His to Princess

by Theodora Taylor

  There are cobwebs everywhere, and she can immediately see her feather duster isn't going to cut it. There’s only a small step ladder in the kitchen, and it’s nowhere near high enough to help her reach the castle’s lofty ceilings.

  Out on the terrace by the kitchen, she searches the thick vegetation growing up from the ground below for a stick, or a loose palm frond, or anything, really, she can use to extend the length of her duster…when a voice says, “Ah, tiens, there you are! Bonjour, Miss Talia.”

  Like a ghost materializing out of thin air, Al arrives carrying two metal buckets filled to the top with water, and suspended from a wide yoke balanced across his shoulders and back of his neck.

  Okay, wow. Back in New York, especially in winter, transient men and women were often bundled up under layers of old hoodies and coats, making them frequently resemble walking laundry piles. But this guy…well he’s rocking the homeless look. She can’t help but admire the way his muscles move under his tight, tanned skin as he walks up the hill from the beach. It’s a total ab-and-tendon show, and suddenly Talia feels hot and sweaty for more reasons than the muggy tropical climate.

  “Uh, hi,” she says, dragging her eyes from his body and up to his Robinson Crusoe face.

  “You are surprised to see me still here?” he asks, the familiar twinkle in his eye.

  “A bit.” Part of her had been glad he’d disappeared. Yeah, it did put her behind schedule, but it also seriously uncomplicated her scullery maid position.

  Another part of her, though…Talia exhales slowly and prepares for her day to change.

  “I will place these…here.” Al turns, slipping the yoke from his broad shoulders, before unhooking the bucket handles from their ropes. And a few more inappropriate thoughts pop off inside her head, as she finds herself once again “appreciating” how cut he is.

  Her eyes travel down the bronzed skin of his nicely contoured back, strong from…well, whatever he was doing in the Royal Navy. And those jean shorts, snug and a little high-waisted with a lot of stitching on the pockets. Wait, seriously?! Talia starts to giggle.

  “What is funny?” he asks, turning around.

  “I'm sorry, it's just…those jean shorts. Are they Jordache?”

  Al twists his head, trying to get a clear view of the pocket on his butt. “Perhaps. But they are all I could find to fit me. No one has lived here for years,” he waggles his eyebrows, and juts one hip out like a model from a high-end designer jeans ad. “Do you like them?”

  And he’s funny, too!

  “Um…I haven't seen Jordache jeans since I helped my mom clean out our attic.” Talia covers her mouth, trying to suppress another giggle. “I guess it's better than walking around in your swim trunks all the time.”

  “My what?”

  “Your swim trunks…you said you swam here.”

  “Yes. But I didn’t wear swim trunks.”

  She tilts her head. “Then…what were…?”

  “Euh, a costume.”

  He laughs when he sees the very confused look on her face.

  “Non, non, costume—it is not the same thing in English. A suit, you know? A business suit,” he says, patting his chest.

  Talia steps back, and tries to imagine Desert Island Guy in a suit, maybe carrying a briefcase.

  “You don't see it?” he asks. “You cannot imagine me in a suit?”

  She narrows her eyes, but…with the shaggy beard and crazy red hair—

  “Uh, no. No I don't. I'm sorry, Al. Anyway, I thought you were military, so why were you wearing a suit?” For a funeral? she wonders. Could someone close to him have died?

  Al brushes her questions away like so much cobweb. “Now…you said we are cleaning today. Let us clean.”

  Once more, he walks away without waiting for an answer, returning to the sitting room, and leaving her blinking on the terrace.

  “Al?”

  “Where should we start?” he calls from inside.

  “Hey! If you don’t want to talk about something, just say so,” she calls through an open window.

  But she understands his abrupt subject change. He's probably not comfortable talking about whatever brought him here. At least not yet. Heaven knows she still can’t quite explain how she went from a full-time law student to castle scullery maid.

  She follows him into the sitting room, the cool air raising the hairs on her arms. He's inspecting her new cleaning products.

  “I’ll tackle the corners,” Talia indicates the cobweb-covered crown molding at the edges of the ceiling. “Why don't you start on the windows?” She pushes a rag into his hand.

  She goes back outside to retrieve the palm frond she’s cut down, but when she returns, he’s still standing there, holding the rag.

  “You'll need to wash the windows,” she stage whispers, like she’s helping him cheat on a test.

  He nods, and she sets to work attaching the feather duster to the palm frond. But when she turns back around, Al’s eying her like she asked him to wash the windows in a language only she understands.

  “The windows? With soap?” She enunciates the words very carefully, and points to the cleaning products on the table. “And water, which you already thought of.”

  Al opens his mouth in what she can only assume to be an aha moment, and picks up a bottle of cleaning product from the table. Talia smiles and nods. He nods too, and brings the cleaning liquid and his rag outside.

  Good Lord.

  She raises the extended feather duster to the ceiling. It works well. In fact, the palm fronds alone might have done the trick, but either way she’s pleased with her cleaning hack.

  In only a few minutes, Talia has whipped away the cobwebs, and dusted all around the ceiling. Feeling very satisfied, she heads outside to knock the duster clean.

  And this is when she suddenly realizes Al’s seeming inability to clean up after himself and do something as basic as wash a window is not feigned, but very, very real.

  The many small panes of glass that make up the terrace windows, the very windows Al is supposed to be cleaning, are white with foam. The empty bottle of liquid nettoyant is on the ground, capless. She can only presume from the bucket overflowing with suds and foam, that Al has poured the entire bottle of concentrated cleaning solution into the water. He’s covered in soap and water with bubbles going up his arms, and dripping down his legs.

  “How am I doing?” he asks with an eager smile.

  All Talia can do is shake her head, baffled.

  It’s official…

  “It’s going to be a long day,” she finally answers, wondering how far away the well is. They’ll need a lot of water to clean up this mess.

  After the soap fiasco, Talia realizes she needs to make sure Al fully comprehends all her instructions before starting a new task. No, it’s not okay to sweep dust under the furniture. Yes, concentrated bleach needs to be diluted, and double yes, be sure to wear gloves or you’re going to bleach yourself even whiter than you already are.

  Even after several days, Al still needs Talia to hold his hand through the cleaning process. There are so many small windows in this castle, not to mention the skylight over the staircase, and a chapel so full of copper, silver, marble, and stained glass that it takes hours just to polish a square yard of it.

  But the poor guy really tries. He watches eagerly over Talia’s shoulder, his beard tickling her skin, as she lectures him on which cleaning product to use for which task, or on the ratios of detergent to water. And agrees, frowning thoughtfully, when Talia laments that they could be so much more efficient if they only had easy access to hot water (and YouTube).

  But just when she thinks he’s figured it out, she turns around to find him cursing in French and making another mess. Sometimes she wonders if he grew up in a normal home. He’s able to cook for himself in an albeit remedial outdoorsy way, but as for the rest…well, most people learn how to clean by watching others do it at home. But it’s like this guy has never actually seen anyone m
op a floor, or dust until now.

  Still, he’s enthusiastic in his role of willing apprentice. Today he holds a step ladder as Talia mounts it to dust behind a painting.

  As she works the feather duster above her head, she can feel his body heat near her thigh. A quick glance down reveals he’s not watching her dust at all, but is instead looking up at the unobstructed view of her rear end.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she asks, lips pursed in disapproval.

  “Oui, it is hard not to,” he answers with a wry smile, his hand touching her lower leg. “The view is so very nice.”

  "Knock it off, Al," Talia says, wiggling her leg free from his grasp.

  She shakes her head ruefully. He’s incorrigibly French, but he also makes her smile. Laugh, even. A lot…at his downright idiocy when it comes to something as simple as cleaning, or his near genius level ability to spout off random bits of trivia, like the tidbits of castle history he shares with her, or the detailed descriptions of the various flora and fauna she asks him about on the castle grounds.

  After she’s finished with the painting, Talia decides to dedicate the rest of the day to washing the china she found in the kitchen and dining area. And she sends Al outside to weed the herb garden right off the kitchen.

  Al goes right to work on one of the few jobs even he can’t mess up. And though Talia should do the same with her china job, she finds herself staring through the open window, mesmerized by the interplay of muscles over his arms and shoulder, as he pulls up the unwanted weeds.

  Maybe I should have gone to school to become a doctor, she thinks, when she finally manages to rip her eyes from the sight. Because apparently, she’s way more impressed with anatomy than she previously thought.

  Studiously ignoring the sight outside the window, Talia lays tea towels out all over the kitchen. She then throws the doors open, letting in a warm breeze to help with the drying process.

  She’s working out of two metal buckets, occasionally clanging them together as she washes and rinses, when Al suddenly appears in the open window directly in front of the sink.

  “Chut!” he says, raising his eyebrows and motioning for her to come quickly.

  What now? Talia wipes her hands on a damp dishrag, and follows him outside. But the moment she gets to the terrace, Al’s large hand stops her and pushes her behind him, groping for her wrist.

  “What is it Al?” she asks, wondering if it might be a real threat. But then why tell her to come outside in the first place?

  “Regards,” he says, pointing to a branch.

  At first she sees nothing, just twigs and leaves. But then something moves, and she realizes the entire branch is covered in chameleons. It’s a strange sight to see so many of the unique lizards grasping bits and pieces of the branch with their mitten-like feet, long curly tails drooping beneath them.

  “What are they doing?” Talia asks, realizing with a shiver that there are a lot of them. Maybe fifteen or twenty.

  “I think it’s a union meeting,” Al whispers with a straight face. “They’re organizing a strike. Something about there not being enough insects for them to eat since we weeded the gardens.”

  Repressing a giggle, Talia decides to play along. “Oh right, so that’s why they’re rolling their eyes like that.” She watches, fascinated, as a handful rotate their eyes in completely different directions.

  “Exactly. They feel they are being under-compensated for their work."

  "And what is their work, exactly?"

  "Why, to help create the tropical island ambiance, of course..."

  She can’t hold it in any longer. Talia’s giggle comes out as an unladylike snort followed by a guffaw, and she slaps Al on the arm.

  “Stop,” she says when she can finally breathe again. “Leave those poor things alone.”

  But he doesn’t move. “We have not made our lunch plans, have we?”

  The way he's rubbing his hands together, Talia's worried he's got chameleon fricassee on the brain.

  “Sorry, but I’m not psychologically prepared to debone and barbecue a lizard—unionized or otherwise,” she responds.

  But a few days later, Talia’s sensibilities are challenged even more when Al strolls up to her with what appears to be a large rodent slung over one shoulder.

  “What. The. Eff. Is. That?” she asks, her mind filling with visions of New York City sewer rats.

  “Lunch!” Al smiles, holding up the carcass which dangles from a long, hairless tail. His beard looks particularly Paul Bunyan-like. “I can’t remember the name of it in French, or English, but don’t worry, it tastes just like rabbit.”

  “Normally we say it tastes just like chicken,” she says.

  “No, this definitely tastes like rabbit. Promise.” He heads into the kitchen and thwacks the dead thing on the slate countertop beside the sink. “We just have to skin it and then you can begin cooking.”

  “Uh, how about you cook today?” Talia suggests, looking at the creature’s small paws clenched beneath a pointy face. “I’d rather not think about how much that thing looks like a giant rat.”

  “As you like,” he says, and sets to work on the animal. She tries to keep herself occupied out on the terrace, but the feeling that she’s missing an important life lesson overwhelms her. Talia creeps back inside, approaching Al softly, as if startling him could somehow make the whole butchering of the large rodent scenario even more horrifying than it already is. But that would be impossible. Still, she can’t tear her eyes away.

  By the time she’s right behind him, lightly gripping his hard oblique muscles and peering from around his elbow, the creature is skinned, and the tail removed. In fact, now it kind of resembles something she might find in any grocery store. It just needs a little Styrofoam tray to sit on with some plastic wrap over the top, and she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between it and, say, a small chicken.

  “Are you sure you trust me to cook this?” Al asks, deftly cutting into the carcass and removing a hunk of meat and bone that closely resembles a chicken thigh.

  “Hmm,” Talia thinks a moment, then pushes away from him to lean on the counter, no longer afraid. “Do we still have butter?” she asks.

  “I believe so…should be some in the cellar.”

  The kitchen is surprisingly well stocked for an abandoned castle, with pots and pans and an eclectic mixture of solid looking wooden spoons. She’s even found some salt and pepper that must be at least fifty years old. But ancient salt and pepper does not a meal make. So Talia now brings a regular ration of butter, oil, and certain aromatics like onions, garlic, and curry with her in order to make them decent meals with enough leftovers for Al’s supper.

  She leaves Al’s side and makes her way down the dark hallway toward a heavy, wooden door with an iron latch. She uses her whole body to tug the door open, and is rewarded for her effort by a gust of cold, stale air. Beyond the door, Talia can just make out the first three or four steps of a stone staircase that spirals down into the cool, damp darkness of the castle’s subterranean floors.

  It’s enough to give her a chill, and she longs to be back in the kitchen beside her warm-blooded companion. But, butter. She resolutely walks down a few steps and stoops next to one of the recessed shelves carved into the stone wall. Her hand reaches in and trails along the cool smoothness of the stone until it bumps into a familiar porcelain vessel. Talia wraps her palm around it, smiling in satisfaction when she feels its solid weight.

  Butter. And plenty of it, if the heaviness of the butter dish is anything to go on. That, along with the garlic and a little cilantro from the gardens, will make the overgrown rat thing taste delicious. She hopes.

  When she ascends the staircase and returns to the hallway, she crashes full on into Al’s bare chest.

  “Sorry I took so long,” he says.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “I know you do not like this dark place. I would have fetched this for you but my hands were full.”

&nbs
p; “Oh…” She’s surprised he remember the story she told him the day they decided to keep their food stores in the cool, cellar staircase—the one about the basement at her paternal grandparents’ house. She’d been terrified of it because of the strange noises the boiler made. And one time her cousin locked her down there with no access to the light switch. It was one of the worst moments of her childhood.

  But the more time she spends with the nearly naked, homeless, possibly mentally ill stranger in this big, foreign castle, the less bothered she is by the things that sometimes used to keep her up at night. Like memories of being trapped in a dark basement. She’d more than hesitated the last time she had to go in the castle storage area, but today, she hardly gave it any thought. Maybe she was too focused on the giant rodent to focus on anything else, or maybe being around Al helps her feel a little less afraid... and a lot more daring.

  “You are okay,” he assures her, two hands coming up to rub her arms.

  Yeah, I’m okay. Smiling, she nuzzles her face to his chest for a moment—right before her eyes pop open and she freezes.

  What am I doing!?

  "Sorry," she says, and quickly backs away.

  Al's eyes darken, and he tilts his head in a way that puts Talia in mind of a beast about to give chase. But in the end, he merely says, "Do not worry about it, Talia. It is like view from the ladder the other day. Very nice."

  Talia's heart skips a beat. But before she can reset, he chuckles and turns away, heading back into the kitchen, butter in hand.

  “Viens, pretty American girl. Let’s go…we've got a giant rodent to cook!" he calls over his shoulder.

  After the lunch of sautéed rat (Talia has to admit it was pretty tasty, considering), she begins to feel more relaxed around Al. She even starts humming while she works, sometimes gospel, sometimes Mary J. Blige songs Al claims to have never heard, and sometimes older songs, pop music from her youth, or her mom’s favorite songs from the 70s and 80s. One afternoon, while she’s shampooing an expensive but dirty-as-hell looking rug with a soft scrub brush and rags, she just can’t keep Sly and the Family Stone out of her head.