Page 26 of Wickedly Ever After
Hector
Dear Rupert,
I regret missing the Prince’s Dinner last night. Unfortunately, the journey left me with a severe case of indigestion. I remained at the hotel in hopes that my health would be better for the game on Moonsday.
Sincerely,
Hector
“Your preoccupation with telling the truth is beginning to sound like I need to get you a tonic,” Tinbit yelled.
Hector groaned. A self-induced gastrointestinal earthquake had been a small price to pay for skipping out on last night’s royal dinner. It was traditional for the crown prince to take the potion that would make him fall head-over-heels in love with the Common Princess at this event, which meant one thing. Seeing Ida. An overdose of Hex-Lax certainly hadn’t been pleasant, but it beat the alternative.
“Hector?”
“I’m fine.” Shakily, he rose, feeling like he’d lost ten pounds. “I need to take it gently for the next hour or so.”
“So no grilled sausage with chili at the game tonight?” Tinbit asked.
“I absolutely intend to eat a sausage with chili! What’s a hurling game without that, I’d like to know?” A huge belch escaped him. He wiped his mouth and, straightening his shirt, left the garderobe. Indoor plumbing had been installed about five hundred years ago, but he still called it the garderobe. “I intend to enjoy myself this evening.”
“You’ll be the only one,” Tinbit said. “Mark my words, I’ll find a letter in the mail tomorrow morning from Hari saying, ‘regret missing dinner; I got hit by a dung cart and died.’”
Hector almost quipped that lying beat hexing your own bowels to get out of a dinner date, but Tinbit didn’t appear in the mood for levity. “Stop catastrophizing. He’ll be there.”
The gnome didn’t look up from his ironing.
Hector glanced furtively at Tinbit. “Did…did he send you a letter about missing you in the garden last night?”
“No. But this is better. If he saw me in the garden and decided I was hideous, I’d rather not know. I’ll go to dinner tonight, he won’t be there, and that will be the end of it.”
“Tinbit—”
“Hector, I’m okay. You warned me. These pen-pal things never work out, not without some happily-ever-after magic involved. Love isn’t for people…like…me. I’m fine. I’m—” His shoulders started to shake.
Hector managed to rescue his jersey from the ironing board before Tinbit covered his face with it, and steered the gnome to his bed. He sat him down on the edge. “Tinbit, Tinbit, honey, don’t cry. You know what that does to your face.”
“I know, I know, but, Hector, I wanted him to be the one. I’ve waited so long.”
Hector hugged the gnome, letting Tinbit bury his face in his shoulder. “Don’t give up hope. He might have been delayed. The coaches were rolling up almost until midnight—I know, I was in the garderobe. And if your poor fellow was unlucky enough to try even a bite of Ida North’s Angel’s Dream Cake at that soiree, he probably was, too.”
Tinbit’s muffled sob became half-laugh, half-cry of misery. “Oh, Hector.”
Hector continued to hold him, feeling utterly helpless. This was completely out of his realm of experience. Yes, he did his part with Happily-Ever-After, but his job involved putting obstacles in the way of the magic to make it stick—that was what the black rose was for. To make it real, there must be suffering along the way. It was an immutable law of love. If people became friends, fell in love, never fought a day in their lives, lived a long, happy life together, and died peacefully within months of each other, what kind of a romance was that? But he’d never wanted so much to take away every obstacle for Tinbit. Sometimes suffering for love is just suffering.
For the rest of the day, he handled Tinbit like a bomb that might explode. Tinbit went back and forth. He would go to dinner. He didn’t mind eating alone. He’d get a table for one. He was fine.
The next minute he wouldn’t go. He couldn’t get through it without breaking down in public, and he wouldn’t embarrass Hector by doing that. He’d order room service. Eat in bed. Watch the game on the crystal ball.
Each time, Hector supported him. It took his mind off theunhappy consequences of the Hex-Lax. His stomach still wasn’t right. Or maybe it was Tinbit. The last time he’d seen the gnome so upset, Tinbit had completely fallen apart. The thought of that made him even queasier.
At precisely six, he dressed for the game, regarding himself in a full-length mirror. A gray, tired man in faded black trousers and a vintage game jersey stared back at him. When had he bought it? The Thieves hadn’t worn this particular design in centuries. He was old, and tonight, he felt it. He sighed.
“I’ve decided I’m going to dinner,” Tinbit announced, handing Hector his blackthorn staff, freshly polished.
“I think that’s a good decision,” he said, wiping the extra beeswax off on his sleeve.
“I’m not staying long. He won’t be coming.”
