He sighed. “Yes. Royals don’t work—not for remuneration, anyway.” For even the spare to take a workaday job like a commoner would be improper and cause a greater scandal than any love affair. Ironically, he could work his ass off for free, as Jaryk did with his volunteer work, but to toil for wages?
Over the king’s dead body. The royal mystique would be shattered if people saw them working like ordinary citizens. Besides, it might cause people to wonder if the monarchs were mismanaging their finances and needed money. That was the excuse his father had given when he’d broached the subject ofhypotheticallystarting a business.
She pinched her index finger and thumb together and drew them across her mouth, and he remembered the kiss. “My lips are sealed.” She grinned. “I keep a lot of secrets. You wouldn’t believe what people tell me.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t tell you. They’re secrets.”
He laughed and closed up the workshop.
“My mother and I worked together at the Mystical Mage. We both read tarot cards, tea leaves, and runes. People would tell us about their lives, their worries, their problems. They needed somebody to listen to their troubles.”
“Everybody needs that,” he said. He wished he’d been able to share his secret with his brother, but for Jaryk’s sake, it was better to keep him ignorant. “Let me show you the master bedroom.”
“I’m guessing you don’t have a lot of guests staying with you.”
“None.”
“Servants?”
“One. A manservant.Tontulives in the staff quarters. He’s my butler, valet, secretary—all-in-one. I call on him when I need something. Rarely do I need to summon him. Often, he just appears when I need him.”
“He has a sixth sense.” Made perfect sense to her. “So, I’m your first guest?”
“Still no. You’re not a guest. You’re my wife—and our room is over here.” He led the way to the master on the other side of the parlor.
She eyed the gigantic bed, the thick mattress resting atop a metallic frame. “Oh…uh, it’s nice. Looks…comfy.”
He chuckled. “You were expecting something a little more elaborate?”
“At least a hydraulic lift.” Her lips quirked.
“Something has to be normal to maintain my cover.” He strode to the wall, pressed on it, and doors opened to a cavernous closet, his clothes filling one side, hers, taking up no space at all, on the other.
“My stuff is moved over already!” she exclaimed.
“You need more clothes,” he said. “But I see you have already acquired a couple of Kaldoran things.”
“I kind of stole those from Kismet. We’re the same size obviously, and we can share clothes, although we rarely do because our styles are very different.” She smoothed her hands over her arms. “This dress is hers.”
“It looks lovely on you,” he said. “But you should have your own garments. I’ll have the palace tailors get to work.”
“That’s not necessary. I can make do.”
“For a year?” He shook his head. He’d often felt like an afterthought, compared to Jaryk. But his wife, even his temporary, fake one, would not take second place! Besides, he liked her style—she should have suitable clothing. “It’s the least I can do for getting you into this mess.”
“It’s not your fault,” she surprised him by saying. “You tried to do the right thing. I chose to go up to your suite. I had no idea spending the night in two separate bedrooms would cause such a scandal.”
“Scandal sticks to me,” he admitted. “I’m not saying I’m totally innocent. I’m not, but once you acquire a reputation, you can’t shake it—and everything you do is viewed through that lens.”
“I have a reputation for being weird.” A thread of hurt ran through her matter-of-fact comment.
“You’re not weird!” He didn’t know many humans, but he suspected she was unique among them. He liked how she danced to her own music. She gave no hekkels.
“Thank you, but you’re just being nice.”
His lips quirked. “Have I ever been nice to you?”
