The Crown Prince's Most Disrespectful Attendant

Ch5: Peace, Briefly Interrupted

Morning had been ruined.

Albert knew this with the same certainty one knows fire is hot or nobles are useless. He stood in the middle of Merri-Len Store, one hand braced against his lower back, the other holding the broken half of his favorite pen. Sunlight spilled through the front windows in bright golden strips, touching the wreckage with insulting beauty.

Crushed herbs stained the floor green and brown. A shelf leaned sideways like it had given up on life. Oranges rolled lazily through the room, bumping into chair legs and bits of shattered pottery. Flour dust clung to the walls, and one stool had somehow lost a leg and all dignity along with it.

Albert stared at it all in silence. Then he looked down at the pen. Its wooden body was split near the middle, the tip bent beyond repair.

A tragedy.

"You served faithfully," he said quietly.

The front bell rang. Joel stepped inside carrying a cloth bag against her hip, mid-step, before she froze completely, eyes widening as they moved from the broken shelves to the scattered fruit, then finally to Albert, who was mourning writing equipment. The bag slipped from her fingers onto the counter.

"What happened?"

Albert lifted his gaze. "Bandits."

Joel blinked. "Bandits."

"And an idiot."

She looked around again, more carefully this time. There was a shoe print on the counter.

"How many?"

"Five bandits," Albert said. "One idiot."

"And you're alive?"

He frowned at the question. "I resent how likely that sounded."

Joel moved farther inside, turning in a slow circle. "Why is the flour on the wall?"

"Momentum."

"Why is there a shoe print on the counter?"

"Ambition."

"And why," she said, narrowing her eyes, "is there a knife stuck in the door frame?"

Albert paused. "I choose not to discuss every success."

Joel closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose. When she opened them again, she pointed at a broom leaning in the corner.

"Clean."

Albert straightened. "I own this establishment."

"Yes."

"I am the employer."

"Yes."

"I should supervise."

She pointed again. "Clean."

Albert respected conviction when he saw it. He picked up the broom.

---

The repairs began under protest. Albert swept in slow, offended strokes while Joel reorganized shelves with the ruthless efficiency of someone cleaning up after a child. Neither spoke for several minutes.

Then Joel glanced at him. "You fought them, didn't you?"

"I defended commerce."

"You fought them."

"I corrected their behavior physically."

She sighed. "That means yes."

Albert swept a crushed orange peel into the pile. "It was educational."

"For who?"

"For me. I learned I still dislike people."

Joel made a sound suspiciously close to laughter.

The bell rang again. Mr. Jo ducked through the doorway, broad shoulders nearly catching the frame, his usual booming presence entering first, followed by the smell of fruit and sun. He stopped, looked around, then let out a low whistle.

"Well."

Albert kept sweeping. "If you came to help, speak quickly before I regain hope."

Mr. Jo bent to pick up an orange and polished it on his sleeve. "I came for gossip."

"Then leave poorer than you arrived."

Mr. Jo grinned and bit into the orange. "I heard five grown men ran from here screaming."

"One screamed," Albert said. "The others simply expressed themselves loudly."

"And they called you a monster."

Albert looked wounded. "I was patient."

Joel snorted from behind the counter.

Mr. Jo laughed so hard his shoulders shook, then leaned closer. "They also said some noble-looking fool was involved."

Albert's broom paused for half a breath, then continued. "Not noble."

"No?"

"Just expensive."

Mr. Jo's eyes gleamed. "The dangerous kind."

"The fragile kind."

---

By midday the store no longer looked destroyed. It looked injured. Shelves stood upright again, though one listed slightly to the left. Most of the fruit had been salvaged or eaten by Mr. Jo "for quality assurance." The cracked jars had been replaced with mismatched ones from storage.

Joel sat at the counter counting coins from the stranger's pouch, the metal clinking softly in neat stacks, her brows rising higher with each count.

"Where did this come from?"

Albert was restocking candles. "Compensation."

"You robbed someone."

"I invoiced unexpectedly."

She stared at him. "That is theft."

"That is accounting."

Joel held up a coin between two fingers. "There's enough here to replace the shelves."

"Good."

"And the jars."

"Excellent."

"And your pen."

Albert pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. "At last. Healing."

She tied the pouch shut. "You really dragged someone into the street and took their money?"

"He resisted fairness."

"That is not how fairness works."

"It worked beautifully."

Joel shook her head slowly, like someone trying to keep her thoughts from escaping.

---

Word spread through Redvale faster than smoke. Customers drifted in all afternoon pretending to browse while asking shameless questions.

"Is it true six men attacked you?"

"It was five," Albert said.

"So the sixth rumor is false?"

"The sixth was dignity. It died here."

Another woman leaned over the counter. "Was there truly a cloaked noble?"

"No."

"My cousin said he shouted, 'Unhand me!'"

Albert stacked soap bars calmly. "Street performance."

"And the fighting?"

"Audience participation."

No one believed him. They bought things anyway.

Chaos, Albert discovered, was excellent for business.

---

When sunset painted the windows amber, Joel closed the ledger and tied her cloak.

"I'm leaving."

Albert nodded from where he sat mending a crate. "A dramatic exit."

"You're closing early."

"I have suffered enough industry for one day."

"You're lazy."

"I am wounded."

She walked to the door, then hesitated. "That cloaked man..."

Albert looked up. "What about him?"

She frowned slightly. "The way he spoke."

"How so?"

"Like he expected the world to move aside."

Albert barked a short laugh. "Then he'll hate reality."

Joel smiled despite herself. "Just be careful."

"If he returns," Albert said, hammering a nail into place, "I'm charging him breathing fees."

She left shaking her head. The bell gave one last soft ring, and then silence settled over the shop. Warm. Earned.

---

Albert closed soon after. He counted the day's earnings by lamplight, fingers moving automatically over coins and notes, then banked the stove, checked the latch twice, and stood alone in the dim room.

His room. His store. His work. Not inherited, not assigned, not wrapped in obligation and family expectations. Chosen.

That simple fact still pleased him more than wealth ever had.

He touched the repaired shelf lightly. "Try not to collapse in the night," he told it, then took his coat and stepped outside.

Redvale had softened with evening. Lanterns glowed behind windows like captured stars, voices drifted from taverns in warm bursts of laughter, and somewhere a fiddle played badly but enthusiastically. Albert walked the familiar road home, the town smelling of woodsmoke, bread, and cooling earth.

Years ago he had lived in mansions where corridors echoed and servants bowed before speaking. Now he lived in a crooked cottage near the edge of town where the roof leaked if rain got ambitious.

He preferred this. Greatly.

No one cared when he woke. No one tracked who he spoke to. No one asked him to smile for political reasons.

Freedom was smaller than people imagined. Sometimes it was just a front door only you had the key to.

---

He entered his cottage, lit a lamp, and dropped heavily into a chair. Every muscle complained. He welcomed it. Honest pain was easier than noble conversation.

Then he remembered the stranger. His face darkened immediately.

"That fool."

Who runs into a man's shop like hunted prey, hides in the storeroom, destroys half the inventory, gets thrown out, and still acts offended? Only two types of people. Idiots. And nobles. Often the same people wearing different hats.

Albert folded his arms. "I hope he trips tomorrow." He considered. "No." He adjusted the curse. "I hope he steps in mud wearing expensive boots."

Better.

Then inspiration struck. "I hope he sneezes during an important meal."

Perfect.

Albert nodded to himself. "Yes. Suffer properly."

---

Far away, inside a guarded carriage rolling beneath moonlight, the cloaked stranger suddenly stiffened.

"Hah-chh!"

The sneeze echoed sharply. Outside, two knights nearly jumped. The captain rode closer to the carriage window.

"Your Highness? Are you unwell?"

Inside, the Crown Prince frowned darkly. "No." He settled back. Then sneezed again, eyes narrowing. "Someone," he said slowly, "is cursing me."

The captain blinked. "Shall I arrest someone?"

The Prince was silent for a moment. Then, against all reason, a smirk touched his mouth.

"Not yet."

He looked out into the dark road toward Redvale, blue eyes brightening with something far more dangerous than anger.

Interest.

---

Back in his cottage, Albert crawled into bed with the satisfaction of a man who had won several arguments and lost only furniture. He pulled the blanket up to his chin.

Tomorrow would be peaceful.

Surely.

Outside, wind moved through the trees. In the distance, hoofbeats thundered briefly on the road leading into town.

Albert was already asleep.

And fate, patient as ever, was knocking again.