Happily Ever Awkward (The H.E.A. Files, #1)(11)

When he stood back up, Laura was already gone, swept away in the flow of traffic.

“…I enjoyed the walk.”

By the time Paul caught up with his father, King Hofnar had already dismounted and was stomping toward the entrance of the tavern. A bouncer in shining armor waited there beside the doorway. Upon King Hofnar’s approach, he chased the gawking peasants from the king’s path and pulled open the luxuriously carved door. Paul scampered to catch up and ducked inside behind his father.

They entered a large, comfortable tavern decorated in dark woods and plush leathers. Fires roared, tables sagged under mounds of meat, and scores of devastatingly handsome princes exchanged boisterous tales of their latest exploits.

Paul had no tales to tell. He had nothing but a sick feeling in his stomach.

On a stage at the far end of the room, a smarmy bard with oily, slicked-back hair crooned an old-fashioned ballad no one seemed to be listening to. Behind him sat a circular bin filled with a pile of wooden chits. Atop the bin reclined a cute, pink Poxie, idly cleaning her tiny glowing wings.

Paul’s eyes were drawn to the elaborate tapestry that hung on the wall behind the bin. Rendered in striking detail, the tapestry depicted Princess Slumbering Beautiful asleep on her bed, surrounded by seventeen very grouchy princes. Words ran the length of the tapestry, picked out in exquisite red and gold thread:



1 Prince + 1 Princess = Happily Ever After





The bard finished his song to a smattering of applause.

“Thank you, thank you, lords and ladies. You’re too kind,” he said with a slight bow. “Don’t forget to tip your wenches — they’re slaving their hearts out.”

“Registration parchments, please.”

Paul and his father had reached the registration desk. A scribe in coarse, heavy robes held out an ink-stained hand and repeated his request. “Your parchments.”

When Paul made no move, King Hofnar shoved the boy forward. “Give him thy parchments, boy!”

“Um…” Paul struggled to undo the flap on his satchel. “I…” He fished around inside the bag. “Uh…” He fumbled several scrolls and dropped them on the floor.

“By all the gods!” King Hofnar fumed. “Wilt thou let thy bag defeat thee too?” He snatched the necessary parchments from the floor and slammed them down on the scribe’s desk.

Paul hung his head and knelt to pick up the remaining scrolls. As he did so, he nervously surveyed the room. Everyone else was big and beautiful, and they all wore the finest silks and linens. They joked and laughed and charmed the very air around them in a way Paul knew he could never do, and he felt himself shrinking within his threadbare cloak.

Taking the stage once again, the bard waved his arms until he had everyone’s attention.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” he declared. “It’s time to select the prince who shall this day rescue sweet Princess Dainty!”

A cheer rolled through the crowd of princes, from one end of the tavern to the other, and they all crowded about the stage. All of them except Paul, for the scribe had grabbed his hand. To be fair, even if the scribe had not grabbed his hand, Paul would not have been crowding the stage, but the young prince appreciated having an excuse.

“All right, my lord,” said the scribe, “you have been registered. Signet ring, please.”

Before Paul could protest, the scribe twisted Paul’s hand around and pressed his ring into a gob of wax that glistened on a wooden token — a token upon which the scribe had written Paul’s name.

As Paul picked up the little piece of wood and blew on the wax to dry it, the scribe lifted a long, golden trumpet and blew a short fanfare in Paul’s face. “All hail King Hofnar and Prince Paul of Lilypine!”

Paul was relieved when no one even glanced in their direction. All eyes remained focused on the stage.

“If you hurry, you can still enter your name for this drawing,” the scribe said.

“That’s not necessary—” Paul started to say.

“Poxie!” shouted the scribe.

The tiny winged creature leaped from the bin on the stage and flew across the tavern, trailing a long streak of glowing pink flitter dust behind it.

“One more for the drawing,” said the scribe, pointing at the wooden token in Paul’s hand.

“No, really—”

“Give her thy token, boy!” commanded King Hofnar.

Motivated by the angry look on his father’s face, Paul started to hand the token to the hovering Poxie, but then, in an accident that might not have been an accident, he dropped the token through the Poxie’s hands.

It clattered across the floor.

“Clumsy insect!” the scribe said, swatting at the Poxie. “Find it!”

Paul quickly stepped on the token and hid it with his foot. “No, it’s all right,” he said. “It’s not her fault.”

“My apologies, my lords,” said the scribe. “I’ll see that she’s punished for this.”

Paul shook his head. “That really won’t be necessary—”

The scribe swung another angry blow at the Poxie.

The Poxie cowered.

Surprisingly, the blow never landed. The scribe’s arm was frozen in midair. Without thinking or blinking, Paul had caught the scribe’s wrist.