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I regret these words as soon as they hit the air.
Stung, George busies himself with other tasks. I might as well be invisible to him now as servers and other patrons crowd in, needing refills.
Good form, Bad Prince.
The royal dickhead is on the loose, being a dick again. Even for me, that was another level of dickishness.
Twenty euros ought to cover it, so I pull a bill from my clip, fold it, and shove it into the gaudy beer stein marked with a hand-made sign reading “tips.”
The night is breezy and warm when I meander outside, eyeing a table of friends enjoying, oh, of course—a flight of Reckless Royals.
When they see me, all four of them lift their glasses and shout, surprised and elated.
I pause and go over to their table, shaking everyone’s hands. Who am I? Torben? I don’t glad-hand people. I don’t pander. But I have a motive. I always have a motive.
“Let us buy you a drink, Your Highness!” The oldest one with a receding hairline offers. I scan the table and realize they’re not only friends. Two women, two men who look similar around the eyes. They’re related.
One of them pushes out a chair and gestures for me to sit.
Reluctantly, I oblige. Mind you; I’m not reluctant to allow commoners to buy me drinks. My reluctance comes from a place that I can’t identify. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s a feeling of envy.
Why would I envy four strangers asking for the honor of buying me drinks? Well, look at me. I’m out in the bar district, pathetically alone. No friends came to rescue me from my gilded cage this evening, did they?
I have no real friends anyway; I live only to torment my siblings. Well, Torben and Sig. Torben because he’s the favorite—the heir—and that’s enough of a reason. Sig because he’s my little brother, and he’s a mess. All the wealth of a dynasty at his disposal, and he’d rather sleep in a briar patch or…something.
Flora is the exception. I would lay down my life for my baby sister. Guilt floods me at the memory of her fall from the balcony box. She could have been seriously hurt, all because her idiot brothers chose violence.
Sig started it, I remind myself. I admit I was late, but my younger brother egged me on. And Torben was no help, trying to control everyone.
The trouble with our family is … just that. We’re all too much trouble. Just ask the king.
“Cheers!” shouts this group’s ringleader. “Er, no offense. It’s, er, Bad Prince Lager.”
I can see the bottle with my picture on it: a passed-out slob wearing a cockeyed crown, an empty goblet in his hand. Not the most complimentary sketch I’ve seen.
At my silence, one of the others in his group chimes in. “It’s our favorite one, actually,” she says.
I scoff with extra force. “Looks nothing like me,” I say before guzzling it down.
Everyone at the table chuckles, and I can feel their relief.
I let out a beery belch as I slam the empty bottle on the table.
Before long, more people have joined in, and more drinks arrive. I partake with vigor, and the irrational envy and sadness dissipate like bubbles.
The hard edges of the world soften. Bad jokes become hilarious. Strangers become best friends. I’m surrounded by fun people instead of the stodgy wraiths that haunt the palace.
Soon enough, I’m downing drink after drink—beer, whiskey, wine, whatever anyone puts in front of me—and my smile becomes genuine. I don’t know these people but I decide they are the best.
The king might have me drawn and quartered, but one can’t put a price on living one’s best life.
Servers pretend not to recognize me or decide they’re safe from breaking the king’s decree by not serving me directly. Someone slides a green bottle to me.
I pick it up and read the label with its immediately recognizable beard. “Wild Prince Cider. Whoever drew this hasn’t seen Sigurd’s beard of late. It’s too big for the label.”
The party around me suddenly quiets, but I don’t pay attention. I’m halfway through chugging the Wild Prince Cider when a meaty hand grabs my bicep, sending the bottle crashing to the sidewalk. People gasp, yelp, and scurry out of the way of the broken glass. Servers appear to clean up the shards.
“Hey!” I protest, lashing out unthinkingly at the dark figure that has me.
