“Wow, your dad must be really rich.” Byron almost managed to sound as wide-eyed and awed as he was trying to look. It was a good thing the girl he was talking to was as unobservant as she was arrogant. The girl, who’d announced herself as Lady Amelia Littleham when Reba and Byron had failed to recognise her on sight.
She tossed her head at Byron’s words, a smug smirk on her face. “Of course he is. He’s the richest man in the district.”
Misty, perched like a furry parrot on Byron’s shoulder, yawned. She had no patience for egos and didn’t care who knew.
Byron’s eyes widened further. “Does that mean you’re one of those nobles with the fancy gowns and jewels? The ones who go to parties with the King?” The girl blanched, her smirk twisting into a scowl. “Of course.”
She wasn’t, and given she was likely a couple of years older than Byron’s thirteen, nearly old enough for her debut, he had neatly winnowed out a sore spot and pressed it. He went on. “Me and craft master Reba, we work in the capital sometimes. The King’s guard like her work on their blades. Maybe I’ll see you go past one day, on your way to meet the King.”
“I wouldn’t be using the servant’s area of the castle.” The girl’s nose was so high in the air she had to squint down it to see Byron.
Who poked a little harder. “Oh but all the palace ladies come to watch the knights and soldiers train. They stand on the balcony over the sparring yard, and fan themselves, and whisper, and giggle.” He somehow managed to look innocent and confused. “I’m not sure why.”
Reba managed to turn her snort of laughter into a cough.
The DNA of Stories 