Princess of Thorns

“Uh-oh,” he says, staring at the chair with wide eyes.

“Come on.” I tuck myself close to his side and wrap my arm around his waist. “Lean on me. I’ll help you.”

“Maybe I am a little drunk,” he says, dropping a heavy hand on my shoulder and allowing me to lead him toward the stairs.

“Maybe a little,” I agree in a mild voice, grateful no one seems to be paying us any attention. But I’m sure young men stumble drunk from this room all the time. Half the boys in armor were tripping over their own feet by the time they left for the tournaments, making me hope none of them pla

“Sorry, Ror. Didn’t mean to.” Niklaas weaves slightly as we reach the first landing. “I never get drunk. Never. Iss the beer’s fault. I’m strong, but that beer must be sssssstrooo-oooong.”

“You are strong,” I say, urging him up the last flight of stairs.

“I am,” he says, sagging against me until I grunt beneath the added weight.

“I know. I’m agreeing with you.” I half drag him down the hall, desperate to get him into his bed before he’s unconscious. If he passes out in the hall, I’ll never be able to carry him to his room.

“You say that like a joke,” he says, “but it’s not. I am very, very ssstroong.”

I resist the urge to laugh, but just barely. “Yes, Niklaas. You’re a massive, manly beast. Now where did you—” My words end in a squeal as Niklaas grabs me—one hand gripping the back of my neck, one clasped high on my thigh—and heaves me into the air above his head. I lift my hands to keep my face from smashing against the beams, but thankfully Niklaas’s arms are too short to lift me all the way to the ceiling.

“See?” He lifts me up and down, up and down, as if I’m a log at a strongman contest.

“Put me down, this second!” I hiss, wary of drawing the attention of anyone already locked in their room. There are a dozen rooms along the hallway and the i

“And I could lift someone heavier.” Niklaas spins in a circle so fast it’s hard not to squeal again. “You’re too light, Ror. Like a girl, all hollow inside.”

“Girls are not hollow inside.” I slap my hands behind my back, aiming in the general direction of his big, drunken head. “And you’re going to be very, very dead if you don’t. Put. Me. Down!”

“All right, don’t get snappish,” he says, setting me down so suddenly that the world spins and I grab onto the front of his shirt to steady myself.

Unfortunately for us both, at the moment Niklaas isn’t the steadiest port in a storm. I tug at him and he staggers, and a moment later we hit the floor in a tangle of limbs—his elbow knocking my forehead, my knee slamming against his, and his heavy body pi

“Ow!” he groans. “What you tackle me for?”

“I didn’t tackle you,” I grunt, shoving at his chest. “You fell over, you insufferable, drunk—”

“Don’t start calling names.” Niklaas brings his hand down on my chest as he tries to right himself, his fingers brushing against the bandages covered only by the thin linen of my shirt.

“Get off!” I snap, knocking his hand away.

He hums beneath his breath. “What’s that? Are you—”

“Get off of me!” I push at his chest until my arms tremble, trying not to panic. I pla

“All right, all right,” he says, coming to his knees before rocking back to sit with his shoulders braced against the door of his room. He’s breathing heavily by the time he’s upright but not panting the way I am. “Whass wrong? You hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I say, struggling to catch my breath as I scoot away from him.

“But your chest.” He points at my stomach before closing one eye and adjusting the height of his finger. “I felt bandages.”

“It’s a fairy thing.” I think fast, hoping he’s too drunk to see through a lie. “We wrap our chests to keep our shoulders strong. When we … fight.”

Niklaas frowns. “Never heard of that.”

“There are a lot of things you’ve never heard of. You’re only seventeen years old,” I say, throwing his words from earlier back at him as I come to my feet. “If you want to make it to eighteen, you should start drinking less.”

Niklaas’s frown becomes a pout. “Serrsly, Ror. Haven’t been drunk since I was fifteen. Don’t know what … It’s … strange …” He yawns and his eyes begin to slide closed.

“No you don’t,” I say, shaking his arm. “No sleeping until you’re in bed. Where’s your key?” I pat his cheek. “Niklaas? Niklaas! Where is your key?” I give up patting and slap his cheek. Hard.

“Ow!” His eyes fly open. “You hit me!”

“You picked me up and then fell on me like a sack of bricks,” I say, no longer in the frame of mind to be amused by his idiocy. “Now get up!”

“I didn’t crush you, did I?” he asks as I haul him to his feet, worry replacing the outrage in his tone. “I’d feel turri-bull if I crushed you.”

“No, you didn’t crush me,” I groan. Not yet, anyway, but he’s getting heavier by the moment, and if he falls on me again …

“Thas good.” He pats me on the head like a puppy before letting his arm go limp, jabbing me in the eye as his arm falls back to his side. “I don’t want to crush you, Ror. You’re a decent little bass-turd.”

“Give me your key, Niklaas.” I blink tears from my jabbed eye as I tighten my grip on his waist. “I need to get you into bed before you do one of us lasting damage.”

“In my pocket,” he says, fumbling at the front of his shirt.

I snatch the key from the pocket near his heart and slide it into the lock. The door falls inward and Niklaas and I stumble inside, half walking, half falling across the room to his bed, where I deposit him with an “oof” of relief.

I stretch my arms above my head to get the crick out of my spine before reaching for his feet.

“Thanks, Ror,” he mumbles as I tug off his boots, his eyes already closing again. “See you in the mmmumm … ing …”

“See you in the morning, you rager.” I sigh as I heave his legs onto the bed.

I consider trying to take his pants off to make him more comfortable but decide that’s better left alone. He’s going to find out I’m not a boy tomorrow, and I don’t want him knowing I’ve undressed him. He’ll already know that I’ve seen things I shouldn’t have that night at the spring. That night when he was standing in front of me as naked as the day he was born and I stared a little too long …

He’s not nearly as attractive tonight, but I have to admit not even sloppy-drunk-and-snoring-like-a-moose completely disagrees with him.

“Pity you,” I mutter, tugging the blanket up to his waist. “You should pity the women of the world. We’re defenseless against you.”

He lets loose with an especially long snore, making me giggle as I brush the hair from his eyes then tug at the strands that have found their way into his parted mouth. The moonlight through the window falls on his face, accentuating the hollow above his upper lip and the proud angles of his cheekbones. He looks more serious without his dimples but younger, too, no longer a golden god but a boy standing at the gates of the Land Beyond, staring into the blue light from which no human has ever returned, wondering what awaits him on the other side.

“Whatever it is, you won’t find out for years and years to come,” I whisper, tracing the line of his jaw.

I don’t know what has made Niklaas so certain his death is close—his father or some other monster—but I wish he could see himself the way I do. He isn’t just a prince, he’s a hero, the sort of person even death is hesitant to approach without a nod.