The Prince Problem
Page 14
Wilmar began to cry. “I’m sorry, Telmund. I didn’t mean for this to happen to you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Their mother made a move as though to sweep in to comfort Wilmar, but Telmund got to him first by draping him with an arm and enclosing him in a protective embrace. “Stop it,” he said. If he couldn’t be a hero, at least he could stop his little brother from feeling bad. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who’s sorry. I may not bully you, but I’m not always the older brother I should be. I’m sorry for those times I get impatient with you. I’m sorry for those times I forget that you aren’t me, and so I get annoyed when you say or do things differently from how I would. I’m sorry I’m not the best older brother to you that I could be.”
“But you are!” Wilmar said, throwing his arms around Telmund’s neck and hugging him.
Telmund didn’t even cringe that his little brother’s hands were sticky from something-or-other.
He did, however, cringe when a strange sensation washed over him. It felt as though his skin was bubbling and rippling, too big and saggy over his bones. He looked down at his arm around Wilmar, and waited to see if it would sprout fur, feathers, or scales.
His skin—which fit exactly right over his bones—didn’t change at all.
The old witch showed her gray teeth again. “Done!” she said. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Then she added, “And now, as much fun as this has been, just in case your father won’t let bygones be bygones, as he indicated should I remove the spell …” And she made spirally gestures with the pointer fingers of both hands and disappeared.
Amelia and her parents were strolling through the Rosenmark gardens, guests of the royal family, when King Leopold sent word that his second-youngest son was recovered, both from the effects of the henbane and from the transforming spell.
“You may visit him now, if you wish,” invited the servant King Leopold had sent, a rather short man who looked tired, spoke hoarsely, and for some reason had a rat riding on his shoulder.
Amelia and her parents didn’t comment on the rat and followed the servant back into the castle.
“I’m most eager to meet this young man of yours,” her father told Amelia.
Amelia felt her face go red. “He’s not my young man,” she said in a lowered voice so the servant wouldn’t overhear.
“He’s a young man,” her father said, not catching the hint, so not lowering his voice at all.
“About whom you’ve been very worried,” her mother added, just as unmindful as Amelia’s father.
Amelia said, “Well, yes. I’m grateful to him for having rescued me.” It was certainly all right for the servant to hear that.
“As I’m sure he is grateful to you for having rescued him,” her father said.
“Maybe not quite so much as the other way around,” her mother observed. “Male pride being what it is.”
“But, still, in the end …” her father said.
“In the end,” her mother agreed. “The two of you made a very good partnership, and that’s important.”
“Partnership?” Amelia echoed. She had her suspicions where this conversation was headed. Her voice got louder, all by itself. “He’s thirteen. I’m fifteen.” It was one thing to like the boy; it was pushy of her parents to make presumptions.
Her father laughed. “Someday that won’t seem such a big difference.”
The servant stopped and held the door open, letting the three of them into Telmund’s room. Then he and his rat left.
Telmund looked as startled as though someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water on him. By the way he sat up in bed and adjusted the blanket and ran his fingers through his hair, Amelia suspected no one had warned him they were coming. He looked as young as ever, but he also looked happy to see her. And—she could admit it to herself, if not to her parents—she was also happy to see him.
She said, “Father, Mother, may I present Prince Telmund of Rosenmark.”
Her father shook Telmund’s hand. “Thank you, young man, for rescuing our daughter from Prince Sheridan.”
“The odious Prince Sheridan,” her mother added.
Telmund blushed. “But I didn’t,” he said. “I only tried.”
“Nonsense,” Amelia said. “You rescued me repeatedly.” In the spirit of total frankness, she had to add, “True, I rescued you once or twice also, but that doesn’t diminish what you did. And you turned into a dragon. It’s not every story hero who gets to do that.”
“I don’t remember it,” Telmund admitted. “My mother said you told her that happened, but …” He shook his head.
“Prince Sheridan remembers,” Amelia said, “that’s the important thing. And his people who were there with him. They saw him cowering and afraid. They heard him offering them and their loved ones up in his place. They were ready to rise up in rebellion.”
Her father finished, “The only thing that prevented that was when old King Whitcomb signed a proclamation naming one of his nephews as heir to the throne in Sheridan’s place.”
Astonished, Telmund asked, “And Prince Sheridan agreed to that?”
“He didn’t get a chance to,” Amelia said. “While I was his prisoner, he’d let it slip to me that he’d been betrothed before. Once I was home, I asked the fairy in our garden if she knew anything about that.”
“Fairies are uncooperative,” her father said. “But notorious busybodies.”
“We only say that in the kindest, most grateful way,” her mother amended, because she was always excruciatingly polite.
Amelia continued, “It turns out, the princess to whom Prince Sheridan was betrothed was the troll king’s daughter. It also turns out that Prince Sheridan had lied to her: He’d sent word that he couldn’t marry her, claiming he had entered the priesthood. I talked to the fairy in our garden, the fairy in our garden talked to the Fairy Council, the Fairy Council talked to the Troll Council, the Troll Council talked to the troll king, and the troll king came himself and fetched Prince Sheridan away to fulfill his obligations.”
Her father said, “And as trolls are as arrogant and argumentative and unpleasant as he is, I’m sure it will be a fine match.”
Her mother finished by announcing, “And to think I never knew we had a fairy in our garden!”
“Wow,” Telmund said. “It sounds as though she was much more accommodating for you than she was for me.”
“Well, she does live in our garden,” Amelia pointed out to him, “so a certain amount of reciprocation might be expected. Still, the point is that none of this would have happened if you hadn’t stepped in and rescued me. Repeatedly. It was very heroic. Just like in a story. Thank you.”
For once he didn’t argue. He smiled, inclined his head, and said, “You’re welcome. I’m glad you don’t have to worry about Prince Sheridan anymore. That must be a great relief.”
It was Amelia’s turn to nod. “And we have been given to understand that the witch who put the spell on you has taken it away?”
“Yes,” Telmund said.
“That must be a great relief to you, also.”
“Yes,” Telmund said to that, too.
My goodness! thought Amelia. How formal we’re all being!
She smiled at him, and he smiled back—but nervously. He’s unsure of himself, she realized. He was probably unsure of her as well.
Despite all her facts, despite all his stories, neither of them felt secure about what to do.
She asked herself, What would the hero of one of Telmund’s stories do?
Well, she decided—based on the stories she had been reading, one after the other, ever since she had gotten home—a hero would never be too afraid to act.
This thought gave her the courage to say, “All in all, I think we probably should have tried this to break your spell.” And with that, Amelia leaned forward and kissed him.
And he kissed her.
And her parents, who believed in love at first sight and in h
appily ever after, kissed each other.
That’s much nicer than kissing a hen would have been, Telmund thought.
We’re young, Amelia thought, and things might change.
Or they might not. In any case, it was a beginning. Maybe even a once-upon-a-time beginning.
Vivian Vande Velde is the author of The Princess Imposter and the Edgar Award–winning Never Trust a Dead Man. She has also written Heir Apparent, Dragon’s Bait, and dozens of other fantasy and mystery novels for young readers. She lives in Rochester, New York, with her husband, Jim.
Copyright © 2018 by Vande Velde, Vivian
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