Page 88 of Suspicions on the Stage
On the way out, Kaspar stops at the vending machine and buys two orange sodas, the kind with real sugar. He hands me one, twisting the cap off before I can say thank you.
“Now what?” he asks.
“We make sure Slade never has to pour another stale cold brew in his life, which will mean Morgana breathes more easily.”
He watches me over the rim of the soda bottle. “You really think you can fix everything by throwing money at it?”
I swish the liquid in my mouth, savoring the sting. “No,” I say, “but it keeps the petty issues from expanding into larger concerns.”
He laughs, short and genuine, and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin like he’s sinking a shot in overtime. “You know Slade’ll find out by dinner.”
“That’s why you’re going to run interference,” I say, slinging an arm around his broad, reluctant shoulders. “If he spirals, you will say you insisted for security’s sake.”
“He won’t believe me.”
“Morgana will intervene. She’s brilliant and will have worked this out before I even suggest it was your decision.” I smile fondly, my eyes crinkling at the corners. “And she’ll back you because she adores Slade and wants to take care of him, even when he doesn’t want it.”
He shrugs, but doesn’t shake me off.
We take the long way back through the quad, watching the drama kids rehearse an argument in the outdoor amphitheater, the way they project pain and comedy into the chilly morning air. They’re not acting as though one of them was found dead on their stage yesterday, but then with youth comes resilience.
After all, the show must go on, yes?
I’m supposed to be the heir to a throne, some day. I should be better at demanding things and making others bend to my will. But all I want is to let Slade compose, to let Morgana find peace, to let Kaspar someday—be something more than a sentinel with a sword in his coat and old scars under his skin.
I toss my bottle into the bin, shoulder to shoulder with Kaspar, and say, “Next stop, retail. We’re redecorating all the guest rooms people are staying in to make them comfortable.”
He groans, but follows me—as always.
By the timewe reach the linen store, Kaspar’s patience has been picked apart. He stands just inside the display maze of duvets and Egyptian cotton, arms folded, daring a single salesperson to approach. The effect is instant; the college girl at the register glances once at Kaspar’s glare and immediately finds something else to inventory.
Good choice, my dear.
“You know what Morgana has at that house?” he says, voice pitched low enough that the posh interiors echo it back with interest. “Beds. Towels. A fucking espresso machine. Why are we here when we also have an entire house of our own down the damn street, Li?”
“Those rooms have not been cleansed of her ex’s presence entirely,” I say, running a hand over a cloud-soft display. “And the espresso machine is sub-par because no one has redone the kitchen yet. Do you want to sleep on what passes for comfort in motels? Of course not. Besides, it’s obvious we’ll all eventually live there; don’t be daft.”
Kaspar grunts. “We can’t do that, or people will notice, Liam.”
“I am not in the business of letting gossipy biddies decide my actions,” I say. “I prefer to make my choices based on mywants and needs. Are you saying we can’t fool a bunch of nosy neighbors?”
That quiets him, which I will count as a victory.
I select three sets: royal-blue for Iggy, black with silver piping for Kaspar, and for Slade, something so gloriously soft and impractically white that I know he’ll try to keep it pristine for about a week before he gets something on it and panics. The image makes me laugh as I throw the matching accoutrements into the cart.
Kaspar is stone-faced until the clerk rings up the total, at which point his lips twitch. “You would pick the most expensive shit in the entire store, wouldn’t you?”
“Iama prince. Exquisite taste is part of the training,” I say, and sign with a flourish. “We’re not hurting for cash, old friend. Don’t be a grouch.”
“Don’t complain to me when they all get used to luxury.”
I could do this all day—the banter with my friend, the indulgence of my family, the minor acts of care that hold the line against a world that wants to break you up into manageable pieces. This gives me more joy than almost anything, and although my ties to my evil father aid me in this effort, I feel like I’m contributing to making people’s world a little better instead of causing pain like him.
We stop for sandwiches and eat them in the SUV to make certain no one recognizes us. He unwraps his turkey club with the precision of a surgeon and says, “I know what you’re really doing.”
I let mayo run down my hand before answering. “Oh?”
“You’re setting up the house like a fortress—one room at a time—so no one wants to leave unless they have to. That will quell the worry in your gut about all the outside forces gunning for us”
