Displaced

My sister's boyfriend

Voron’s jaw drops, and he swears. Obviously his dad hasn’t pounded the same proscription on profanity into his head that my mom has.

“You wouldn’t dare fight me,” I say. “Because when you lose, you’ll look unbelievably silly.” 

Lark lifts her chin and strides toward the Security office. “I’m serious, and I’ll prove it right now.” 

She pushes through the door and pins Edam with a pointed look. “I’d like to record a challenge. Lark ne’Lyssa Alamecha challenges Chancery Divinity Alamecha.” 

I can’t quite help from inching close enough to see Edam’s perfect face with total clarity. He may be my evil twin’s boyfriend, but there’s no law against appreciating flawless, unparalleled beauty. His close-cropped blond hair gleams, even in the dull office lighting. His chiseled jawline, his aquiline nose, his full lips, all of them working together to create the most heart-stopping face I’ve ever seen. If I stand too close, he’ll hear my heart pounding and he’ll know. So I stay in the hallway. 

And Judica doesn’t chop my head off for ogling her boyfriend. At least, not today.

Lark watches as he writes our names down and then ducks out of the office. When she leaves, Edam’s cerulean eyes lift rapidly. He catches me staring at him longingly. Shoot. 

I snap my mouth closed and spin on my heel to lope toward the breakfast room where Mom’s probably waiting. Lark owes me for that nonsense. My life is hard enough without losing mismatched challenges and being outed for secret crushes.

“Chancery,” a deep voice behind me says. My heart skips a beat, and I hope he didn’t notice. The hall is utterly empty though, so I don’t like my chances. How did Voron and Kegan disappear so quickly? 

I pivot to face him and nearly trip over Cookie. “Edam.” Why did he chase me down? Was I that obvious? 

“I set your challenge with Lark for eleven a.m. today, but you left so fast I couldn’t confirm whether that time will work, Your Highness. Are you accepting her challenge?” 

I frown. “Don’t call me that.” 

“I apologize, Your Highness. I tried calling you properly first, but you didn’t reply.” 

He thinks I’m objecting to his use of Chancery. I want to sink into the floor. “No, I mean, don’t call me ‘your highness.’ I hate it.” 

“You’re second in line to the throne.” 

I roll my eyes. “I’m plain old Chancery. I’m not the Heir, so you don’t need to call me anything but my given name.” 

“Fine. Chancery, then.” He draws out the syllables in my name in a low tone that makes my shoulders feel tight.

I want to hear him say it again. Which is monumentally stupid. “Right, but the point is, eleven is fine. I’ll be there. But for now, I’m late for breakfast with my mother.” 

Edam salutes me and straightens his impossibly broad frame. “I won’t keep you then, just Chancery.” 

My stomach flips again. I wish he would keep me. I inhale a deep, ragged breath. I’m a mess today. It must be nerves. I’ve never fought anyone, much less in public. Mom’s going to freak out. “Any last-minute tips for someone who’s never fought in an official capacity in her life?” 

Edam’s eyebrows rise. “You’re not off book yet?” 

I shake my head. “Most people aren’t, not until well into their twenties.” 

“You aren’t most people, your high—er, Chancery. I assumed— but I’m sure you’ll be fine.” 

“Lark’s going to murder me, isn’t she?” 

Edam’s eyebrows draw together. “I don’t believe she’s training in melodics.” 

“Nope. Her mother argues with mine frequently about the benefits of sladius and limitations of melodics. That’s why Mom agreed to let Judica start there. Lyssa says sladius is easier to master, which is better—”

“Judica started there so she could protect herself from birth, as Heir.” 

I nod. “You think melodics is antiquated?” 

Edam crosses his arms. “I don’t, no.” 

My eyebrows draw together. “You trained in melodics?” 

“No, but my mother did. She was formidable. It’s a subtle, refined, nearly lost art form.”

I scowl at him. Art form? “My mom trained in melodics.” I really hate that I’m going to have to throw this fight. It’s just going to bolster all the detractors’ arguments against Mom’s preferred, but currently unpopular, fighting method. 

“I have the utmost respect for your mother, both as my Empress, and as a warrior.” Edam’s eyes haven’t left mine. 

I should walk away, but I can’t. Once, when I wasn’t even three years old, I popped a habanero pepper into my mouth. I didn’t know whether to spit it out and cry, or close my eyes and savor the pain. Being around Edam is like that, except there’s no chance I’d ever spit him out.

“Chancy,” Mom calls from down the hall, “you’re late.”