Chapter Text
Logan jumped to his feet, shoving his chair back from the table so hard it fell over. “I said to leave me alone, Roman!” he shouted, hands shaking where they gripped the edge of the table.
His younger brother looked shocked, caught off-guard by the outburst. “But I just—”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” Logan snapped.
Remus, sitting by his twin’s side, raised his eyebrows. “Wow, what’s up your ass?” he asked through a mouthful of lunch.
“Remus,” their father King Romulus said warningly. “Watch your language.”
“Whatever. It’s not like this is news, I don't know why he’s so upset—”
Logan turned on his heel and stalked from the balcony into the royal children’s suite, ignoring his father and brothers calling after him. Holding his head high and his shoulders straight, he made his way to his room, where he slammed the door to his room behind himself and locked it.
Logan pressed his back against the door, cast the silver key back onto the table it belonged on, and tipped his head back too hard to stare at the faraway ceiling, receiving a painful bump on the skull against the molding of one of his tall white double doors.
He groaned and slid to sit on the plush navy carpet, drawing his knees up to his chest.
There was a knock on the door.
“Go away,” Logan called, summoning his best imperious tone.
“It’s just me, L,” the voice of his older brother, Virgil, sounded. When Logan didn’t respond, he went on, “Dad asked me to come talk to you, so if I come back and say you wouldn’t let me in, probably someone else will come and bug you.”
“Just say I let you in and said all the right things, then,” Logan said into his crossed arms.
His brother let out a small, amused huff. “Sure. Sure.” There was a pause and another gentle knock, as of a single knuckle. “Logan….”
Logan groaned again, but scooted to the side and reached up to unlock the door without standing up.
“Thanks,” his brother, Virgil, the Crown Prince of Sanders, said, cracking the door open just enough to step through. He closed it again and plopped down to sit beside Logan, offering one arm. “Hug?”
Logan looked away for a moment before his will crumbled and he slid closer, allowing Virgil to wrap an arm about Logan and pull Logan’s head to rest on his shoulder.
The pair of them were quiet for a moment.
“I don’t want to meet him,” Logan whispered. “My fiance. Not yet. Not today.” His voice rose slightly. “I’m not—I just—I saw the entourage arriving this morning, and I thought I would be fine, but then Roman wouldn’t stop talking about it and I—” He broke off, voice shaking too hard to trust it to carry his words.
Virgil nodded, rubbing Logan’s shoulder. When he’d waited a minute, probably to ascertain that Logan was done talking, he drew in a long breath and asked, “It’s probably not going to help if I talk about when I got married, is it?”
“No,” Logan said, frowning. He began to tick off reasons on his fingers. “You were old enough when you were betrothed that your personality could be taken into account during the matchmaking process, you are aromantic and put an acknowledgement of that and boundaries around it into your wedding contract, you were allowed to know Remy for years before marrying him, you are friends with him, you—”
“I know,” Virgil interrupted gently, tousling Logan’s hair. “It’s kind of my life you’re telling me about, there.”
“It’s different for me, is all I’m saying,” Logan said plaintively. Though Virgil was four years older, Logan had been betrothed earlier than him, since before his first birthday, sealing a political alliance the kingdom badly needed. Virgil, as the crown prince, had taken far more political negotiation to engage, and hadn’t been officially betrothed until he was six.
“I know,” Virgil repeated softly, tone compassionate and understanding in a way Logan would hate if he didn’t know how sincere it was. “Is there anything you want me to say that would make it better?”
Logan shook his head.
“What do you want me to tell Dad?” Virgil asked.
Logan sighed. “Tell him that I will be… fine. I will do everything right. I will be on time to dinner and I will greet our guests politely and behave nicely to Prince Janus when I am introduced to him. I will behave with the utmost propriety and do everything I can to ensure our wedding goes smoothly. I understand the importance of this alliance for the kingdom and I do not intend to undermine it in any way.” He pressed his lips together and pretended they were not threatening to quiver. “I just…” he went on after a moment. “I just need to be alone right now, in order to be able to do all of that later. I—I need to—” He struggled for words. “Have time to—panic about it, I suppose.” He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t tell Dad that part.”
“Of course.” Virgil held him a little more securely. “I get it.”
Logan pressed his face harder into his brother’s shoulder and nodded. “Thank you.” He hesitated. “But—I need to be left alone, I think. Just until dinner. And then I promise I’ll do everything perfectly. Just as long as I can be alone until then.”
Virgil snorted. “The twins aren’t going to like that.”
Logan laughed softly. He’d seen the parchments scattered all week across the floor of the twins’ playroom-turned-workshop, scribbled with writing and a heading that read Things To Ask Logan About Wedding. He suspected that the questions they had overwhelmed him with at lunch just now had been intended to kick off this list. “True.” He hesitated, then looked up, catching Virgil’s eyes. “Were you—scared? At all?”
“Logan, I’m scared of everything,” Virgil said with another amused snort. “Have you met me?” He examined Logan’s face and his expression grew more serious. “But… yeah. I was really nervous about my marriage. I think that’s pretty normal.”
Logan absorbed this, staring at the carpet. “I’ve tried so hard to find out what he’s like, and I still feel like I know nothing about him.”
“Yeah?” Virgil said, soft and encouraging, a clear invitation to spill out any thoughts troubling him.
Logan took the invitation at once. “I haven’t even seen a picture of him! He’s refused to sit for portraits ever since his transition, and obviously I don’t want to go digging up portraits from before. And I can’t figure out anything about his personality. All the answers people give me when I ask about him feel so vague.”
“How so?” Virgil asked.
“Like—like, they say he ‘reads.’ So what? That could mean anything! He’s a prince, of course he reads something. You know what I mean? I mean, you’ve even been to the kingdom of Philos, you’ve met him, and even you still can’t tell me anything about him!”
“I mean, I’ve really only properly met his older brother,” Virgil said apologetically. “Prince Patton. We’ve become friends and we keep in correspondence, but I’ve never actually spoken with Janus. Just had a formal introduction to him and been to a few dinners he was present at.”
“Exactly!” Logan flung his hands in the air. “Nobody seems to have anything more than the barest, most surface level knowledge about him! The only details I can pinpoint are that he likes philosophy and fencing and he’s supposed to be politically savvy. I still know nothing about what he’s like! I have all these—these scraps of information that I keep trying to piece together into something cohesive, and it’s not working. I can’t get a read at all on what kind of person he is.”
Virgil held his younger brother a little tighter. “I know how much you hate not knowing things. I’m sorry.”
Logan nodded. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice coming out small.
“Is there anything I can do? Anything I can tell Dad you need?”
Logan shook his head. “I do not need anything that either of you can provide me. I will—tell Dad that I will be fine soon.”
“Mmkay.” Virgil dropped a kiss on the top of his brother’s head and got to his feet. “Need some space now?”
“Yes, please.”
Virgil nodded and slipped out the door. “He’s napping, leave him alone,” Logan heard him say—probably to one of the twins.
Logan waited until Virgil’s footsteps had faded away before locking the door once again and heading for his closet. He pulled out one of the outfits he kept in the very back and changed, shedding his silver doublet with the fine navy embroidery threaded all across it in favor of a blue linen tunic with a brown lace to draw the collar closed, his navy velvet trousers in favor of simpler breeches in a plain gray fabric with straight legs, and his silver shoes with large buckles in favor of brown leather boots. He ran his hands through his dark curls, disheveling them slightly, and grabbed a brown leather satchel, which he slung over his shoulder as he crossed to his wide bay window. Climbing up into the window seat, he pushed open the window and climbed out into the tree outside.
Watching for guards or nobles walking around the gardens, he climbed down the tree to the ground below. His room was only on the second story of the palace; this made sneaking out very easy.
Running his hands along the embossed pattern on the leather of his satchel to ground himself, Logan snuck through the palace gardens. He avoided the guards with a well-practiced step, darting behind sculpted bushes and turning down side paths at all the right moments to avoid every point where he might be spotted and sent back to his room. The gates of the palace, of course, were well guarded—but the loose stone in the wall beneath the trailing ivy curtain was not, a fact that Logan and the twins made frequent use of, despite all Virgil’s (hypocritical) worries.
Logan generally was not fond of being reminded of how tiny he was, but the fact that he had never outgrown the little gap in the wall that was his hidden way out to freedom was… well, he was deeply grateful for it, dislike for his slight physique aside. (He had been tall for his age, once. People used to comment on it frequently when he was a child, and he had delighted in it since well before he’d put the name gender euphoria to the feeling it sparked in him. But the days where he would be singled out as tall were long gone, and he’d never quite stopped feeling salty about it.) The twins, at fourteen, were just hitting another growth spurt, and Logan had heard Roman complaining to Remus about how much more awkward it was for them to squeeze through than it used to be. If his memories of Virgil’s teenage years served him right, Logan would wager the twins had another year of use out of the secret exit, at best. Not so himself, who had retained very nearly the same body mass since he was twelve years old.
Logan replaced the stone behind himself, erasing all trace of his disappearance from the palace grounds, and climbed down the steep incline of decorative plants to the cobbled road below. He brushed a few stray leaves from his attire and set off down the road, sticking to one of the narrow dirt paths on either side of the cobbles, making his way briskly away from the palace and towards the small town that was hardly ten minutes’ walk away.
Logan was perfectly aware that the town, for all its novelty and quaintness to him and his brothers, was a thing of relative opulence and existed mostly for the purpose of the local nobility’s sightseeing and entertainment. He was also perfectly aware that most—if not all—shopkeepers in the area recognized him for who he was, and that a town guard would doubtless trail behind him just out of sight for the duration of his visit. That notwithstanding, the town was a welcome reprieve for Logan from his more official duties. Even under the vague pretense of strangerhood most people there bore to him, he was able to relax somewhat and forget about all the duties he was endlessly beholden to; for at least an hour or two, he could do as he pleased, for no other purpose than that he chose to.
It was little wonder, really, that his back straightened and he felt a spring in his step as he passed through the town gates. He exchanged a nod with the guards, and was pleased to note that the one who peeled off from the group about twenty paces behind Logan was Rodolfo, an old man with sturdy calloused hands and a story for every occasion. He was by far Logan’s favorite of the town guards, and much more discreet than the younger guards who’d tailed Logan on his last few visits. Unless Logan chose to engage him in conversation—which he did on occasion, but not today—he knew Rodolfo would stay out of his way and let him have his moment of escape.
Logan made his way to the town’s bookstore, which stocked many fine new wares, but also had a small section of secondhand books in the back. To some patrons, this used section—hardly more than a nook, really, but at least it had a window seat in the midst of the piled stacks—might seem cramped and uninviting, but to Logan, it was a tiny paradise. The shelves were pushed so close together, keeping the space as small as possible so as not to encroach on the finer and more impressive areas of the store‚ that once one stepped into the nook, it was as good as a private room. Logan could browse as he pleased for hours on end, or curl up in the window seat that had room enough to spare and read his heart out. He liked to look for books that had notes in the margins, liked to puzzle out the handwriting of strangers he would never meet and see what he could glean about their lives, make up stories to himself about the kinds of people they might have been and what adventures these books might have seen before making their way to this shop.
It was one of his favorite activities, and one he was in sore need of just now. It was relaxing, a good way to unwind and distract himself from his cares; and oh, did he have cares to be distracted from. He perused the shelves, selecting volumes that seemed promising until the stack in his arms reached to his chin, and settled into the window nook. He didn’t have to be back at the palace until four, when he would dress and prepare for the dinner he would meet his soon-to-be husband at, and that was still hours away. After all, he’d hardly started lunch with his family when Roman had asked one too many questions about what Logan thought his fiance would be like, and his nerves had overcome him and his stomach had turned and he’d all but ran to hide in his room.
It wasn’t exactly that he was upset about the idea of this marriage. He’d known it was coming for practically his entire life, and while he wasn’t thrilled, he felt ambivalent about it, which he considered to be quite acceptable. But his wedding had seemed far away and theoretical for so long, and it was now approaching reality at a hurtling speed. It had finally hit him that this was something that was going to change his whole life, starting now. He would meet his fiance in just hours; their wedding was in a week’s time. He should have readied himself emotionally earlier—but he hadn’t realized he wasn’t ready until it had all hit him at once.
That aside, from the unfortunate luncheon to now, hardly three-quarters of an hour could have passed. He had plenty of time to relax here in the little corner of the bookshop that nobody else ever visited.
But as an extra precaution against running late, he reached into his satchel and drew out a silver pocketwatch; he placed it so that it dangled by its chain down the side of his stack of books, with one particularly heavy tome set on top to hold it in place, so that he could keep track of the time and leave before he would be late. Satisfied with this measure, he adjusted his seating position and flipped open the worn, well-annotated almanac of some five years’ past in his hands.
***
Logan lost track of time quickly as he read and daydreamed, sending only the occasional glance towards the pocketwatch to ensure he wasn’t running late. He was not sure how long he had been there by the time soft footsteps sounded nearby.
They were so soft, in fact, that he assumed they were not all that close, perhaps someone looking at the fine, gilded history books in the next section over. He didn’t bother to raise his head until—
A well-manicured finger slid over the edge of the book in his hands, prying it away from his face. “Pardon me. Is anyone sitting here?”
The speaker, gesturing to the empty half of the window nook, was a young man of about Logan’s age, with strawberry-blond hair that half-covered his face and did not quite reach to his shoulders. He had a sturdy, chubby build and was dressed in a mustard-yellow sleeveless doublet with half its buttons undone, over a white blouse with loose sleeves gathered at the wrists and long cuffs that half-hid his hands; the shirt’s lacing was tied loosely, allowing just a glimpse of a chest-binding garment beneath. On his head, the young man wore a black tricorn hat; his breeches and shoes were also black, the shoes with large buckles of burnished brass.
The boy had one foot propped up on the edge of the window seat and was leaning an elbow on his knee in order to rest his chin on his hand, which seemed like a horribly complicated way to appear languid and at ease when standing was a perfectly good option. His snub nose and round cheeks were splattered all over with faint freckles, only a shade or two darker than his ruddy, lightly tanned skin. He had gray eyes and the faintest hint of a smirk playing as if by habit at the corner of his mouth.
Logan frowned. He did not appreciate the interruption of the last hours of freedom he would be able to snatch for at least the next month, until the festivities and formalities that need must surround his wedding would finally die down and the spotlight would turn somewhat away from his doings every hour of the day. “Yes,” he said tartly, lifting his book to his face once again.
He gained only a second of blissful silence before the man again nudged the book away from his face. “Is it you?”
“Pardon?” Logan said, perhaps a little irritably.
“The person you say is sitting here. Is it just you? Or is there really someone whose seat I would be taking?”
Logan glared at the altogether far too nosy man. “I fail to see why that is any of your business.”
“Excellent, just you.” The man clapped his hands together briskly. “Do shove over and make room, there’s a good fellow.” Ignoring Logan’s spluttered protests, he climbed into the empty half of the window seat, examined Logan’s stack of books between them, and plucked one from the center, only just avoiding toppling the lot. “Ooh, The Young Gentleman’s Guide to Table Arrangements for Every Occasion,” he read off the cover. “Sounds riveting.”
Logan glared harder. “I like to educate myself on a variety of topics.”
“I’m sure,” the other man said, running a finger delicately down the spine. “So, are you from around here?”
Logan blinked once. “…You could say that.”
“Hm.” The man looked him up and down with pursed lips, tapping a finger to them. “You don’t look old enough to be someone important.”
“I’m almost nineteen!” Logan protested, indignant.
The man scoffed. “Me too, you’re not special. And that’s not old enough to be someone important, generally speaking.”
Logan spluttered for a moment, unable to decide what part of that little display of impertinence to object to first.
The man ignored this and went on with his appraisal of Logan’s person. “Also, your clothes are too fine to work here.” He nodded decisively. “So! Either you’re an apprentice at one of the flashy shops in the town square skiving off work, or else you work at the palace and are skiving off work there. So which is it?”
“Couldn’t it just be my day off?” Logan inquired, half amused in spite of himself, and absolutely fascinated by the fact that this man seemed to truly have no idea who he was.
The man laughed and waved a hand. “Oh, it could, but not with how defensive you’ve been. So, which is it? Town apprentice or palace servant? Come on, tell me.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” Logan, who did not trust himself to sell an outright lie, said primly. “I see no reason why I owe my time or conversation to someone who would so rudely accuse me of such dishonest practices.”
“No need to be so touchy,” the man said, that stupid smirk never leaving his lips. “I’m in the same boat—I’m rather supposed to be on the clock myself, just now. But I’d much rather explore, and I’m sure I won’t be missed for an hour or two.” He rolled his eyes. “Lord knows they sent enough attendants to accompany Prince Janus.”
Logan felt a shot of nerves run through him. “You came with the prince?”
“Ye—es,” the man said, stumbling over the word slightly, then went on more quickly, “I did. I work for him, I’m—I’m his valet. Yes. Yes, that’s right. His valet.”
“What is he like?” Logan asked at once, even as a small part of him was bitter that of course the person who was ruining his time alone had something to do with the man who was the entire reason Logan so desperately wanted to snatch the time alone in the first place. Still, a chance to learn something, anything about his husband-to-be was not one to be passed up. Anything to be just a little bit more prepared.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” the man said, shrugging. “I’m new and he doesn’t talk much.” He grinned. “There’s a rumor going around some of the entourage that we only got chosen to go with him because he threatened to start a war if his parents didn’t hire any trans attendants for him! Isn’t that funny?”
“…Not particularly,” Logan said, horrified. “Why—why would he say such a thing?”
There was a half-second of silence. “Which part?” the man asked, tone still light but his gaze pinning Logan down much more warily than before.
Logan gestured in a bewildered manner; was it not obvious? “Wars are no laughing matter! Surely with his—his level of prestige and influence, if he wants such a small favor as that, all he has to do is ask? Why threaten something so serious?”
The man, bizarrely, relaxed just the slightest amount. “I’m sure he had his reasons.” He shrugged. “The whims of nobility are beyond me, really.” He stared at the book in his hands, but Logan was certain he wasn’t reading it; his gaze was still and unfocused. “Maybe he thought he couldn’t get it any other way,” he added after a moment. His pink lips were pressed together into almost nothing. “I mean, my parents were none too pleased with me being a man. Who’s to say his aren’t the same in private? It’s not that uncommon.”
“I—what, transphobia? In Philos?”
The man gave Logan a thoroughly unimpressed look. “No, yellow orchids. Yes! Obviously that! Are you thick in the head?”
“I’m told I am in possession of a brilliant mind, actually, and I’ll thank you not to insult it,” Logan fired back, though his thoughts were hardly occupied with his response. He had never accompanied Virgil on diplomatic trips to Philos—he’d always had schedule conflicts that seemed coincidental. But in light of this new information, he found himself suspecting that he needed to have another conversation with his father and Virgil about not withholding facts from him simply because they were unpleasant. He would far prefer knowledge over being protected from pain. “I’m sorry,” he added, more kindly. “That’s awful.”
The other man huffed out a sigh. “Thanks. It’s nothing, though.” He shrugged. “I deal with it.”
“But—” Logan began.
“Anyway, you wanted to know about the prince?” he interrupted. “He—he, um, he often goes riding. He tells me he hates it, though.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “Then why—?”
“Yes, that’s what I asked! He said something about ‘getting away from it all,’ but he clammed up right away after that.” The man shrugged. “There you have it.” He tilted his head to one side. “What of your royal family? I’ve heard stories, but what’s it like as someone who lives here?”
“They—” Logan swallowed, already struggling to choose his wording carefully and not give himself away. “I believe they are for the most part not disliked, and Prince Virgil in particular is seen favorably. They are friendly to servants at the palace and during public appearances. The twin princes are known to be a little rowdy, but they’re hardly more than children yet.” He hesitated. All of these were sentiments he had heard from many different sources; they seemed safe enough. “Is there anything in particular you wanted to know?”
“Just curious,” the man said with a lazy shrug. “Have you ever met any of them?”
“I—on occasion, yes,” Logan admitted, heart racing. “They’re generally rather busy. With… royal things, I suppose.”
“Mm, yes. I do hear that’s what royals do. Royal things,” the man said, tone grave but face splitting with a grin that was far too contagious.
“Oh, shut up.” Logan stifled his laugh with a cough.
The other man made a small, amused noise. “Are all the books you brought over here this dull?” he asked after a minute, holding up The Young Gentleman’s Guide to Table Arrangements for Every Occasion.
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Have you looked inside it?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t much interest in the intricacies of table arrangements, thanks,” the blond man said, smirk toying at his lips once again.
Logan took a measured breath. “I did not choose these for the subject matter.”
There was a pause, in which the other man gave Logan a baffled stare. “What the hell did you go for instead?”
“If you try opening the book, maybe you might have some idea.” Logan raised his own book to block his face from the man’s view, encouraging him to either do as Logan suggested or to be quiet and leave him alone.
There was a short quiet punctuated by the quiet rustling of pages and shuffling of books as the man glanced through a few of the books in Logan’s stack.
“…Is it the way they’re all marked up?” the man inquired at last.
Logan nodded. “Indeed.”
“Why?”
“It fascinates me,” Logan said. “It’s a small glimpse into the minds and lives of people whose paths will otherwise never cross mine. I enjoy reflecting upon what I find.”
The other man—who Logan was realizing he did not know the name of, but he did not wish to bring this up and then have to disclose his own identity—blinked, face slowly clearing up. “That’s… not nearly as boring as anything I imagined you’d say.”
Logan quirked an eyebrow. “I am not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
“Me neither.” The man shrugged, running his finger down the dwindling stack of books between the pair of them. “Oh!” he exclaimed under his breath, drawing out the book that was second from the bottom. “I know this one.” He sounded pleased.
Logan glanced over, curious. The book the man was now happily flipping through, running his fingers along the pages as if greeting an old friend, was a title Logan recognized: a philosophy tome he’d studied a few years ago. “Ah,” he said, trying not to sound too disparaging—the bond between a person and the books they loved was not one he chose to treat lightly. “I can’t say I’m much of an admirer of Carenn myself.”
The blond man looked up, seeming scandalized. “How so?” he demanded.
Logan shrugged. “I just don’t think that her ideas on human motivation and desire hold up when you compare them to more recent theories put forth in the field.”
“Bullshit,” the man said heatedly. “You’re not taking into account that—”
Logan quickly discovered that the other man was a good debater. True, some of his points were unsound and easy for Logan to pick apart, and when he got upset, he started to play fast and loose with ethical rules of debate—which did not go well for him, given Logan’s own stellar grasp of those same rules. Even so, he was easily one of the best opponents Logan had ever debated. He was witty and sharp, countering Logan’s arguments almost as fast as he could make them, an eager grin on his face like he was having the time of his life constructing logical threads as fast as he could think.
Logan found himself half reconsidering his assessment of the man as an annoyance. He was—he was Prince Janus’s valet, he’d said; yes, that was it. So it was entirely possible that Logan would see him with some regularity in future. He would, after all, be sharing a room with Janus. The pair of them had had the opportunity to negotiate personal terms for their marriage contract over the last six months, via messengers sent back and forth between them; one of Janus’s non-negotiables had been sharing a bedroom. Much to Logan’s displeasure, no amount of bargaining had gotten his fiance to back down on this point or even to provide an explanation for why he was so insistent upon it.
Still, if Logan was to spend so much time in close proximity to his new husband, it was likely he would meet this valet again, and not infrequently. With the man’s skill in conversation, Logan would admit that this was… an acceptable prospect. He would, of course, have to make it through the awkward conversation that would no doubt be required when his identity came to light; but that could be dealt with later. Not now. He was enjoying himself too much now to ruin it all.
“No, because—” Logan reached for one of the books strewn all across the window seat, the stack that had divided the space between the two men so neatly now long gone. His hand landed on a cool, textured thing that shifted under his fingers—the chain of his pocketwatch, which had been cast aside as the blond man picked apart the stack of books and forgotten in favor of the conversation.
Logan drew in a sharp inhale, dragging at the chain until the watch emerged from beneath a book and dangled in front of his face. “Shit,” he hissed, jamming the watch into his satchel and swinging his legs down to the ground. “I need to go now.” He wasn’t late—not quite—and he could make it back to the palace on time, but it was going to be a much nearer thing than he’d planned.
“Already?” The other man seemed disappointed.
“You’ll have to as well, I suppose,” Logan said over his shoulder, making his way out of the nook. He waited for just a second, weight shifting back and forth between his heels, until the man followed.
“Why, what for?”
“It’s nearly four. You’ll have to help your master prepare for the evening soon, I expect,” Logan said, taking off once more at a brisk pace. He caught a glimpse of Rodolfo, lingering near the entrance to the store, who gave him a nod that Logan almost didn’t return in his panic.
“My—what?” the blond man asked blankly, following him down the street.
“Prince Janus?” Logan supplied, not understanding what had been confusing about his own statement.
“Oh. Oh! Yes, of course. The prince. Who I work for. Yes.” There was a pause. “Wait, it’s nearly four? Already?”
“Yes,” Logan snapped, speeding up his pace once more; he was nearly sprinting at this point. “We need to get back to the palace now.”
“So you do work there! Ha. Point for me.” The valet sounded altogether far too satisfied with himself.
“Yes, certainly, whatever, just keep moving,” Logan said irritably, pulse thrumming. So much for relaxing and destressing at the bookshop.
“You’re in an awful hurry. What’s so urgent that you have to be back right now?”
“I—I—” Logan struggled to come up with an explanation. “I’m expected to be—at work. Right now,” he managed at last, which was, technically, true, since, technically, being a prince was, technically, his job. “I lost track of time.”
“Are they that strict with you?” The man seemed alarmed.
“Today is rather important, if you hadn’t noticed!” Logan snapped. By this point, they’d left the town behind, and were making good time in the direction of the palace. “There is no room for error.”
“I suppose you’re right,” the man said, sounding somewhat subdued. After another moment, he added, more concerned now: “Oh. Oh, I do have to be there right now.”
“Yes!” Logan snapped. Was that only just now getting through to him? Logan had brought it up whole minutes ago.
“No need to be so touchy,” the man grumbled.
“I am a little keyed up,” Logan said tightly. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
“Oh, I’ll have to, will I?” the man teased. “Gracious. How demanding of you.”
Logan groaned. “Now is not the time.”
The valet huffed. “You’re no fun.”
“Now is not the time for fun!” Logan said, the distress he was trying so hard to contain leaking through to his voice.
“Well, there’s the palace up ahead now, and it’s not yet four. So you can calm down,” the man said, gesturing at the palace gates that had just come into view.
Logan stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He was supposed to be inside the palace already, as far as the palace guards were concerned. Walking up to the front gate would raise questions he did not feel like answering. And he couldn’t show this near-stranger the secret way in—that was only for Logan and his brothers; he was almost certain that even their father didn’t know of it.
“What’s the matter now?” the man demanded, exasperated.
“I—I can’t go in that way,” Logan managed stiffly.
“Whyever not?” The man’s brow wrinkled.
“I—I can’t. I’ll—I’m not—I should—” He swallowed. “I—”
The man sighed. “Listen, just—stop worrying. Come with me. Whatever the problem is, I’ll vouch for you. It’ll be fine. Come on.” He grabbed Logan by the arm and dragged him down the road, ignoring Logan’s immediate and high-volume protests.
“You don’t understand!” Logan said, desperately trying to pull free.
“Then tell me!” the blond man, still exasperated, shot back, not letting go.
Logan, who would rather do almost anything else, bit the inside of his cheek and fell into fuming silence as they approached the gate.
“I’m with the entourage from Philos,” the blond man told the guard who stepped forward to stop them. He gestured to an insignia embroidered on his breast pocket.
“Unhand him,” the guard said, ignoring the man’s words entirely. Her voice was not outright threatening, but still very firm.
Looking a little confused, the man released Logan at last, who shot him a dirty look on principle.
“Your Highness, what are you doing outside the gates?” the guard asked Logan with a sigh, clearly trying not to sound tired.
“I think that is my own business,” Logan answered coolly, not feeling like explaining himself.
“Highness?” the blond man interrupted.
Logan froze, stiffening, shoulders drawing up towards his ears.
“You—wait—” The man stared at him for a second longer, shock written plainly on his features. “Are you Logan?”
“I—” Logan swallowed; he didn’t have time for this. He glanced around, then threw his pride to the wind and bolted in the direction of the tree beneath his window.
“Your Highness!” the guard shouted in an exasperated groan.
Logan ignored her; he knew the woman wouldn’t give chase now that he was safely within the palace grounds. He had three minutes until his own valet would be knocking on his bedroom door to help him dress and prepare for dinner. If he hurried, it was just possible no one would know he’d been gone.
Well. Except for his fiance’s valet, apparently. But neither he nor the guard at the gate would have the opportunity to tell Logan’s father, and so Logan would not get a stern talking-to about it. So that was fine.
He scaled the tree quickly, hands and feet finding their way up almost by muscle memory, and hoisted himself over the windowsill. He closed the window behind himself, threw his satchel into the closet and his boots after it, and climbed into bed, hastily depositing his spectacles on the sidetable. Virgil had told people Logan was napping; who was Logan to prove him wrong?
A bare thirty seconds after he’d successfully made it to his bed, there was a soft rap at the door. “My Prince?” his valet called.
Logan drew in a long breath and threw back the covers. Time to face the music, however unpleasant.
***
An hour and a half later, Logan had been cleaned from head to toe—not that he had been particularly dirty in the first place. His loose, dark curls were set into neat coils atop his head, combed through with oil till they gleamed and held their shape perfectly; a silver circlet, set with three diamond-shaped sapphires in the front, rested on his head, just at the juncture between where his hair was kept very short and the longer curly area on top. His outfit, likewise, was all of silver and sapphire—his long-sleeved shirt and stockings were sapphire blue, and his knee-length trousers and matching jacket were heavy silver brocade, with piping along the hems bordered by several rows of of tiny sapphires. The jacket, which tucked in at the waist and then flared out just slightly, had puffed elbow-length sleeves with slashes showing off a brilliant sapphire silk lining; its collar was high and buttoned all the way up, forcing Logan to raise his chin and keep his posture perfect. He wore short boots made of a very soft sapphire-blue suede, with cuffs that folded down about his ankles and fine silver detailing on the toes and heels. His nails were clean and tidy and several rings had been placed on various fingers—most of them to match the outfit, plus one to represent his engagement and another bearing the crest of the royal family. A cape was pinned to his shoulders, made of the same silver brocade and lined with sapphire silk; silver rope trim and tassels trimmed the area where it was attached to his shoulders.
He looked every inch a prince. He was also not certain he’d be able to stomach any food at all from how badly his gut was churning with nerves.
When he was deemed ready at last, Logan was shooed out to the common area of the suite he shared with his brothers—mostly the twins, since Virgil had technically moved into his own separate suite after his marriage, just as Logan would do next week—where his brothers were waiting for him. The twins, chasing each other around the room and hardly taking any notice of Logan’s arrival, were wearing silver outfits clearly reminiscent of Logan’s. Instead of blue, their outfits were accented with the customary green and red that the palace tailors had long ago decided would be used to differentiate their public images. Virgil, whose presence was a surprise to Logan, was standing by the door out of the suite, wearing his most formal crown and a velvet outfit all of dark purple—he was higher-ranking than Logan and did not have to defer to him in dress style tonight like the twins did.
Virgil opened one arm as soon as he saw Logan; Logan gratefully rushed into the hug. He was not generally the most tactile person, but hugs from his father or Virgil were an exception—they were warm and protective and grounding and made Logan feel safe.
“I thought you’d be arriving with Remy?” Logan asked. Usually Virgil accompanied his husband to events, not his brothers; Logan had not expected to see him until he arrived at the event itself.
“He’s meeting us partway there,” Virgil said. “I thought you might appreciate a bit of support beforehand.” He squeezed Logan’s shoulders, firm and soothing.
“I do,” Logan said. “Appreciate it. You being here. Thank you.” He struggled to keep his voice steady.
“Of course.” Virgil released Logan and carefully poked the puffed sleeves of Logan’s jacket, slightly displaced by the hug, back into place. “Ready?”
“Does it matter?” Logan let out a shaky laugh.
Virgil gave him a rueful smile in acknowledgment. “Fair. But it matters to me.”
“Thank you.” Logan swallowed. “I would rather not think about it, though. Let’s—let’s go.”
Virgil nodded. “Hey!” he called, sharp and loud, and Remus and Roman both looked over from where Remus was repeatedly whapping Roman about the head and shoulders with a throw pillow. “Time to go,” Virgil said firmly.
“So I win!” Remus said, throwing the pillow in Roman’s face and darting across the room to wait by the door.
“No—no, you cheated—” Roman tossed the pillow back onto the sofa and joined the rest of his brothers.
Virgil took a moment to smooth each of the twins’ ruffled hair and outfits, then nodded. “Alright, let’s be off.”
“Sore loser,” Remus muttered, poking Roman in the ribs as they followed Virgil out the door.
“Cheater,” Roman grumbled back, swatting his twin’s hand away.
“How do you cheat at pillow fighting? No, come on, tell me. I want to know.”
“You are the worst!”
“Hey,” Virgil said again, warningly. “Save it for later. We’re princes tonight.”
Both the twins grumbled at him, but Virgil’s word was law among the brothers, and by the time they made it to the hall where Virgil’s husband Remy was waiting, Logan’s younger brothers were as close to demure as they ever got.
“Thought you got lost,” Remy greeted with a teasing grin, falling into step beside Virgil.
Logan, walking just behind them, didn’t need to see Virgil’s face to know exactly how he was rolling his eyes. “Don’t give me another thing to worry about tonight, Remy,” he said, sounding amused.
“Rude. Being an inconvenience is what I live for.”
“I’ve noticed, thanks.” Virgil set his shoulders as the group came to a halt outside a set of gilded doors that led into the largest dining room, the one used to host public dinners; these particular doors were for royal entrances. He looked back at his brothers. “Ready?”
Logan fell back; as one of the guests of honor, he was to be presented last. The guards opened the doors a moment or two later, allowing Virgil—Remy’s arm laid formally on his—through first with the fanfare that accompanied him as Crown Prince; then the twins, together, each getting in one last shove at each other’s ribs before they stepped through the door and their demeanors became just a little more composed and formal.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Logan of Sanders,” the herald announced, and Logan stepped through the doors, head held high and heart thrumming rapidly in his chest. There was polite applause, and Logan stepped forward.
Virgil broke away from Remy and the twins, escorting Logan towards the dais where their father waited. “Logan, sir,” he said formally, accompanying the announcement with a bow, and then he stepped away, allowing the focus of the room to undoubtedly fall upon Logan.
King Romulus gave Logan a tiny, reassuring smile before smoothing his face back to the placid, confident look that he wore in public. He rose to stand beside Logan, putting a hand on his shoulder. “On behalf of the kingdom of Sanders, we would like to welcome Prince Janus and the envoy from Philos,” he announced.
That was the cue for the High Chancellor of Philos, the head of the envoy, to approach the dais and present Prince Janus. Logan closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a deep breath and willing himself to be calm, willing the nervous adrenaline coursing through him to dissipate, willing his hands to be still and steady.
“His Royal Highness Prince Janus of Philos, my lords,” the High Chancellor said, and Logan opened his eyes just as the woman stepped aside, presenting Logan’s fiance.
The man from the bookstore, now dressed in a resplendent outfit of gold and with his hair tied back so that the famous snake-shaped birthmark high on his cheekbone was visible—though “snake-shaped” seemed to be an exaggeration; it was a crooked red mark, a squiggle at best—gave Logan a somewhat sheepish grin and wiggled his fingers in a tiny wave that would not be visible from off the dais.
The nervousness churning in Logan’s stomach abruptly resolved itself into embarrassment, then fury.
So—so this was Janus? He’d been talking to and arguing with and laughing with Janus, that whole time? Logan felt irrationally betrayed. What kind of person just lied about his identity to his own fiance? He’d been trying so hard for so long to learn anything about Janus, to form some kind of connection, learn what the man he would be in the company of every day for potentially the rest of his life was like, and Janus had repaid him by lying to his face? How dare he.
Janus took in the furious expression on Logan’s face; his own expression wavered, uncertain and vulnerable for a split second, then smoothed over into a patently false impassiveness.
Logan could not find it in himself to care. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, rote and cold and making it as clear as possible that he meant the opposite.
Janus’s lips pressed together. “Likewise,” he responded with a careful neutrality.
Logan’s father sent him a warning look. “We welcome you to our kingdom, your highness, and hope that your stay will be a pleasant one,” he said to Janus.
The introductions thus made, however perfunctorily, the dinner could get underway; Logan, much to his displeasure, found himself seated between Virgil and Janus. Across from them, Remy and the twins quickly got into a debate over the best methods to a food fight—presumably as the second best option to actually having a food fight—which left even fewer avenues for Logan to avoid conversation with Janus.
“Small world, I suppose,” Janus said after a minute or so of Logan pointedly ignoring him.
Logan frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He didn’t need a scolding from Virgil for sneaking out, not on top of everything else.
“Fine, be like that,” Janus mumbled, but after a minute he tried again. “…Are there any philosophers you do like?”
“No,” Logan said, which was patently untrue. He glared at his plate, stabbing a chunk of potato viciously with a fork.
Virgil pressed the side of his foot warningly against Logan’s shin. “Weren’t you just telling me last week about Quelby’s philosophy of the mind?” he said mildly.
Janus visibly perked up.
“No,” Logan repeated more emphatically. Virgil’s foot pressed harder against his; Logan ignored it.
He proceeded to continue ignoring Virgil’s less and less subtle kicks to his shin throughout the evening, and pointedly rejected every attempt both Virgil and Janus made to draw him into conversation. Eventually Virgil gave up and simply kept up a conversation with Janus, asking after his brother Patton, and how Janus’s journey to Sanders had been, casting Logan disapproving looks every so often.
The dinner lasted two hours; it felt much longer. But at last, with the requisite formalities completed and a formulaic farewell uttered, Logan was ushered from the dining room and away towards his chambers.
It was a brief reprieve. Virgil followed him only moments later, catching up to him just outside the door to the royal suite. “Hey. What was that?” he demanded, grabbing Logan by the shoulder and turning him around to face him.
Logan avoided his eyes. “What was what?”
“Your behavior towards Janus was unacceptable. You said—”
“I’m still not going to do anything that will jeopardize the marriage! I just—I don’t like him!”
Virgil absorbed this, lips pursing disapprovingly. “You know what? I do not care in the slightest what you think of Janus as a person. The way you treated him was completely inexcusable.” He shook his head, looking disappointed. “I thought better of you.”
Logan felt Virgil’s word like a physical blow to the gut, throat closing up. That wasn’t fair. Virgil wasn’t even considering Logan’s point of view. He was displaying blatant favoritism towards a near-stranger over his own brother. Logan dug his nails into the palms of his hands until the pricking at the corners of his eyes went away. “But—but Virgil, he—”
“The first time I visited Philos as the head of our kingdom’s envoy,” Virgil interrupted, voice frighteningly level, “I had five panic attacks in two days. Prince Patton helped me through three of them and afterwards helped me to get accommodations to lower my anxiety—at great inconvenience to himself, I might add. His kindness is the only reason I was able to remain collected enough to represent our kingdom well, and that experience helped shape me into the man I am today. I came out stronger and more sure of myself because of it, but my anxiety that week could easily have destroyed my political career. I believe it would have, if it weren’t for the kindness Patton chose to extend to me when he barely knew me. Do you understand?”
“I—Virgil—” Logan protested weakly, voice growing less certain.
“And I was there as a visitor,” Virgil drove the point home. “For only a week. Janus is all alone and he is going to spend the rest of his life here. I don’t care how you feel about him, you are to be his husband. Do better.”
Logan felt very small, his gut churning with shame—not so much out of regret for his actions as it was for the disappointment and anger in Virgil’s tone, Virgil who normally praised and encouraged him, Virgil whose approval meant the world. Virgil who was now giving Logan the kind of angry stare he usually reserved for particularly annoying diplomats.
Virgil looked at Logan for a moment longer, then turned on his heel and walked away without a word.