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33
“Well, this is a surprise,” Rory says, slightly stunned as he takes in his friend’s new appearance.
I feel similarly, albeit with a sped-up heartbeat and the acute desire to swoon.
Gone is the bouncy afro. Gone are the pink pajamas. Instead, Luke’s closely shaved head is covered by a black paisley-patterned bandana. But it’s not just his hair that’s been altered. His clothes are, too. He wears a black hooded sweatshirt withMoschinoprinted across the front in bold white letters, a pair of dark skinny jeans and bright white sneakers. He looks like he just walked off the covers ofStreetwear Monthly.
And beaming behind him, on a spotless, hair-free surface, is Danny. He looks pleased with himself and also completely exhausted.
Finlay’s lips purse while he examines Luke, as though to stop himself from laughing. “My God. At least gie us a twirl.”
“Is this funny to you?” Luke asks in an ominous tone, adamantly rooted to the spot. His eyes linger on the torn knees of Finlay’s jeans. “At least I do not have to imitate rips in my clothing in order to fit in.”
“Aye, ye’ll totally pass as a normal bloke by talkin’ dead posh and wearin’ Moschino like a disposable rain poncho,” Finlay dryly counters.
“Then what do you suggest?” Luke’s lip is curled in distaste, as though sinking to ask for Finlay’s advice is a hardship indeed.
“I mean, this is a good start. But ye need lessons. How tae talk like a normal human being. None o’ this lang, formal stuff. No one’s gonnae take ye seriously if ye’re away gibberin’ like a seventeenth-century laird.”
Luke scowls at this answer, a dark menacing thing that enhances his sharp new dress sense. It suits him, this sense of pride and the desire to wound; he reminds me of the preening peacock he became at Hallowe’en.
“Nevertheless, we can use this as an opportunity,” Rory says, the most Rory-ish thing he could possibly say, and he glances at me with interest. “Luke’s lessons haven’t been an entire waste. If you’re going to become a leader—”
“Which I don’t want.”
“—then who better to take lessons from than a prince?” His gaze flicks over to Luke. “Ex-prince. Sorry, old friend.”
Luke shrugs, though he buries his fists in the front pocket of his sweatshirt as though to hide the desire to throttle something from the unfairness of it all.
“And oor sassenach,” Finlay continues, picking up the thread of Rory’s idea, “can maybe teach Luke a thing or two herself.”
I frown at this. What the heck could I possibly teach Luke, as princeorex-prince? This is a bad idea, and the thought of being in the same room as Luke for an extended period is enough to send my pulse skyrocketing with panic.
Get a grip, Jessa. He’s not royal. He’s not royal. He may act like it, he may have an entire lifetime of being it, but he’s no longer royal.
He’s an ordinary boy caught up in a tangled web of power and deception, that’s all.
Tentatively, I meet Luke’s gaze. He seems deliberately neutral as he regards me with those shining dark eyes of his.
“Do I get any credit, by the way?” Danny asks with an impatient tap of his foot. “I took a prince and turned him into a pauper. Single-handedly.” Finlay offers him a small, patronizing clap. When no one else speaks up, Danny mutters, “Thank you, thank you, you’re all too kind.”
“I think Luke looks good,” I eventually say with a barely suppressed blush, and Danny rolls his eyes at me.
“Thanks, but I was after something a bit more substantial. Luke would look good wearing a sack or nothing whatsoever.”
As everyone considers the truth of this statement, it seems as though the temperature in the room increases a few notches.
Luke scowls at each of us in turn. “I do not consent to everyone imagining me naked!” he snaps, before stomping away from all of us with a huffy sigh. He undoes the bandana around his head and it falls off in his hands. For the first time all evening, we see his new shaved head.
I watch as he strokes it uncertainly, checking out his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, a dubious expression flitting across his face.
“I suppose it will take a while to get used to,” he says softly, before retying the bandana with nimble fingers. “There is one immediate downside. My head feels incredibly colder.”
Dinner that evening is a surprisingly sedate affair. Finlay rustles us up a coconut curry from scratch. Danny does the dishes while I dry them. It’s strangely intimate, this little unit of ours. We’re an actual functioning household, a proper domestic ensemble.
And then bubbly white soap foam flies around the air in a battle between Finlay and Danny. I team up with Danny, blowing soft snow-white foam in Finlay’s direction. I manage to escape unscathed, but their hair sparkles wetly with clinging bubbles. There’s the sound of laughter — actual, joyful laughter — and it’s a sound so rare, so unabashedlyhappy, that it interrupts Rory and Luke’s quiet, serious discussions in the corner of the living room.
“Are you actually throwing bubbles around like five-year-olds?” Rory asks in a dry tone, and I can’t help but snort when a bubble on Danny’s head suddenly vanishes with a sharp pop. Rory shoots me a withering look, but I swear there’s a small twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there before.
