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Royally Not Ready(93)

Author:Meghan Quinn

“What the hell is that?” I point to his.

“Paper cutting done right,” he says. “This is what’s expected.”

“That’s unrealistic. Do you really think people expect me to be able to cut out something like that?”

“They do, that’s why we’re working on it.”

After lunch, Keller sat us all down with paper and freshly sharpened scissors and went into the history of paper cutting—a long history of it—followed by a step-by-step tutorial. I compared it to cutting out snowflakes, and man oh man, the backlash I got for that. I was told “it’s so much more than cutting out a snowflake.” And, sure, Keller might’ve been right about that, but a whole bird scene on a tree? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?

“Well, if that’s what’s expected of me, then we should’ve started this a while ago. Sure, I have the obvious raw talent, but this seems as though it takes much practice. When am I to be expected to show off my paper-cutting skills?”

“At Torg,” Keller answers.

“Explain what Torg is again.” I smile sheepishly, but Keller just raises that perfectly posed eyebrow of his at me before sighing.

“Torg is our end-of-summer festival. It’s a week-long—”

“Ah, right, sort of like the Highland games in Scotland, right? Everyone around the country joins together to show off their talents, baking, and enjoy the rich history of Torskethorpe.”

“Correct,” Keller says.

“And it’s when the big trade happens too. That’s actually what Torg stands for,” Lara says. “It means trade.”

“And that’s when the royals trade their handcrafted items with the public, like the embroidery?”

“Right,” Lara says. “It’s the best time of the year.”

“And the royal family is supposed to show off their talents within our traditions,” Brimar says, chiming in as he attempts to cut another piece of paper. “You’re not expected to be the best, but you’re expected to be proficient.”

“He’s right,” Keller says. “And I’m going to tell you right now, a row of penises for your paper cutting isn’t going to go over well.”

“Shame,” I say, my prideful chest deflating. “I really know my way around a dick.”

I glance up at Keller, who’s now giving me a killer glare.

“Oh, wait, is that what a queen would call it? A dick? Or is that too crude? What about crotch?” I wince. “No, that just sounds gross. Hmm, cock is too vulgar. Penis seems normal, although funny, and I don’t think I should be giggling when I say penis in front of other people. Maybe sword—”

“You won’t be talking about penises in front of the general public or dignitaries, so no need to worry about it,” Keller says.

I slip the scissors on my fingers and start circling them around. “What a shame.”

“Can you not swing those around?” Keller asks. “They’re very sharp.”

“What, the scissors?” I ask just as they slip off my finger.

And then, as if the world has turned into slow motion, I watch them fly through the air, across the room, headed right for Brimar.

“Nooooooooo,” I call out.

Unsuspecting and too busy working on another design, he doesn’t see the death scissors approaching him—flying at him—freshly sharpened point first.

But the rest of the room sees the end target.

And together, we collectively gasp as they grow closer and closer.

And . . . closer.

My voice sounds like a stuck-in-the-mud robot as I say, “Briiiiii-marrrrrrrr.”

He glances up at just the right moment, his eyes locking in on the catapulted scissors, and quick like a cat, he lifts his beefy hand in front of his face, only for the scissors to impale right into the meat of his palm.

And like a dart stuck in the bullseye, the scissors stick where they penetrated.

“Oh, dear Jesus.” Bile rises to the top of my throat.

“Fuck,” Keller says, setting his stuff down and going over to Brimar, as Lara runs off for a first aid kit.

“I stabbed him,” I yell as I hop off the couch and start running in place. “Oh God, I stabbed him.”

Keller lowers Brimar’s hand on his lap and calls out to Lara, “Grab some towels.”

I shake my hands in front of me. “I’m a murderer. Bloodshed is on my name.” I grip my forehead. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t aiming for . . . oh God.” I dry-heave. “It’s just, it’s just sticking straight up.”

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