A Dance of Lies

by Brittney Arena

“Sire, I recommend that you put on actual pants.” “Thank you, I was getting to that,” Anton says, snatching a nearby set of trousers. He’s wearing a set of loose drawers that indeed cut well above his knees. “It’s only that I have to remind you often, Sire.” “I am sorry that my thighs offend you, Basile.” “Sire, after eight years in your employ, nothing offends me.” Anton sends me a coy grin. “See? Dead inside.” “That would be your fault, Majesty,” Basile retorts. “Indeed. However, my astounding supply of charisma resurrects you on the daily. Does it not?” “If by charisma you mean chaos, then yes, I am revived daily.” “Stop stealing all the good lines,” Anton mutters, buttoning his tunic.