“He thinks I was.”
“I’m not saying he’s not hurt and imagining the worst. He probably is. But he will come home. He has to. A prince is not going to move out of the palace and rent a fifth-floor walk-up. When he comes home, you two will talk, and he’ll see the light.”
She slumped in her seat. “The tarot cards predicted he’d leave.” Every night, she’d drawn a new one, and the prognostication got worse and worse.
“Tarot cards,” Kismet deadpanned. “You don’t happen to have them with you, do you?”
“Actually, I do.” They were one of the essentials she always carried.
“Can I see them?”
She undid the flap on her crossover bag and handed her sister the cards.
“Left rear window down,” Kismet ordered the vehicle.
The glass lowered, and her sister tossed the tarot cards out the window.
“My cards! What are you doing?” she cried.
“Window up.”
“I have another set.” Karma glowered.
“You have an unhealthy attachment to nonsense. Those cards can’t help you with your marriage. You need to talk it out with Falkor.”
Chapter Seventeen
Falkor woke up with a start and lifted his head from the counter. He wiped the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand then reached for his glass. Empty. He squinted at the barkeep. There were two of them. He closed an eye. No, just one. He was seeing double. That couldn’t be good. Fortunately, there was a solution. He lifted a finger. “Barkeep? Bring me another!”
“Your Highness, perhaps you should call it a night. You have had quite a few spirits this evening.”
“It’s night?” His new routine brought him to the tavern every afternoon. He’d drink through the night until the wee hours of the morning then crash into bed and sleep until the afternoon, get up, and do it all over again. How many days had it been now? Three, maybe? “What day is this?”
“It’sFarkyn.”
“Farkyn?” He’d left onMokyn. He counted on his fingers.Mokyn,Tinkyn,Wopkyn,TumkynFarkyn.“I’ve been gone from the palace five days?”
“I don’t know, Your Highness. But you have been coming into the tavern for that many days.”
“I think this calls for another drink.”
“With all due respect, Your Highness, it calls for you to go to bed.” The barkeep paused. “Preferably, go home. Work things out with your wife.”
Work things out? “I mentioned I’d gotten married?” He had no recollection of any such conversation with the barkeep.
“Yes.”
“What else did I tell you?” he asked warily.
Avoiding his eyes, the barkeep scrubbed the bartop. “That you were having problems.”
“Did I get specific?”
“More specific than I would wish for, Your Highness.”
Hekkel. He rubbed his bleary eyes. Spirits had a tendency to loosen the tongue, and he’d pretty much stayed drunk since vacating the palace—five days ago. Hekkel. He hadn’t planned to be gone that long. He had no plan, except to dull the stabbing heartache.
Now, he’d end up in another Kaldor Celebrity News report. The barkeep could make a bundle selling the story to Bynti. “I don’t suppose I can count on you to keep what I told you confidential?”
