“Uh…yes. Might I first have your name, good lady?”
“Right! I can’t believe I forgot about that.”
“You are increasingly forgetful, it seems,” he teased.
She grinned back. As long as he was standing here, talking to her, she didn’t mind the stares so much. “Today, yes. I’m Lois Commoner.”
She stuck out her hand. He looked at it and didn’t say anything.
“Helloooooo?” She waved her hand in front of his face. “And you are?”
“Please forgive; I was waiting to hear your rank and affiliations.”
“Oh, as to that—well, up ’til yesterday, it was Detective Lois Commoner, Minneapolis Police Department.”
“That is an odd affiliation.”
“Well, it worked for me, once upon a time.”
He took her still-proffered hand, and seemed unsure of what to do with it. Finally he patted it, then let it go. “I am Damon.”
“Is that Demon or Damien? ’Cuz I got problems with both.”
“Day-MAWN.”
“Oh.” He stuck out his hand and she shook it firmly. He watched their hands pump up and down, bemused. “It’s nice to meet you. Thanks again for the ride.”
“You have but to ask if you desire another one. Come, I would like you to meet my father.”
He hadn’t let go of her hand that time; instead he pulled her through the gigantic doorway, into the castle’s, er, yard, or whatever it was called. But before they could get very far, a short blond woman wearing what looked like a leather tunic and pants came racing toward them. Lois didn’t have a chance to see what she looked like before she skidded in the dirt before them, then hit the ground with her arms stretched over her head.
“Forgive my impertinence, Prince Damon!” she cried into the dirt. “His Majesty the King has been asking for you all morning.”
“Of course. Thank you, Rejar.”
Damon charged for the inner door, pulling Lois so hard she actually lost her feet. “Whoa! Slow down. Or leggo and I’ll follow you.”
“Forgive—I will be right back. Remain here, if you please.” With that he dropped her hand and was through the door in a half second.
She rubbed her wrist—he hadn’t meant to hurt her, but the marks of his fingers remained—and stared at everyone staring at her.
Two choices: hang out here and be gawked at, or follow Damon. Prince Damon. Did she say Prince?
She followed.
It wasn’t difficult to track Damon down. She followed the shouting. Two floors and five halls later, she figured out what the problem was. It seemed the king—Damon’s dad?—was as sick as a dog, and everybody was yelling at everybody else about what to do about it. From the fuss, these guys didn’t get sick very often.
She peeked through the doorway—no doors that she had seen, just large archways that led from one room to another. The archways were tall—at least seven feet high—and so wide, four of her could have gone through them at once.
She could see Damon and two other men standing around yelling. Well, they weren’t exactly yelling—they were sort of politely disagreeing with each other very loudly. At least Damon had put some clothes on—he was wearing a robe several shades lighter than his hair, with a blazing sun embroidered on the front.
“—all respect to my good lordly brother—”
“—helping our good father the king by—”
“—turn a slops bucket o’er my good lordly brother’s tiny head—”
“—try it, my good tiny brother—”
“—both of you should grow headfirst in a pile of Stinkweed, beloved princes—”
Others—she assumed they worked in the castle, as they weren’t dressed nearly as nicely as Damon’s brothers—were surrounding Damon and the men, and occasionally trying to get a word in edgewise.
She walked down to the next room and peeked inside. And gasped—what a room!
She’d seen a picture of the queen’s chambers at Buckingham Palace once. This room put Queen Elizabeth’s digs to shame.
It was enormous—the ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and the room itself was as big as the entire Homicide Department. Windows had been cut into the stone near the top of each wall, and the floor was splashed with pale lavender sunlight.
A professional football team could have comfortably slept in the bed, but there was only one person in it now—a man whose blond hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He looked to be in his late fifties, and his complexion had a definite greenish tinge. He was huddled under richly embroidered blankets—only his head was showing—and looked as unhappy as a junkie in withdrawal.
He groaned in abject misery, which made up her mind. She cautiously approached the bed and cleared her throat.
“Hi there,” she said. His eyes—the same pale purple as Damon’s—opened wide and he stared at her, stunned. “Can I get you something? Some Pepto-Bismol? A bucket? You look like you’re gonna—”
He groaned again, lurched upright, and threw up all over her.
“—be sick,” she finished. She stood there, dripping, and contemplated him. “Something you ate?” she asked at last.
He nodded and slumped back against the filthy bedclothes. “That I should so dishonor a lady, and one who came to me out of a need to lend aid!”
“Chill out, I’ll live. You know, you’d be a lot more comfortable with clean sheets. And wouldn’t you like some soup? Like—uh—chicken broth? Do they have chickens here? Do they have broth, even? Never mind, I’ll find out. And aren’t you thirsty? If you’re gonna be this sick, you should drink a lot. Don’t go away,” she added.
She turned, and saw several people—Damon among them—standing in the huge doorway. “Yeah, there you are—listen, I’m going to need clean sheets, and some cold water—can you do ice water?—and some broth. Light stuff, nothing heavy. Maybe a little bread, if you have some. No butter…no dairy products at all. Oh, and someone better find me an old shirt or something to run around in. Don’t suppose there’s a washing machine in the basement?”
Nobody moved.
“Hey! I’m talking to you people!” She marched up to the doorway and made shooing gestures. “Get your asses in gear, the old guy’s pretty miserable.”
“You cannot be here,” one of the servants finally ventured, eyes rolling like a scared horse. “This area is for royalty and the servants of same. You—”
“—seem to be the only one doing something.”
