Callum gives me a lopsided grin, then says, “I thought maybe you were asexual.”
He—what?
Claudius makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a snort.
“I googled it,” Callum continues. “Some people have no sex drive. Definitely nothing to be ashamed of. You know what else is asexual? Zebra sharks. You’re a zebra shark! How cool is that?”
I lean forward, resting my head in my hands, taking deep breaths. I slowly count backwards from ten in Elsinorian, then in English, Spanish, and finally Italian. When I look up again, Callum stares at me expectantly. The look on Claudius’s face is barely concealed amusement.
“It’s nothing to be defensive about, bro. The internet says plenty of asexual people live happy, fulfilled lives. The concept of an heir might be an issue but—”
“I am not a zebra shark, nor am I asexual. And please, for the last time, stop using the word bro.” When Callum opens his mouth again, I pound my fist on the desk. “I don’t like casually dating any woman who blinks at me the way you do.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been dating, casually or otherwise, since last summer,” Callum says.
It’s true, and I have noticed. After the arranged marriage between Callum and Serafina of Viore went down in flames (thanks to Callum lighting a match and dousing it with petrol), he’s changed. Dare I even say he’s matured?
He just called you a zebra shark. Mature is not what he’s done.
Right. But at the least, Callum hasn’t been spotted with a new woman every week in the tabloids. And he made peace with Serafina and her new husband, Rafe. Though now Callum and Rafe are engaged in a long-distance prank battle that I fail to understand. Pranks in general seem so wasteful of time and resources. But ultimately, this is an improvement on things, so I’ll ignore it until it creates some kind of national incident.
“Regardless,” I say. “I’ve chosen to focus on my work and my duties rather than relationships. It doesn’t make me asexual. I always planned to get married. The only thing I’m against is marrying a woman ill-suited to the job.”
“Ill-suited to the … job,” Callum repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
“You realize your wife will not be an employee.”
I scoff. “Of course I know that.”
“Are you sure you know that? Because,” Callum goes on, an intense look on his face, “I know you said you’re not a zebra shark—but just in case—when a man loves a woman and wants to demonstrate this love physically—”
Without stopping to consider the repercussions, I toss a paperweight shaped like a sailboat at Callum’s head.
He ducks, and the boat lands in the corner of my office beneath the portrait of my stern-faced grandfather, King Gerald.
If possible, Gerald looks even less amused than before.
I’m not usually a violent—or even very physical—person. But Callum knows where to find my buttons and how to jam his thumbs directly into them. Repeatedly.
A zebra shark, I scoff to myself. Asexual. A wife as an employee.
Claudius retrieves the paperweight and sets it on my desk. The mast is broken, but I regret nothing. Callum grins and spreads out until he takes up twice as much room as any normal person. I may have to ask someone to disinfect the chair later, given his post-tennis state of sweat.
“Do you two need to take this outside?” Claudius asks drily, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
“No,” Callum and I say in unison.
Callum clears his throat and taps the folder he’s still holding. “How, precisely, did you and Claudius come up with this list of women?”
“With a specific list of qualities and characteristics I provided,” I say, keeping it intentionally vague.
“Demographics, psychographics, personality tests, and background checks,” Claudius adds. “I designed an algorithm to—”
Holding up a hand, Callum says, “Got it. You’re brilliant, Claudius.” My brother swings his gaze back to me, his eyes narrowing. “Just tell me you didn’t make a spreadsheet.”
I say nothing. Because I did not make a spreadsheet.
I made two.
Callum groans, then covers his eyes and groans even louder. “You can’t choose a wife based on a spreadsheet.”
“Ultimately, we didn’t use a spreadsheet,” Claudius says. “I made an algorithm and plugged the information into a rubric.”
“Even worse.” Callum pauses. “What’s a rubric?”
Claudius sighs. “It’s a scoring guide evaluating the final candidates chosen by the algorithm.”
Waving the folder just out of my reach, Callum says, “And you really think this is the best idea to choose a wife? A silly rubric? No offense, Claudius.”
“None taken.”
“I’m sure it’s quite a lovely rubric,” Callum adds politely.
“Stop saying the word rubric,” I snap.
“It’s a dreadful idea,” Callum concludes, swinging his gaze to me. “If you’d like, I can set you up with someone within the hour. Even if you are a geeky, too-serious hermit with very little dating experience. You’re good-looking. And a prince. Also, a very decent man.”
“Tempting, but no. I’ve made my choice.”
“You mean, your rubric made the choice. You’d trust a rubric over your own brother?”
I’m not going to even touch that question.
Callum huffs. “Fine. So, it’s like an arranged marriage—with you and Claudius doing the arranging. By way of spreadsheets, algorithms, and—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—a rubric. What about love? Attraction? Chemistry?” Callum asks. “Where do those fall on the rubric?”
I drum my fingers against the desk. “They don’t.”
Callum looks like he’s about to jump out of his tiny tennis shorts. Before he starts spouting some rubbish about the importance of attraction in the animal kingdom (to all species other than zebra sharks), I speak.
“Love is a choice. A commitment. It develops and deepens over time. Attraction can and will grow in proportion to this deepening connection.”
“Next, you’ll tell me there’s a pie chart or bar graph you’ve made for this,” Callum says with a laugh.
There are actually both. I’m grateful they didn’t make it into the folder Callum still has in his lap.
“I don’t need to tell you that royal marriages don’t always happen conventionally.”
“They can still include love,” he argues.
“Mum and Dad had an arranged marriage. Love followed.”
“Our parents are more of an exception than a rule. My point is that you shouldn’t get married out of a sacrificial desire to do what’s best for Elsinore,” Callum says, and I’m touched by the sincerity in his eyes. Even if I disagree. “We’re not bound by some law about how or when to get married. If you don’t like the women Mum and Dad are setting you up with, fine. But don’t rush this and make a choice based on—”
Before he can say rubric again, I interrupt. “It needs to be now. Because we don’t know …”