Enchanted

by Alethea Kontis

  “But she doesn’t know who I am. I don’t even know who I am. As for who I was...”

  “Don’t start that again,” said Erik.

  “Her family despises me and my father.”

  “They’re not alone,” quipped Velius.

  “How do I fight that?”

  “Look,” said Velius. “The past is past. Not you nor I nor anyone else in this room can change that. There is only now. Who are you now?”

  “I am a man who will hold tonight the most priceless treasure he has ever known. And I am scared to death of losing her.”

  “Then don’t,” said Erik.

  Rollins draped the prince’s short cape around his shoulders and secured the gold clasp. If Rumbold had any more material piled on top of him he would collapse. Two identical guardsmen opened the doors to the prince’s salon in perfect synchronicity. They bowed low, and then snapped to attention on either side of the entranceway.

  “After you, gentlemen,” said Rollins.

  “Come on, then,” saidVelius. “The sooner this circus starts, the sooner we can settle our boy down and fatten him up a bit.”

  Erik and the twin guards led the way. “I still say we should even out his coloring. He really shouldn’t make his first appearance looking all lopsided like that.”

  “Fixing him would be cruel,” said Velius. “The courtiers haven’t had anything scandalous to talk about for months.”

  “I certainly don’t want anyone to feel they have been neglected in my absence,” said Rumbold.

  “Ours is a compassionate monarchy with indefatigable attention to detail,” said Velius.

  “Without doubt,” Erik agreed.

  Rollins snorted at the banter, and the party of men came to a halt at the door to the king’s chambers. The twin guards rapped upon the doors and then opened them, again in perfect unison.

  Sorrow appeared, elegant as ever, in a wispy dress the shade of a bruise that floated lithely around her slender ankles. Long scarves wound around her neck and waist like serpents. The sight of his godmother had never set Rumbold at ease, but he could tell that there was something wrong: a hurry to her step, a ruffled air to her demeanor. Rumbold reached out and took her elbow before her quick footsteps let her escape.

  “Godmother?” Her skin was pale, paler than its normal pearlescence. Her eyes were overbright, burning with a similar fire that had burned within both Velius and Rumbold that day on the training ground. “Are you well?”

  “I am fine.” Her words compelled him to believe their untruth. Rumbold felt her pulse like a bird’s beneath his thumb. There was a raw, crescent-shaped mark on the soft flesh inside her elbow, and blood on his fingers.

  “Shall I call a doctor?” He asked in a court-whisper so as not to alarm his companions, or the twin guards, who suddenly seemed very close by.

  She politely wrenched her arm from his grasp and hid the offending mark with her palm. “I will feel better after an evening of rest in my rooms.”

  “We will be sorry to miss you,” said Rumbold.

  Sorrow placed a trembling hand upon his cheek. Had he always been so much taller than she? “Take care of him,” she said.

  His father, of course. It was never about Rumbold. “Be well,” the prince said formally, “so that he might have the pleasure of your company tomorrow.”

  She smiled slightly before disappearing down the long corridor. Rumbold looked down at the hand that had touched her, his fingers spotted with drops of bright red blood. Instinctively, he raised his hand to his mouth.

  Velius grabbed his arm. “Don’t. Trust me.” He thrust a handkerchief into the prince’s fist.

  “My son!”

  The king exited his rooms with his arms raised in welcome and joy. His amber eyes also sparkled with an unearthly fire, but unlike Sorrow’s, his cheeks were flushed with health. Light seemed to emanate from beneath his skin. Rumbold envied his father’s broad chest and confident swagger and hoped he would not have to compete for Sunday’s affections.

  Once again he reminded himself that if her love were not true, he would still be wearing a frog’s skin and looking up from the feet of the world. He had her heart. He only hoped she recognized it.

  Rumbold decided to pretend that his father’s affection was genuine—that the king was a confidant, an advisor, a mentor who put the best interests of his son above his own. It was like walking: if Rumbold didn’t concentrate too hard on it, the illusion took care of itself.

  The king clapped his son heartily on the back; it took all the prince’s strength not to hurtle forward into Velius. “These fetes are one of your more bizarre requests,” said the king, “but I’m betting they will benefit the reputation of this realm.” His booming laugh echoed through the hall like thunder. “What are we here for if not to give those scrawny minstrels something to sing about for their suppers?”

  “It will be many years before so fine a figure of a man will ever be seen again,” said Velius. Rumbold thought him far too generous with his flattery, but it was exactly what the king wanted to hear.

  “Indeed!” The king beamed. “Heed my words, gentlemen. This is the Age of Glory. Our legacy will leave a mark on history that will last throughout time. Let us not delay!”

  Velius and Erik stood aside so that Rumbold and his father could start the formal procession. They had made it but a few feet down the corridor when the king leaned in and whispered, “We are about to walk into a room full of beautiful women who worship you and who would do anything to curry your favor. Think about that. Anything.” His father straightened his own scarlet sash and smoothed his hair. “There will be plenty of time to tie yourself down to one woman. Don’t sell yourself too cheaply, my son. Anything, you understand. You just keep that in mind.”

  And with those words, the illusion shattered. Rumbold fell back a few paces and let his father lead the way onto the ballroom balcony. He heard music, light as air, more subtly repetitive than birdsong. Candles and torches and crystals lit the spacious room beyond like a dream under glass. The j ewel-toned dancers on the floor seemed more painting than real.

  He had known he wouldn’t be prepared for the world after all those strange months in the Wood, but the sheer size and capacity of the ballroom took his breath away. A steady stream of guests trickled down the opposite stair. Even if he suddenly recalled all the grand balls he had attended in his misspent youth, he knew they would be insignificant in comparison.

  He quickly scanned the crowd below, without attracting his father’s notice, and was surprised that his true love’s presence was not immediately known to him. Had he expected her face to shine like a beacon? That the sight of her would render him blind to all others? Doubt began to creep under his skin and settle in his stomach. Stripped of monarchy and magic spells, he was just a man in a mad world looking for the girl who shared his heart.

  Rumbold felt a hand on his arm, and the unmistakable warmth of Velius’s magic washed through him. “You have stood in this place a hundred hundred times before. This is no different.” Rumbold turned to his cousin and raised his eyebrows. Velius smiled. “Pretend it is no different.”

  “Perception is everything,” said Rumbold.

  “She loves you, or you would not be here.”

  “And I love her and do not deserve her.” He could not tear his eyes away from the room for long; what if he missed her? “Though I confess, at the moment, I am thinking only of myself and my shortcomings.”

  “That is your first mistake.”

  The song came to a close and the dancing company bowed as one. The heralds raised their long horns and trumpeted a short fanfare to announce the arrival of the king. Rumbold stood to the right and slightly behind his father; Velius took his place at the king’s left, farther back.

  “My friends. We come together these many evenings to celebrate the return of both the spring and my son to this cold land.”

  Rumbold bowed, courteously acknowledging the raucous applause and chorus of high-pit
ched squeals that followed his mention. The rest of the king’s speech fell on many deaf ears, including those of his son. How many footsteps would he have to take until he saw her again? What if he didn’t recognize her? He would have been just as happy if she came to the dance barefoot and pinafored. And her sisters! He couldn’t wait to meet the legends themselves in the flesh. As his father droned on about duty and the good of Arilland, Rumbold tried to remember how many of Sunday’s sisters had already married and left home. At least one—no, two—oh, and the one who had died...

  The king ended the speech to polite applause. Rumbold was sure it had been full of appropriately eloquent and memorable words that he would ask Rollins to repeat later when he wasn’t so scatterbrained. Later. Imagine! Mere hours from now the festivities would be over and the rest of his life would have begun.

  Erik was suddenly very close to his face. “Let’s go, lover boy.”

  “It is rather sweet,” said Velius.

  “Just as long as it’s not contagious,” mumbled Erik. “And of short duration.”

  “Come now. You can’t say you don’t indulge in a bite of cake now and then.”

  “I’ll leave the ladies on pedestals to His Highness,” Erik said. “I prefer mine a bit more ... down-to-earth.”

  “You’ll find no shortage of low women decorating the ballroom tonight,” said Velius.

  “Or earthy ones,” the prince reckoned.

  Erik smiled at that. “I’m counting on it.”

  “My cousin, I fear you have set in motion a madness of which you cannot conceive.” Velius drew the word out. “I expect, thanks to these festivities, that there will be a marked increase in Arilland’s population come midwinter.”

  And so the receiving line began.

  “Ladies” apparently covered as broad a range of females as the word “eligible” did. Had anyone heard any part of the Royal Proclamation past the word “all”? Rumbold tried to suppress his awe at the volume and variety of material below tightly cinched waists and the notable lack of it above them. Nine months. Nine months covered in thick, slippery skin and now all this bare flesh on display. He was suddenly parched. His clothes scratched uncomfortably. His father’s words came back to him, as did his cousin’s. What monster had he unleashed? His eyes were drawn to the modest and not-so-modest couplings already taking place in the shadows. A night for the bards indeed.

  Rumbold was overwhelmed with introductions, and Rollins did his best to keep them all at a respectable distance. He clasped hands: large and small, gloved and bare. His smile was received with giggles that offered much and coy smiles that implied knowledge of more. There were fear and frowns and frivolity and face after face; Rumbold saw his true love in all of them and none of them.

  “Might we have some idea of what we’re looking for this evening?” Velius asked discreetly.

  “Sunrise over the Wood at week’s end,” he said, “and my heart.” The woman he was not speaking to batted her eyelashes at his pretty words.

  “So helpful,” lied Velius. “The man in love ever finds himself the poet,” he said to Erik.

  “This man wishes he’d hurry up and lose himself again,” replied the guard.

  Rumbold had neither the time nor the inclination to reply as he nodded his head over another hand. Were there really this many women in the kingdom? Surely not. Several kingdoms and the outer reaches of Faerie, maybe. Somehow they had all managed to come from hither and yon with merely a few days’ notice. Some smelled of spices, some had flowers in their hair, and some wore jewels that sparkled like his true love’s eyes. Many brought him gifts: posies and portraits and little statues of gold and silver. None of them brought stories or a bucket of water.

  He kept one ear trained on the Grand Marshal as he accepted compliments on his bold new hairstyle, hopes that he had safe travels, and best wishes for his future health and happiness. The prince thanked them all, confirming and denying each comment with steady inconsistency. The resulting speculation would make better tales than he had the energy to fabricate, and none of them would ever come close to the simple and beautiful truth about to walk down those stairs at any moment.

  Rumbold bowed to the foppish marquis of a northern province he couldn’t remember. Norland? Northshire? Neville? His head hurt and his neck was beginning to cramp. What if she didn’t come? What if she was in the Wood, at the Fairy Well right now, waiting for him? No, she would not have stayed past sunset. She would not have missed this insanity. Would she?

  “One wonders,” Lord N-something said candidly, “if your mysterious return to the palace masks your father’s announcement to take a new bride or if it’s the other way around.”

  Rumbold puzzled for a moment over the proper response and then replied, “This is the Age of Glory. We are men of action.” The marquis bowed again and shuffled off to his escorts, who instantly caught him up in whispered queries as to what had provoked more than a two-word reply.

  Velius approached and bowed to the dark young woman in green whose trembling hand now clasped Rumbold’s. “Forgive me. I need to borrow my cousin for a time.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The girl curtseyed low and excused herself.

  “For what?” asked Rumbold when they were clear of the receiving line. “How much time?”

  “Oh, I’d say the better part of a week.” Velius nodded toward the stair. “At least until sunrise.” He breathed a short laugh and shook his head. “Fool.” If his cousin said anything after that, Rumbold didn’t hear.

  She was a vision in a silver dress, though he missed her without the finery. He missed her quick wit and easy smile. He missed her laugh. He longed to coax one out of her, but he couldn’t rush things. She would feel uncomfortable around him at first. As a man he was still a stranger to her; not just his title forced the distance between them. It was a distance he would not tolerate for long.

  Enchanted, he moved closer, slowly, drawn to her. Minglers moved aside and voices hushed. She was just so... pretty? He had thought so with his frog’s eyes, but as a man he knew it. Yes, she was pretty, but so were many of the women who had paraded themselves before him that evening. Something beyond pretty radiated from inside Sunday. The folds of her dress called to him, the curve of her wrist beckoned, the silver pins scattered through her hair winked in invitation. She was beautiful. He wanted to tell her so every day for the rest of his life. Starting tonight.

  “Miss Woodcutter.” He had not meant to be so loud. Had the music stopped?

  She looked up at him—up at him!—with those eyes as blue as the cloudless summer sky, and just as empty of recognition. “It’s me!” he wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to scoop her up in his feeble arms and take her back to the Wood, back to their well, back to where they had fallen in love. Where she had healed him. Where she had given him the one thing he had never known he was missing and had made him whole. Where he had been born again. Where he had chosen life, for her. All for her. He wanted to fall to one knee and ask her the question that would bind her to him forever. He was the crown prince. She couldn’t say no.

  But binding only meant obligation, not willingness. He needed to take his time. Make her comfortable. Make peace with her family. Make her love him. And yet, how could he justify forcing her to fall in love with a man he still didn’t really know? The boy he had been did not deserve her. And the man he was now ... would start with a dance. One dance.

  She curtseyed, a proper curtsey that a Woodcutter’s daughter had little business knowing. As exquisite a picture as she made, he wished she hadn’t.

  Patience.

  She loved him, he reminded himself. She already loved him, or he would not be here standing before her. Taller than her.

  “Your Highness,” she said coldly.

  Breathe. Air in. Air out.

  One dance.

  11. Too Familiar

  THE CROWN PRINCE of Arilland was asking her to dance. Sunday disguised her trembling hands in the folds of her gown and qu
ickly swallowed the urge to vomit.

  She had not prepared for this moment. She had hoped that this evening, and both subsequent ones, would be uneventful and quickly done. The sooner it was all over, the sooner they could all sit around nice bowls of stew, talk about the weather, and console Mama in her disappointment. Monday would go back to her palace, Wednesday to her tower, Friday to church, and Saturday to the Wood. Sunday would learn her magic lessons well enough and then Aunt Joy, too, would float away on the same stormy wind that had brought her to their door.

  The prince was still there, hand held out to her, awaiting her reply. Turn and run, or stay and face the music?

  She would have run, had there been anything left for her to run to.

  Sunday took the prince’s hand, and he led her to the center of the room. His fingers were thin and soft, like Monday’s. She stared at the gold medal on his breast; fear more than decorum kept her from looking directly at him. He must have known of their connection; there were many Woodcutters in the land, but none with such ridiculously named daughters. Even if he had been too young to remember it, the prince could not have grown to adulthood without knowing his role in Jack’s demise.

  Was this a gesture of mending ways between their families? In a perfect world, maybe. Was he completely and utterly ignorant? Certainly possible. Was this his way of demonstrating to both her family and the world that he always got what he wanted? Almost definitely.

  The orchestra started a waltz, and she mentally counted off the three-beat time. Oh why me, Sunday chanted silently with every movement. Oh why me, oh why me, oh why me ...Over and over again as they turned eddies in the sea of beautiful people, over and over again—until she slipped and said it aloud. Her eyes widened in horror.

  “I’m glad you asked,” said the prince, casually, as if they’d been conversing all evening. “I need to know something, and you look like you have enough wit to answer my question honestly.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” It was a natural reaction to curtsey at the title, and Sunday stumbled. The prince deftly spun her around to cover up the misstep.