“I would have totally pegged you for a Ravenclaw.”
They’d had this discussion dozens of times, and it always came out the same way. “But Ravenclaws are evil.”
“No. They’re just smart. And kind of evil. And you’re a lawyer. So yeah, you’re definitely a Ravenclaw.” She looked down at the cats. “Are Arthur and Maxence some sort of royalty, too?”
“Arthur is not a member of a royal family, and we never allow him to forget it. Maxence plans to renounce everything for the Church.”
Casimir heard a man’s cough behind them that sounded like “asshole.” When he glanced back, Arthur was laughing at them, as always.
Rox was still staring at him, watching him. “And yet Arthur’s plane has three crowns on the tail fin.”
“Not crowns. Coronets.”
“Oh, and I suppose that there’s a difference.”
“There’s a difference.”
She grabbed Casimir’s right arm and pushed up his sleeve, baring his forearm with the three-shield tattoo. Her hand warmed his wrist. “Three coronets, then. Just like your tatt.”
The plane jerked and rolled backward, pulling away from the terminal.
He turned his arm over so that the morning sunlight streaming in the porthole window shone on the ink on his skin. “The blue shield with the three coronets is Arthur. The red and white harlequin pattern stands for Maxence. The Dutch lion on an orange field is mine.”
“For the Orange Nassau house.”
“For Hufflepuff.”
“Oh, stop.” She backhanded him on the shoulder, just like always. For years, he had prodded her so that she would slap his shoulder and grin. He loved every time she did it.
He explained, “We got them just before we left school. It’s a pledge of mutual support. The centerpiece between the three shields,” a triangle filled with what looked like a tangled rope, “is a Celtic knot that symbolizes friendship.”
“And that’s how your sister knew to call them.” She inspected the tattoo more closely. “It looks kind of faded.”
The ink under his skin had blued somewhat in over a decade. “It was done twelve years ago. We were seventeen.”
The plane coasted to a stop and reversed, rolling forward. Outside the round window of the airplane, domed hangars and industrial buildings cast black shadows on each other in the morning sunlight.
“So the Dutch lion symbolizes the royal house.” Rox bit her lip.
So tempting. This conversation must go well so that he would get the chance to bite it again, perhaps tonight.
She asked, “So what should I have been calling you, all these years?”
“Casimir.”
“No. Really.”
“It’s my name. It’s what my mother and sisters call me. Arthur calls me ‘Caz’ because he can’t be bothered with three syllables.”
From several rows behind them, Arthur snorted.
“It doesn’t matter what my last name is. It doesn’t matter what family I was born into. I don’t plan on ever going back to the Netherlands except for family functions. I will not live there.” He hadn’t quite meant to allow that sharp edge in his voice.
Her eyebrows rose. “You don’t like the Netherlands?”
He scratched the gnarled scar and new burn on his cheek. In his head, he was insisting that it itched, but the blistered, charred skin still burned. “I prefer living elsewhere, quietly.”
Rox turned toward him in her seat, upsetting Speedbump and Midnight, who grumbled before they settled down on her lap again. “Tell me why.”
He scratched the new scars on his cheek again, a nervous move. “I told you about the car accident when I was six.”
Rox took his hand, and he tightened his fingers around hers. Pirate nibbled on his arm when he stopped petting him.
“After the accident, some people were not kind, even though I was a child.”
“A small child.”
From behind them, Casimir heard Arthur sneeze, except it sounded like he said, “Willem,” under his breath.
They didn’t need to go into that, yet.
Casimir said, “One particular newspaper was abusive, following me around and taking pictures, jumping out at me because I looked particularly monstrous when surprised. The pictures ran with amusing captions.”
Rox slid her hand up to his elbow and tucked her fingers around his thick biceps. He concentrated on Pirate in his lap and Rox’s hand on his arm. He had learned as a child not to let his emotions show. A crying monster looks far worse than a stoic one.
“There’s no reason for me to permanently reside in Amsterdam. An investigation will determine whether I should return to Los Angeles. I suspect not.”