The One With The Drunken Best Friend

Later that night, long after Natalia had fallen asleep, Viktor sat up in bed. Shafts of moonlight sliced through the darkness of the bedchamber, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. He rose with practiced stealth, careful not to disturb her. It had taken considerable coaxing to convince her to share the room, a negotiation that had concluded only when he agreed to a galling concession: her pet rat would be given a dedicated, secure space, off-limits to all guards. Under normal circumstances, Viktor would never entertain such a ridiculous arrangement, but these were not normal circumstances. They had to present a united front. With his uncle’s spies undoubtedly lurking in every shadow, he could not afford to give the impression that his new queen was anything less than completely devoted.

He slipped from the chamber, his footsteps silent on the cold stone, and made his way toward the modest quarters assigned to Markus, his chief servant and most trusted advisor. He knocked once, and the door swung open to reveal his friend.

"Well, well. Are you planning to grace my doorway with your gloomy presence all night, or are you coming in, Mr. Sunshine?"

Viktor sometimes wondered how he tolerated Markus’s relentless sarcasm. He stepped inside the small room. Markus gestured toward a low, lumpy bed. Viktor’s nose wrinkled in distaste. He certainly was not going to sit on that.

"Suit yourself," Markus said with an indifferent shrug.

Viktor surveyed the spartan furnishings. "You know, you need only ask, and I could arrange for far superior quarters."

Markus flopped onto the bed stomach-first, then rolled onto his back with a groan. "Yes, I'm aware. But this room, this position, I earned through my own merits. It’s one of the reasons I have so few enemies." It was true. Markus had started at the very bottom of the palace hierarchy, earning promotion after promotion through sheer talent and an unyielding work ethic. He had accomplished the remarkable feat of becoming Head of Staff at only sixteen. While most had applauded his meteoric rise, a bitter few had despised him for it. "So," Markus said, lacing his fingers behind his head, "what’s the trouble?"

"Who said there was any trouble?"

"You never grace my humble abode with your royal presence unless you have a problem, Mr. I-Prefer-to-Brood-on-Everything-in-Solitude."

"I do not brood," Viktor snapped.

"Right. Of course." The sarcasm in Markus’s voice was so thick Viktor could almost see it—a tangible, obnoxious thing buzzing around his friend's head. For a disquieting moment, he had a crystal-clear mental image of Markus doing exactly that. It seemed unsettlingly appropriate.

"Before we delve into your weighty issues," Markus began, a wide grin spreading across his face, "how's married life treating you?"

"I haven't been married for three full days, and you're asking me that already?"

"What? I want to know if I'm to be a secret uncle anytime soon. Because you’d never acknowledge me as such publicly."

"As I told you this morning, I haven't touched her. Nor do I have any immediate plans to do so. Do you think I want to handle a permanently scarred Natalia? I'm already dealing with one who is scarred enough, and she is likely the very picture of innocence in such matters."

Markus let out a low whistle. "Got it. Still, my ultimate goal is to be a secret uncle. Jace simply isn't enough of a rascal to hold my interest."

"Then go get married yourself."

"Now, what was the problem?" Markus asked, deftly changing the subject. Viktor let him, having no desire to continue that particular conversation.

"I believe my uncle intends to recruit Natalia for whatever scheme he's concocting. How do I prevent that from happening?"

"You mean," Markus clarified, "without appearing to be a total control freak? The way you did last time? Because you wouldn't be here asking me for help otherwise."

He was not a control freak! Manipulative, yes. Calculating, certainly. But not a control freak. "Why do I put up with you?"

"Because I'm handsome, witty, compassionate, your best friend, handsome, helpful, Head of Staff, handsome, your secret advisor, and… did I mention handsome?"

"Once or twice, perhaps."

"What can I say?" Markus sighed dramatically. "Show a woman the respect she deserves, and they fall all over you." He was hamming it up, but as he spoke, Viktor caught an unpleasant scent on his breath.

"Are you drunk?"

"Maybe?" Markus mumbled in response. Then, abruptly, he leaned over the side of the bed and vomited all over Viktor's expensive leather boots.

Viktor’s jaw twitched as he stared down at the sickening mess. "Perhaps we should discuss this later. When you're completely sober." Markus rarely drank; Viktor knew they would be having a very serious talk later. But seeing that his friend would be of no help tonight, he might as well leave. Not, however, without exacting a small, petty measure of revenge for the vomit.

"And Markus?" Viktor said, his voice dangerously smooth. "I disapprove of my staff drinking on duty. You will report to the kitchens one hour earlier than usual tomorrow to assist them. Be ready." Even Viktor, who rarely ventured there, knew the kitchens were a hell of noise and frantic chaos in the mornings. He heard Markus groan in misery and allowed himself a quiet chuckle. He strode back to his own chamber, closing the door softly behind him. The night hadn't been a total loss, after all. Markus’s suffering was always rather amusing.

Morgan

When I was finally led to my patient in the lord’s manor, I was unsurprised to find a young boy covered in red, itchy lesions. Chickenpox. Thankfully, having suffered through it myself at the age of five, I was immune.

"I have seen this sickness on some of my men," the lord—Lord Jon—said, his voice grave. "Nearly all of them died from it. I need you to save my son, Miracle Worker."

"Morgan," I corrected him firmly. "My name is Morgan."

"Morgan," he repeated, his brow furrowed with worry as he looked at the whimpering child on the large, canopied bed.

"Your son has chickenpox," I informed him. My swift diagnosis clearly startled Lord Jon. "You are extremely fortunate he contracted it as a child," I continued. "Chickenpox is far easier to treat in the young and significantly less deadly. Once he recovers, he should never get it again. In fact, if there are other children in the household, you might consider letting them spend time with him. I can tend to them all and we can isolate them together to ensure no adults are infected. It will grant them immunity for the rest of their lives."

Lord Jon looked utterly scandalized. I suppose he hadn't expected me to suggest deliberately infecting other children. But it was sound practice. When my older brother had come down with it before I was born, my parents had hosted a "pox party" for every child in the neighborhood.

The lord gave a curt nod and left the room. I was already certain he would not take my advice. Unfortunately, his choice was not one I could influence. I turned my attention back to the boy, whose hand was darting toward a particularly nasty-looking blister on his arm. I gently caught his wrist.

"Don't itch," I said in my most soothing tone. "If you scratch until you bleed, you'll only give yourself permanent scars."

The boy let out a sharp whine, and the distinct, dispiriting impression washed over me that I was dealing with a coddled brat. Oh, wonderful. Just what I needed. The lord was unlikely to let me leave until his little prince was fully recovered. It looked like I had a long couple of days ahead of me. Note the sarcasm.

Still, I thought grimly, the brat can't possibly be worse than Natalia when she's miserable. For a fleeting moment, I almost felt sorry for the king. The poor man had no idea what he was in for. All I wanted was to be there with a camera when he finally found out. Because as bright and cheerful as Natalia usually was, when she became truly unhappy, she made it her sworn mission to ensure everyone around her was just as miserable.

That poor, cruel, deranged king. On second thought, I hope he burns.