One Too Far

By Rachel Dib

“Have you ever wanted to—”

“No.” Brix adjusted his brother’s tie, expression unchanged.

“But you could—”

“Don’t care.”

“What’s the point of being Captain of the Guard if you’re not going to use it to your advantage?”

When Brix didn’t answer, Moxly sighed and turned towards the mirror. His clean cut, shaven features matched his crisp, dark suit. Moxly frowned. “This isn’t going to be any fun, is it?”

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Brix replied, folding down Moxly’s collar. “It’s a job. All you need to do is make an appearance, shake a few hands, leave, and get paid. That’s it.”

Moxly sighed again.

Brix crossed his arms. “Look, if you’re not going to take this seriously, tell me now. I’ll do it myself.”

“No, I’ve got it.” Moxly flicked a hand dismissively. “Where’s the picture?”

Brix lifted a brow.

“I promise.” Moxly held up his hands. “I’ll be nothing but professional.”

Brix eyed him for a moment before shaking his head and slipping a photograph from his uniform pocket. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Moxly’s eyes brightened as he accepted the photo. He ran his gaze over the featured young man, scrutinizing every little detail from the color of his hair to the cleft in his chin to the slight nick from a razor on his jaw.

“We don’t have much time,” Brix reminded him. “The ceremony starts in an hour, and you still need to get the Grand Chancellor’s approval.”

“No worries.” Smirking, Moxly met Brix’s gaze.

A moment later, he began to change. Moxly’s black hair leached of all color until it turned an ashen gray with eyebrows to match. His eyes lightened from an emerald green to an icy blue, and a pale scar etched itself above his right brow. His nose and cheek bones sharpened; his lips grew fuller, and finally, a cleft formed in his chin.

Moxly glanced at the picture once more, and the razor nick appeared on his jawline. “That about does it, don’t you agree?”

“It’s not me you have to impress,” Brix said gruffly, but he nodded all the same. “Let’s go.”

Moxly followed Brix down a series of carpeted hallways lined with portraits of men and women dressed in far too many frills.

“Glad those styles went out of fashion,” he murmured.

Brix grunted, turned a corner, and stopped short.

“Captain Cartwright,” a young maid gasped.

Moxly coughed, drawing the maid’s attention. Her eyes widened.

“Your Highness,” she spluttered and bowed her head. “I am glad to see you are well.”

“Yes,” Moxly replied. “‘Twas a bad turnip, it seems. I feel quite better now.”

The maid’s brow furrowed. “A turnip, my lord?”

“Funny things, turnips,” Moxly said airily. “Usually, they are healthy for you. Eat a bad one, though, and…” Moxly grimaced. “Poops for days.”

Brix made a strangled noise.

“That sounds awful, my lord.” The maid glanced uncomfortably between Moxly and Brix.

“Oh, believe me, it was,” Moxly said gravely. He met the maid’s gaze, his expression serious. “My advice? Stay away from turnips.”

The maid blinked. “I’ll keep that in mind, my lord.”

“A wise choice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with the Grand Chancellor.”

“Why, of course, my lord.” The maid stepped aside and bowed again.

Moxly strode forward, Brix at his heels.

“Why did you say that?” Brix hissed as soon as they were out of the maid’s earshot. “A bad turnip? Really?”

“Funny, right?” Moxy smirked.

“No, not funny,” Brix snapped. “Not funny at all.”

Moxly rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal? You said Prince Heltor was having intestinal issues.”

“Yes, but not from a bad turnip. Do you know how quickly that is going to spread around the castle?”

“Can’t be any worse than some of the other rumors floating around.”

Brix narrowed his eyes. “What other rumors?”

“Random stuff.” Moxly shrugged. “That he has webbed feet. That he has a rabbit collection.”

Brix’s brow furrowed. “Like, stuffed rabbits?”

Moxly shook his head. “Live ones. Word is, he has one of every color combination imaginable, and he keeps them in fancy dollhouses in his bedroom.”

“That’s absurd,” Brix scoffed.

“Not as absurd as him being secretly married to a mermaid princess that only sprouts legs once a fortnight.” He met Brix’s eye and lifted a brow. “Unless…”

“No.”

Moxly shrugged.

“Just how many rumors about the prince are in circulation?”

“Loads.”

“Well, I doubt any of them are true,” Brix stated gruffly.

“It doesn’t matter whether or not they’re true. The point is that they exist,” Moxly replied. “One more isn’t going to make a difference.”

“Only this one isn’t a rumor,” Brix huffed. “It came directly from Prince Heltor’s mouth.”

Moxly tilted his head. “Ah. Well, it’s not like it’s a bad rumor. For all we know, Prince Heltor did get food poisoning from a turnip. And anyway, that maid was the only one cleaning over there. We probably have a few hours before anyone else hears about the incident.”

“You’d better hope that’s true,” Brix grunted. He nodded down a hallway to a set of large, wooden doors guarded by two sentries.

As they neared, the sentries saluted before opening the doors.

Moxly caught the eye of the youngest sentinel and winked. He chuckled softly when the young man jerked his gaze away.

After passing Moxly a warning glance, Brix led the way into the room.

The Grand Chancellor turned away from the courtyard-facing window, his gaze falling on Moxly. “So, this is your brother?” He strode forward, his hands tucked behind his back. “He seems to share your talent.”

“Yes, sir,” Brix replied, snapping to attention.

The Grand Chancellor nodded. “I find no fault with his appearance. However, there is another matter I wish to address.”

“Yes, sir?” Brix asked.

“What is this I hear about poisoned turnips?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier and becoming a military wife, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the U.S. In her limited spare time, she enjoys reading, writing, and playing board games. Her other published work can be found in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal (under R.J. Snowberger) and On the Premises Magazine.

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