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A man across from me says, “Well, if things don’t work out with this big oaf, you come talk to me.” He winks.
Kellyn and I both tense. Things are so fragile right now, and the man across from us has no idea. He probably means it as a joke. Even so, I should say something.
But what? Giving my name is one thing. Offering something to the conversation? That’s entirely different.
Unthinkable.
And how do I avoid being confrontational and rude?
“You’re not my type,” I say, perhaps too harshly.
The table erupts into laughter, and one of the men ruffles the hair of the one who spoke.
Kellyn gives me a gentle squeeze with the arm still around me.
“And what is your type?” another asks.
“Big oafs,” I say before I can overthink it.
More laughter.
“Don’t let that one go,” someone says.
Kellyn looks to me. “I don’t intend to.”
My cheeks turn red for all to see.
After the meal, I tell Kellyn about my day in the smithy, and I ask if I can take his longsword to work with me the next day.
“Yes,” he says, “but what for?”
“I have ideas.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
I grin but only briefly. “War is coming. I need to keep everyone safe. I’m already making adjustments to Midnight for Temra, making the blade lighter to help with dexterity and endurance.”
“And what are you going to do to Lady Killer?”
“Because of her sheer size, you have to remove your scabbardbefore you can unsheathe her. You lose time, and if you were ever in a hurry, I thought it might be nice to have a quicker way to get her into your hand.”
“So you’re magicking again?” he asks carefully.
“Not really. I’m only doing this for people I know and trust.” For those I can’t bear to lose to this war.
Once done with Kellyn, I seek out Petrik.
He’s in another meeting with the prince and his advisers. Patiently, I wait outside the door. I blush when one of the guards outside asks if I’d like to enter.
I shake my head vigorously. “Just waiting for Petrik.” Then I turn my gaze to the floor and keep it there.
I can’t hear much, but every so often, I think I hear Petrik shout something about “contingency plans,” but his voice always peters off.
After only a few minutes, the doors burst open, and Prince Skiro comes striding out.
“Oh,” he says, his face losing the look of frustration and replacing it with one of delight. “Hello, Ziva. What can I do for you?”
I know he doesn’t mean to make me uncomfortable, but it’s impossible for me not to be weird around him when I can still picture him leaning suggestively toward the imposter with my face.
