The Prince Problem

by Vivian Vande Velde

  “Oh,” Amelia said, the truth finally sinking in. She had been about to protest that a ball couldn’t be put on in one afternoon. It would have to be canceled, or at least postponed. Which, of course, was exactly what her parents had known she’d do. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

  “I’m telling you now,” her mother answered. “I know you, and I know that this gives you plenty of time to get …” Now it was her mother’s turn to sigh. “… as ready as you’ll ever get.” She forced a bright smile. “We didn’t want you to fret.”

  Or to have time to think up excuses, Amelia guessed.

  “We put the visiting princesses in the east wing …”

  “How nice,” Amelia said. She had been outside with the botanist studying medicinal plants all morning and hadn’t noticed.

  “… and the visiting princes in the west wing …”

  “Of course.”

  “… and the various parents in the north wing.”

  “It sounds as though you’ve planned everything.”

  “Not everything,” her mother said. “You’ll get to choose which prince is to your liking.”

  Amelia thought about this. “You mean for the first dance?”

  “No, dear,” her mother answered cheerfully. “I mean to become betrothed to.”

  Telmund felt the way he imagined a dandelion gone to seed would feel if a rainbow-shimmer breeze blew it apart. And then reassembled it. Backward.

  Suddenly the grass was so long it tickled his belly.

  No, that wasn’t right …

  The grass tickled because his belly was so close to the ground.

  Which meant he was on hands and knees.

  Except he wasn’t.

  He was on all fours, but all fours meant four legs—four furry, gray legs. Four was twice as many as he should have, and furry was definitely alarming. When he looked down to see them, he could also see that he had long, white whiskers that evidently sprouted on either side of his nose. Snout? Muzzle?

  “What am I?” he asked.

  It came out: Squeak?

  The old woman—the old witch—leaned down and said with a certain amount of smug glee, “You’re a rat.”

  A rat? The only good thing Telmund could think about that was it probably meant that—unlike for a toad or frog—swimming would not be required. But still: a rat?

  Wilmar, sounding more amazed than distressed, said, “Wow.” He squatted for a closer look. His head was enormous, and Telmund flattened himself onto the ground, thinking, Don’t notice me, which was a ridiculous thing to think since Wilmar clearly already had noticed him, and—besides—why shouldn’t he? Surely, Telmund had nothing to fear from his brother. Wilmar repeated, “Wow.” He turned to the witch. “Can I pick him up?”

  “No,” Telmund said frantically. This, too, came out: Squeak.

  “Certainly,” the witch said. “Use his tail.”

  “No,” Telmund said again. And he repeated it, louder and faster as his brother grasped him by the tail and dangled him at eye level: “No! No! No! No!” Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!

  Ouch! That hurt! And the world swayed dizzyingly. Telmund suspected that rats couldn’t vomit, because if they could have, he would have.

  “What’s he saying?” Wilmar asked, peering at Telmund closely.

  “He’s saying ‘Squeak,’ ” the witch said. But then she relented. “He’s saying ‘No.’ ”

  Can she speak rat, Telmund wondered, or is she guessing?

  She added, “Don’t hold him so close to your face. He may bite your nose.”

  Wilmar jerked his hand away, causing Telmund’s world to once again careen about wildly. But then Wilmar said, “No, he wouldn’t do that,” and brought his hand in close once more, so that Telmund’s world narrowed to his brother’s eyes and nose. “Is he saying no because he doesn’t want to be a rat or because he doesn’t want to be held by the tail?”

  Both, Telmund thought. Why could he understand but not make himself understood?

  The witch shrugged. “Hard to say,” she admitted.

  “He probably doesn’t like either thing,” Wilmar said. He placed his left arm across his chest and set Telmund down in the angle his elbow made.

  It was very good to have the world stop tilting and spinning.

  “Thank you,” Telmund said. Since he knew it would come out as Squeak, he made sure he said it very calmly, so that it would sound different from his previous panicked squeaks. He fully intended to bow his head to show his appreciation for his brother’s gentleness, but apparently rats don’t do that, and instead he found himself brushing his paws against his whiskers.

  “Hmph,” the witch said. She leaned in to tell Telmund, “I don’t trust you.”

  Which seemed positively unfair, considering who had changed whom into a rodent.

  “He’s cute,” Wilmar said, using a finger to pet the top of Telmund’s head.

  It’s humiliating to be called cute by your little brother.

  But the head petting felt so nice, Telmund’s racing heart slowed down, and he closed his eyes in enjoyment of it. Surely the witch would turn him back to his own form once Wilmar explained that Telmund was not a wicked older brother. Tell her, he wished at Wilmar. But keep petting my head while you do.

  “Can he understand me?” Wilmar asked.

  The witch didn’t answer.

  Telmund felt Wilmar’s arm tense.

  He was aware of Wilmar’s torso moving as he swung his head left and right as though …

  Telmund’s eyes flew open. He squirmed around so that he was facing outward, searching left and right.

  His rat eyesight wasn’t as good as his Prince Telmund eyesight, but he could tell there was no sign of the witch in the festival crowd.

  How could Wilmar explain to her if she wandered off?

  Wilmar placed his free hand over Telmund, to keep him secure in the crook of his arm as he stood. “Did you see where she went?” he asked the stall keeper.

  The man stood amongst his bowls with his mouth hanging open.

  This expression clearly indicated he’d seen the witch cast her spell, but it was less clear whether he’d seen where she’d gone afterward.

  “Hold on, Telmund,” Wilmar said. “Cute as you are, you can’t stay a rat.” It was reassuring to hear him say that. Even more reassuring to hear him say, “I’ll get help.” He started running, with Telmund still tucked between his elbow and chest, his right hand cupped over Telmund to keep him from bouncing loose.

  It also kept Telmund from being able to see where they were going. He was aware of his brother jostling through the crowd, zigging and zagging, bumping against people, people bumping against him. All this up-down-and-around was making it hard to concentrate.

  Was Wilmar searching for the witch? That’s what Telmund hoped he was doing. After all: Who could help him besides the witch?

  Well, Telmund thought, maybe another witch. Not that he was aware of another witch living in the kingdom. On the other hand, he hadn’t been aware of any witches—including the one who’d just bespelled him into rat-hood. Still, maybe there were other witches, friendlier witches, who could counteract her spell.

  Wilmar came to an abrupt stop. In fact, he not only stopped moving forward but he was actually jerked backward. The abrupt ending of his forward momentum caused his right hand to swing away from protecting Telmund’s head, and Telmund catapulted out of his brother’s arm and onto the grass.

  Telmund flipped, somersaulting heels over head (assuming rats have heels) for what felt like at least four or five times before skidding to a stop. He lay there on his back, looking skyward.

  “What ho, Prince Wilmar?” a big voice boomed. “Where are you going in such a rush? And where’s your brother who’s supposed to be minding you?”

  Telmund righted himself and found himself looking up, up, up to the castle steward, who—under normal circumstances—wasn’t that tall a man. Especially given that he was sitting. An awning h
ad been erected for him so he could sit in the shade, lounging on the bank of the river that encircled the castle. It was a place from which to watch the goings-on of the festival and to supervise whatever needed supervising.

  “He’s right here!” Wilmar cried. Then as the steward got to his feet—his big, enormous feet—he added, “Don’t step on him!”

  The steward focused on the first thing Wilmar had said and ignored the second. He looked in the direction from which he’d seen Wilmar running and said, “I don’t see Prince Telmund. Have you been playing hide-and-seek with him while he was trying to watch you? That’s a naughty thing to have done, but I won’t tell your parents if you don’t.”

  “No,” said Wilmar. He scooped Telmund up and held him out on his palm for the steward to see. “He’s here.”

  The steward’s gaze swept over the two of them.

  Telmund stood erect, which he estimated made him look more regal, or at least more human.

  The steward made a disgusted sound. “Prince Wilmar! Put that creature down. It’s vile and spreads disease.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Wilmar said. “And it’s not an it. This is Telmund. A witch put a spell on him.”

  The steward snorted. “That sounds like one of your brother’s fanciful stories,” he said. As though stories were a bad thing.

  And with that, he grabbed hold of Telmund by the tail and flicked him away.

  Through the air Telmund flew, somersaulting once more.

  One somersault …

  … two …

  … the first half of a third …

  … and into the river.

  It took three tries before Amelia got her voice to work. “Betrothed?” she gasped. “Mother, I’m fourteen!”

  “Yes,” her mother said, sounding amused rather than irritated. “I remember. I was there when you were born.”

  “I’m too young to be betrothed,” Amelia protested. But even as she said it, she knew this wasn’t, strictly speaking, correct. In the world of the aristocracy, two kings sometimes forged an alliance by agreeing that one’s son would marry the other’s daughter. It was not unheard of for this to be decided when one or both of the children were still infants.

  Sure enough, her mother smiled indulgently as she pointed out, “You’re too young to get married, of course. But it’s time to start thinking about whom you will marry. You’re the one who brought up the subject.”

  “What?” Amelia asked. “No, I didn’t. When? I never said … What?”

  “Well, yes, not exactly,” her mother agreed. Her mother always agreed—even when disagreeing. “But you’re the one who mentioned Prince Sheridan of Bittenhelm at the Council meeting two months ago. How dangerous it is to have such an ambitious man on our border, just waiting for his father to die so he can rule as he chooses.”

  “But his father survived the fever he had,” Amelia protested. Still, even as she said it, she knew he might not survive his next. King Whitcomb was old—old enough that he had reigned longer than her own father had been alive—and it was only the friendship he bore her father that had kept the kingdom of Pastonia safe.

  A feeling of horror washed over Amelia. “You haven’t invited Prince Sheridan to this ball, have you? You aren’t thinking—”

  “No,” her mother hastened to say. She was too refined to look horrified, but she couldn’t avoid the look of distaste. “Not an alliance with him, one to protect you from him.”

  Well, that was a relief, seeing as Sheridan was closer to her parents’ age than her own. Amelia knew little of the man, but his public actions so far had proven him self-serving and quick-tempered. During his father’s latest illness, he had recommended that—should his father survive—it would probably still be best for the country of Bittenhelm if the elderly king stepped down from power, in order to let someone more fit rule.

  Amelia wanted to protest that she didn’t need protecting, but she knew that wasn’t the way of the world. Besides, she suspected this would only serve to make her parents firmer in their resolve.

  Her mother smiled and nodded. “And of course you will have your choice.” But her mother knew Amelia well enough to add, “Though you cannot choose not to choose.”

  Then her mother leaned in close to whisper, even though there was no one nearby to listen in, “It doesn’t have to be at this ball. If there’s no one to your liking tonight, we’ll find another way.” She squeezed Amelia’s hand. “And nothing permanent will be decided tonight, in any case. If you do think you like one of the princes you dance with tonight, you’ll have a chance to get to know him before announcements are made. Although I must remind you that your father and I had an arranged marriage, and I was only two years older than you are now. It’s turned out to be perfect in every way.” She kissed Amelia’s cheek. “You are the proof of that.”

  Amelia sighed. How can you argue with your mother when she says things like that?

  “Now go greet the other princesses and get ready.”

  Unenthusiastically, maybe even dragging a bit, Amelia made her way to the east wing. The guest chambers there opened onto a central common room, which had many windows to let in enough light to be able to distinguish nuances of color. This feature was essential, lest some unfortunate princess accidentally chose a crimson bow, thinking it scarlet to match her dress, and have to suffer humiliation once her mistake was seen.

  Mirrors had been gathered from all over the castle: hand mirrors to scrutinize up close and wall mirrors to get the full effect. And of course there were assorted couches for resting on, should a princess tire herself during the exhausting work of beautification.

  Amelia could hear the princesses’ fluttery voices—laughing in delight, weeping in frustration, or gossiping in conspiratorial whispers—before she even got to the door. Once she stepped into the room, she was met with an almost overpowering haze of perfumes and powders, along with the sight of more lace and ruffles and glittering gems than any one room should be expected to hold. There were at least two dozen princesses in various stages of readiness. Likely there were even more in their own private rooms, overcome by the strain and needing quiet ministering from their attendants. All around Amelia, maids were being praised, scolded, or encouraged to sew beads onto bodices faster.

  Her own maid, Constance, must have been waiting by the door, for she took Amelia by the elbow and led her through the throng of princesses to the area of the room where her things had been laid out. Constance had helpfully brought everything out from Amelia’s chamber, so that she could choose whatever she wanted while basking in the companionship of her guests.

  Amelia couldn’t help but notice that some of the princesses had brought more garments with them than she possessed here in her own home.

  “Hello, Princess Amelia,” several of the princesses called to her. Amelia was aware of a few others quietly asking one another, “Who’s that, again?” She didn’t hold it against anyone for not recognizing her, though she herself made a point of memorizing names and faces. Addressing someone personally was a courteous thing to do and made people—whether guests or servants—feel welcome and appreciated.

  Still, it was sometimes hard to tell one frill-bedecked and ribbon-festooned beautiful young princess from another. This was especially true of the triplets from Ostergard—Selena, Serena, and Serafina—who all had huge green eyes, blonde hair in loose ringlets, cute little upturned noses, and not a sensible thought amongst them. But Amelia was confident she made no mistakes.

  “Does this gown make me look fat?” the tall and willowy Princess Colleen asked her.

  Amelia could have said, You KNOW that you couldn’t look fat even if you stuffed pillows around your waist, and you’re only asking because you’re seeking out compliments, but she simply said, “Not at all. You look lovely.”

  Princess Roselyn needed reassuring, too. “Does this sapphire and diamond necklace make me look faded out?” she asked breathlessly. She always said everything breathlessly. Roselyn brushed
her hair back, as though there was any chance of anyone missing the necklace, which was nearly as wide as a man’s belt. “There are so many diamonds, I’m worried the light shining off all those facets will reflect onto my face and make me look pale.”

  Amelia could have said, Yes, we all see your necklace, which no doubt cost enough to feed a dozen villages for a year, but she only said, “It brings out the sparkle in your eyes.”

  Princess Esmerelda sidled close and whisper-asked, “Is my gown prettier than Christabelle’s? She’s always trying to look prettier than me.”

  Amelia whisper-answered, “She never could.”

  And when Princess Christabelle pulled Amelia aside to ask her the same thing, Amelia gave her the same answer.

  Several of the princesses had changed their minds and ordered their maids to fetch alternate gowns—which of course necessitated different shoes, different jewelry, and different hairstyles. Three of the maids, having been through this several times already, were crying softly as they worked. One bore a bright red handprint on her cheek.

  “Which gown would you like?” Constance asked Amelia.

  “The yellow one that’s on top will do fine,” Amelia said, even as she overheard someone talking about a princess who wasn’t there. Someone who’d shown up at a ball the previous week wearing a yellow dress.

  “And, my dear, she looked like a daffodil. I am not exaggerating one bit: a daffodil!”

  Constance raised an eyebrow, to question whether this comment had made Amelia change her mind. Her hand hovered over the dress right below the yellow one, which was blue.

  Amelia leaned close to whisper, “I like daffodils.”

  “Very good, my lady,” Constance said with a straight face.

  Amelia let Constance choose the jewelry that would offset the dress nicely, for she had little sense of what went with what. Then Constance worked on Amelia’s hair. Amelia always had trouble getting her hair to cooperate. Sometimes, when she brushed it herself, she developed knots that she had to tuck under the unknotted strands.

  But hair care was something else at which Constance was skilled. Somehow the maid also had time to weave a crown of flowers—including daffodils—which she placed on Amelia’s head.