more reminders herself. She knew she was being short with her companions because Vermillion Vale left her ill-tempered. The reason was not simply the countless walking imitations of her vain ex.
No, it was because she had honeymooned here with Robert de Noughton.
The casino floor itself—where opulence became oppressive, where every surface shined with gold inlaid in obsidian like some monument or mausoleum—reminded her of the cowed, wounded woman who went wherever Robert wanted because she was too full of self-loathing to imagine living the life she wanted. Guilt for surviving Galwell, guilt for being happy she survived him, had made her feel like she deserved punishment.
So she’d punished herself. She’d indulged in deprivation. Life with Robert, starting here, was the perfect prison.
Not this time, she told herself. Her life wasn’t the same anymore.
She noticed Clare spontaneously join a group posing for a portrait conjurist, grinning like one of the many impersonators and not the real hero himself.
She could not help smiling. His joy was contagious.
Watching him, she could not deny how on this quest, she’d started to . . . want things again. Quietly, she knew she could not return to the life she was only pretending to live.
He caught her eyes on him. Oh, of course he did, damn him. Was his magical gift knowing whenever he charmed someone? It would suit.
Refusing to let her gaze skitter, she held his. She was not rewarded when cocky smugness settled over his features. With the conjurist’s image finished, he strode over to her.
“Hello,” he said.
She was indeed starting to want things once more. With his half-grin luminescing like the enchanted candles flanking the entrance, she felt pulled to him.
No—she always felt pulled to him. Now it was more. Now it was dangerous inevitability. The knowledge of what would happen when his inimitable Clare-ness pulled her in. She found her body turning toward him, reminding them both where they once fit together.
“Hi,” she replied.
Deftly he pulled a drink from the tray of a drinkmaid passing them. He handed the goblet, effervescing with lavender foam, to Beatrice.
“Are you a time-walker?” he said with his customary combination of joking and not. “Because I see you in my future.”
She laughed, remembering the very first words Clare Grandhart ever said to her. The laughter brought unexpected nostalgia. No-longer-Lady Beatrice had more experience dragon-jousting than with feeling nostalgia. Yet Clare’s jesting invocation of their first night reminded her of how the fabric of her past was not sewn entirely in sadness. Heroism and sacrifice were not the start and end of their story. There was humor. There was lust. There was joy.
Perhaps, she considered, such reminders were why she found herself remembering how to want. Perhaps he was helping her remember what to want.
Nevertheless, she refused to reveal her fondness for his reprise. “It really is a terrible line,” she chided him.
He raised an eyebrow. “I remember it working out pretty well for me once.”
“Only pretty well?” she returned.
Was she flirting with him? She was. His eyes widened in delighted surprise. He leaned even closer, close enough to whisper in her ear.
“Beyond my wildest dreams,” he murmured.
She shivered, not needing her magic to remember the night he described. The feeling of his mouth on hers, his fingers pressing her over the edge . . .
“Friends! Dear friends, look!”
It was Hugh. He pointed, directing their reluctant gazes to one Clare impersonator dressed in floral-patterned pantaloons.
“It is Clare when the Castle Corpus raid called for him to pretend to be one of the Lord’s Jesters!” Hugh described with enthusiasm.
Clare closed his eyes, the reminder of his pantaloons at this particular instant paining him.
With the moment interrupted, Beatrice remembered herself. How could she imagine herself pulled to him? How could she credit Sir Clare Grandhart with perilous inevitability? He was no witch of Megophar, capable of warping the heart with honeyed potions. While her past with him did hold lust and joy, she needed only remind herself they were not the greater parts.
She needed to remind herself. If she didn’t . . . well, she knew exactly where things would lead.
She stepped back, frustrated. “We should split up,” she declared. “Cover more ground in our search.”
“Or . . . we could ditch Hugh?” Clare proposed, pretending inspiration had struck him. “Perhaps the Order would take him back.”
In no mood—or, desperate to be no longer in the mood—Beatrice frowned. “We hated each other only days ago,” she pointed out.
The remark did not have the desired effect. Clare shrugged, his grin insouciant. “Did we?”
His impossible rejoinder silenced her. Did they? She was furious with Clare even now, and she knew he was upset with her. Over the past couple of days, he’d eviscerated any doubts on the matter. Yet . . . those feelings somehow loomed scarily small now. Figurines casting long shadows in the wrong light.
She did not enjoy it. She’d given up so much, lost so much. She did not know if she could stand giving up her resentment of Clare Grandhart.
“You search the shops with Hugh,” she said decisively. “I’ll go to the pools.”
His face hardened at her rejection.
“Very well,” he replied.
Turning, he headed where she’d directed, grabbing Hugh on the way. The inn’s luxury shops waiting to vend everything from Vestryian masks to scarves of the softest magic-woven fabric to cheap sunshifting spectacles shaped like preening soliswans. While Clare’s departure was what she intended, she could not help feeling hurt.
She set down her drink, the foam collapsing into lavender nothing. Walking out to the pools, she wondered if they had been doomed from the start. Perhaps she and Clare were destined always to hurt each other, over and over.
Inevitability.
Just not the sort she wanted.
Stepping out into the sweltering heat, she ducked past a shirtless impersonator emulating Clare’s muscliest magazine cover. Could she not have one moment without Clares of any kind?
She pressed on, feeling like she had felt on her honeymoon—surprised how one could find oneself miserable in paradise. For the Vermillion Vale pleasure pools were paradisiacal. In their uncommon shapes, enchantment kept the water ever perfectly warm. Shimmering magical waterfalls in pink and crystal-blue hues poured into their depths from conjurated rocks.
Beatrice was commencing her reconnaissance when she halted—utterly unprepared for the man whose eyes she caught near the closest pool.
It was not Clare. It was not one of Clare’s many, many fans. No, it was the only person she wanted to see less than her ex.
Her other ex.
Impossibly, Robert de Noughton was poolside in the Vermillion Vale heat. He stood facing Beatrice while a woman rubbed tanning potion on his shoulders. He and Beatrice paused, each obviously as shocked as the other. The other woman went motionless, watching Beatrice, who received the impression of forest prey who wished to remain undetected.
Beatrice understood quickly what was going on here. He’d returned to their honeymoon destination with . . . Beatrice’s replacement.
Robert eyed her with embarrassment, perhaps even concern for hurting her feelings. Which was eminently reasonable—yet Beatrice did not feel the hurt she expected. She found her pride unwounded.
