Royally Not Ready(80)

Keller’s eyebrows draw together, concern etching his features.

“Yeah, I’m really mad at you.”

“Care to explain why?” Keller asks.

“Sure.” I set down the scissors in my hand and carefully say, “We’ve spent how long in this freaking castle, and today is the day you decide to tell me about paper cutting? We could’ve been doing this nightly the whole time, but instead, you wait until a few days before we have to leave. That’s truly doing me a disservice, because look at how good I am at this.” I unfold my paper, revealing a row of connected penises cut into paper.

Lara snorts, covering her mouth.

Brimar chuckles.

And Keller gives me a look.

“I could have been cutting genitals this whole time.”

“You’re not supposed to be cutting genitals, Lilly,” Keller says. “You’re supposed to be working on mountain scenery.”

“Yeah, well, the mountains didn’t excite me like all the penises. I mean, look at how good this is.” I stretch my paper out like an accordion. “It took some real imagination to accomplish this. Let me see what you guys have done.”

Lara unfolds her paper, showing off an intricate, swirly design. It’s pretty, but it’s no penis lineup.

Brimar nearly rips his as he pulls it apart. He’s been struggling the entire time, grumbling about how paper cutting isn’t a tradition he’s good at nor cares to be good at. His design is a simple line of hearts.

And then Keller . . . the overachiever, unfolds his, showing off an elaborate cut-out bird on a tree limb and leaves surrounding it.

“What the hell is that?” I point to his.

“Paper cutting done right,” he says. “This is what’s expected.”

“That’s unrealistic. Do you really think people expect me to be able to cut out something like that?”

“They do, that’s why we’re working on it.”

After lunch, Keller sat us all down with paper and freshly sharpened scissors and went into the history of paper cutting—a long history of it—followed by a step-by-step tutorial. I compared it to cutting out snowflakes, and man oh man, the backlash I got for that. I was told “it’s so much more than cutting out a snowflake.” And, sure, Keller might’ve been right about that, but a whole bird scene on a tree? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?

“Well, if that’s what’s expected of me, then we should’ve started this a while ago. Sure, I have the obvious raw talent, but this seems as though it takes much practice. When am I to be expected to show off my paper-cutting skills?”

“At Torg,” Keller answers.

“Explain what Torg is again.” I smile sheepishly, but Keller just raises that perfectly posed eyebrow of his at me before sighing.

“Torg is our end-of-summer festival. It’s a week-long—”

“Ah, right, sort of like the Highland games in Scotland, right? Everyone around the country joins together to show off their talents, baking, and enjoy the rich history of Torskethorpe.”

“Correct,” Keller says.

“And it’s when the big trade happens too. That’s actually what Torg stands for,” Lara says. “It means trade.”

“And that’s when the royals trade their handcrafted items with the public, like the embroidery?”

“Right,” Lara says. “It’s the best time of the year.”

“And the royal family is supposed to show off their talents within our traditions,” Brimar says, chiming in as he attempts to cut another piece of paper. “You’re not expected to be the best, but you’re expected to be proficient.”

“He’s right,” Keller says. “And I’m going to tell you right now, a row of penises for your paper cutting isn’t going to go over well.”

“Shame,” I say, my prideful chest deflating. “I really know my way around a dick.”

I glance up at Keller, who’s now giving me a killer glare.

“Oh, wait, is that what a queen would call it? A dick? Or is that too crude? What about crotch?” I wince. “No, that just sounds gross. Hmm, cock is too vulgar. Penis seems normal, although funny, and I don’t think I should be giggling when I say penis in front of other people. Maybe sword—”

“You won’t be talking about penises in front of the general public or dignitaries, so no need to worry about it,” Keller says.

I slip the scissors on my fingers and start circling them around. “What a shame.”

“Can you not swing those around?” Keller asks. “They’re very sharp.”

“What, the scissors?” I ask just as they slip off my finger.

And then, as if the world has turned into slow motion, I watch them fly through the air, across the room, headed right for Brimar.

“Nooooooooo,” I call out.

Unsuspecting and too busy working on another design, he doesn’t see the death scissors approaching him—flying at him—freshly sharpened point first.

But the rest of the room sees the end target.

And together, we collectively gasp as they grow closer and closer.

And . . . closer.

My voice sounds like a stuck-in-the-mud robot as I say, “Briiiiii-marrrrrrrr.”