“We’re gonna get in the back of that, then sneak out after the guard walks past.”
She nods. We tiptoe for the big, ugly, military-green truck, and I hold up the canvas flap. Hazel climbs in silently, and I follow her, letting the canvas close behind me.
The guard’s footsteps echo toward us. There are a few holes in the canvas, and I can see the flashlight shine over walls and cars.
“Do you spend a lot of time hiding in ancient Soviet trucks?” Hazel whispers.
“It’s not the first time I’ve hidden here,” I say.
The footsteps are closer. Closer.
Then they pause. We stay perfectly silent, and even though it’s almost perfectly dark, I can just see Hazel’s eyes, looking at me.
The flashlight sweeps over the wall behind us, but she’s close and it’s dark and the only thought in my mind is kiss her again so I do. The footsteps move on, and after a long time, I pull away from Hazel again.
“Come on,” I say, and hold open the canvas.
“Do we have to?” she whispers.
“We don’t have to,” I whisper back. “But it’s a very good idea.”
She hops out quietly, and I follow. I keep my hand on her back we creep along the wall toward the exit.
The guard’s footsteps are starting to come back, more quickly than they were before, but then we’re at the exit and Hazel reaches for the knob.
“Wait,” I whisper, and dig through my pockets. I find a 25¢ Euro coin, wind up, and throw it as hard as I can across the garage, then hold my breath.
There’s a faraway clink. The footsteps stop. The flashlight beams over the far wall, and I push the exit door open into the cool night. Hazel slips out and I follow her to the hedge, and we slip through it to a different part of the garden than the one we were in before, this one filled with some kind of flowering shrub.
I point toward the castle.
“Can you get back from here?” I ask.
“Do I just walk toward the palace?” she whispers.
I nod.
“Then yes,” she says, but she turns and looks at me again, her eyes searching mine.
We’re out in the open, and even though it’s three in the morning, guards patrol the gardens all night.
“I mostly had a really good time,” she whispers. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t a completely good time,” I whisper back.
I want to say stay here, we’ll duck behind the bushes and no one will find us, but I don’t. I’ve done enough dumb things tonight.
But I do one more anyway, pulling her in and kissing her one more time, long and slow, right out in the open like this. When we pull away I’m breathing hard and I can feel my self-control slipping away. Not that I ever had much around her.
“Go,” I whisper.
She kisses me on the cheek, pulls away, and walks toward the castle. I watch her walk, half wishing that I wasn’t watching her go, half watching her ass in her jeans, which does nothing for my raging erection.
Finally she disappears. I sit on a bench, the dew sinking through the fabric of my pants, but I barely even notice.
All I can think of is her mouth on mine, her skin under my hand. Her saying you sure you’re not the bad brother?
Hazel clocking that guy with my motorcycle helmet.
I smile to myself, leaning back on the bench.
Barbarian, I think, grinning.
Chapter Seventeen
Hazel
The next morning, I’m drinking coffee in my chambers, wearing a bathrobe and pretending to read the news, when something slides under the heavy wooden door of my rooms.
That’s new, I think, and go check it out.
It’s an envelope.
No: it’s an envelope with a wax seal on the back. I pick it up, raising my eyebrows as I hold it to the light.
I’m pretty sure it’s the royal seal of Sveloria, which would make this official royal correspondence. I try not to smile as I turn it over and open it.
Inside is the very official-looking letterhead of His Majesty, Crown Prince Konstantin Grigorovich, Minister of Military Affairs, Lord of the Realm, on nice paper, so thick you could almost build furniture out of it.
Below that is messy, all-caps handwriting that has to be Kostya’s.
Dear Hazel,
It would be an honor to give you a tour of the palace dungeons, if you’re still interested in the darker aspects of Svelorian history.
Please reply with your availability for four-o-clock this afternoon, outside the first floor chapel.
Most sincerely,
Kostya
Stuck to the bottom of the formal correspondence is a sticky note.
Civilized people reply in writing, with a note given to any member of the palace staff. Don’t worry, they know who I am.
I grin, then try not to grin, then grin again because who cares, no one’s watching me. I stuff the letter into my backpack, somewhere I’m hoping no one will look. Then I take it out and leave it casually on the dresser, because it’ll look more suspicious if someone finds it in the bottom of my backpack, right?
It’s a very official, polite note. He’s extending me a hospitable invitation, and I don’t have to hide it.
The corner of my sitting room has a desk in it, and when I open a drawer looking for paper or something, I find nice stationary, a nice pen, and thick envelopes. I sit down, call on my vague memories of Miss Manners, and write back.
Dear Kostya,
I would be delighted to tour the dungeons this afternoon at 4 and learn more about your country’s fascinating history.
Sincerely,
Hazel
For a minute I debate re-doing the whole thing and writing something besides sincerely. Is this a “best” situation? What about “yours truly,” or “regards,” or “truly best regarding yours” or some other nonsense?
Chill, I tell myself.
I read the letter over again, fold it, and stick it in the envelope. I hesitate for a moment, then write “Kostya” on it in Roman letters instead of Cyrillic, because I’m pretty sure I’d fuck up the Cyrillic. Then I get dressed, brush my hair, and head down to breakfast, where the first palace staff member I see notices the envelope I’m carrying and asks if I have correspondence.
“I’ll see that His Highness receives it promptly,” she says, nodding at me.
“Thanks,” I say.
That was easy, I think.
At three-thirty, I’m standing in my massive closet, looking at dresses. I’ve got on a knee-length floral sundress that’s nice-looking but not particularly sexy, but I’m debating whether I should change or not.
On one hand, this is cute and respectable.
On the other hand, I’m not sure cute and respectable is how I want to look for Kostya, because it’s sure as hell not how he makes me feel.
You’re still gonna be in the palace, dumbass, I think. You can’t exactly parade to the chapel in a miniskirt and thigh-high stockings. Not that the closet your mother stocked has either of those things in it.
Plus, it could just be a tour of the dungeons.
I think yet again about last night, about Kostya’s tongue in my mouth. His goddamn massive erection pressing against me, his fingers hot against my spine.