Something With a Prince

Chapter Nineteen: Stones in Glass Houses

Tallethea

It wasn't long after Lansing's response that I was off and stalking toward Monson. The Scout merely raised his eyes at me and held out the flint stone to start the fire. I took the stones happily and bent down, chewing on my cheek. Monson opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it and announced he'd be back with more firewood so we could all eat something before going our separate ways.

Petulant, snobby, ass. My brain was fond of adjectives when Lansing was concerned. It took a couple of tries and a slice to the hand to start the fire and gather my wits.

"Do you need a bandage for that?" Monson gestured to my hand, just returned with an arm full of firewood.

I shook my head, pulling my hand closer to my body. Monson let the wood tumble to the ground, then took a seat beside me, saying in his gruff way, "Where is the prince?"

I snorted, poking the fire with a stick, "His Royal Assness declared he would be taking a walk and will be back soon."

Monson frowned, his massive frame shifting uncomfortably. "You shouldn't speak of your prince that way."

My heart narrowed. "He is nothing of mine."

"He's your responsibility and he's counting on you."

After this Monson went quiet and riffled through his pack. I felt his eyes stop on me for a moment as he no doubt saw what I had put in there. I was hoping he would not find it until later, and now the sentiment was burning my face up. I had to find a way to thank him for what he did back with the mercenaries, but the idea of showing gratitude in person made my chest flutter. I thought a can of fruit was sufficient, now I realize how meager it was.

However, Monson simply cleared his throat, pulled two tins of plain food out from his pack and handed me one as he said, "We all are."

My stomach grumbled happily and together we began to cook and eat. It dawned on me that I hadn't slept since we arrived, and it was nearly afternoon. Looks like I am pulling the long shift today.

Part of my brain did wonder where Lansing had gone to. The other part wished he would find a puddle of quicksand...or a steep hill. Conveniently, for him, we didn't have quicksand in Tuisedor, but it didn't stop me from hoping. Why he wouldn't just tell me what he had done, I had no idea, but it was driving me mad. That, and he always had to go for the throat in a conversation.

You are not innocent in this. My brain decided to remind me. You practically called him an irresponsible Hussey. Was I wrong though? Maybe you don't know him anymore.

Oh, I knew him. I spent enough time ignoring him to know how he operated. You must know someone very well to properly evade them. I know that he likes to read in the afternoons, that he sneaks pastries out of the kitchen in the middle of the night, that he hates the smell of milkweed and won't go near it. I know that he used to be afraid of the dark and spiders. I know that he prefers a bow to a sword but used the latter because it's more proper. I know he had his first kiss when he was fifteen because he tortured me with that information until I had mine two years later. I know the prince.

But do you know Lansing?

Still, I felt the answer was yes. I could recognize his expressions like my own: the way he folds his lips inside his mouth when he's angry or turns his head to the side when he feels hurt. He will always try to get the last word. He will always think he is better than everyone else. I remember his getting in the way of all my fun and causing trouble. I doubt he has changed in anything but looks. Well, he has changed in looks.