by Laura Burton
At this moment, watching the morning sunshine illuminating her red hair and kissing her pale cheekbone, I am struck by the thought that this is not Queen Primrose of Andonna. This is my birth mom.
There’s a tray of paints to her side. She rolls her sleeves up, unaware of my presence. A large blank canvas stands in front of her and she picks up a brush.
My birth mom is an artist. I guess Prim had to get the talent from somewhere. I take a moment to cast my gaze around the large room. Hundreds of paintings in all sizes stand on easels scattered about. Painted landscapes, portraits of people, sandy beaches. The strong smell of paint is surprisingly comforting.
I approach my birth mom and pull up a wooden stool to sit by her.
She looks at me with a softness in her eyes, and the delicate curve of her lips gives her whole face a radiant glow.
“Do you remember when you were little, you used to sit on that stool and watch me paint?”
I nod, quietly. I’m unsure of what to say. There was nothing in Prim’s folder to prepare me for this conversation.
“You were so young. Barely three years old, and yet you sat still. Perfectly quiet, for hours and hours.”
I roll my lips back and clamp down to stop the tears welling in my eyes.
I look at the paint brushes sitting in a pot and pick one up. “I miss those days,” I say, twisting the brush between my fingers. I look up to meet my birth mom’s stare and hold my breath. Her smile fades for a flicker of a moment, but she recovers herself.
“Do you remember Mr. Pickles?” she asks, her cheeks flushing red. I force a laugh and nod my head. “How could I forget?” I say, lying through my teeth. Now I wish I had a photographic memory as my mind tries to recall anything in Prim’s folder about Mr. Pickles. What was he? A toy? A pet?
“It’s a terrible shame the picture got destroyed in the fire,” my birth mom continues, looking down.
I mirror her body language, crossing my legs and bowing my head. As if to give Mr. Pickles a moment of silence.
“How do you feel about marrying the Prince?”
I look up, startled by the sudden change of topic. “I’m awfully excited to marry Cristiano. He’s perfectly charming,” I say, careful to sound like Prim.
My birth mom starts flicking her brush over the canvas, covering it in maroon stripes. “Your father says that he has strong principles and a drive to serve. I know he will be a valued member of the royal family.”
I swallow nervously as I nod along. “Yes, I believe he will.”
I watch my birth mom dip the brush in water and swirl it over a cloth before covering the bristles in orange acrylic. “Is there something troubling you?”
She asks, turning back to the canvas. Her discerning gaze is not on me, but her question makes me break out in a nervous sweat.
Yes, I’m troubled. I’m sitting with my birth mom incognito, playing happy families and talking about how wonderful it is to marry Cristiano. There are a million reasons why this situation troubles me. But I can’t tell her that, so I come up with the next best thing… A half-truth.
“It’s the law. I’m worried…”
“Don’t be, my dear. The wedding was brought forward as a precaution. I am most certain you will be pregnant in time.”
“But what if…” I swallow the rising nausea and take a deep breath. I’m skirting too close to my real worries. But the curiosity is too much to bear. Prim is back tomorrow night. This might be my only chance to ask her my burning questions. “What if I do fall pregnant... with twins?”
My birth mom stops painting, and the brush shudders in her trembling hand for a moment. She does not turn back, but the stiff rise of her shoulders tells me I’ve hit a nerve. Unable to stay quiet, I carry on.
“Can’t we change the law now? Cristiano’s father made a decree that children should learn sign language. Can’t Father make one about this?”
There’s a clatter as the brush falls from my birth mom’s hand and hits the hard floor. She turns to me and her glassy eyes blink furiously. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat.
“I’m sorry, Primrose, but I believe I have become quite unwell. A sudden headache has hit my eyes and I think it is best that I lie down.”
She rises shakily to her feet and all color fades from her face. I grasp her hand, worried that she might end up on the floor if I let go.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, cursing myself for being too forward. I knew it would be a raw topic for her. But I brought it up anyway. Now I’ve put her in shock.
She stops and cups my face in a clammy hand. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I love you so much. And I know it’s hard to see it now, but I have only ever wanted you to be safe.” She pulls me in for a hug so tight, it takes my breath away.
“I’m going to lie down for an hour. You should choose an evening gown for tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” I ask, bewildered. My birth mom gives me a curious look. “The engagement ball? Did you forget?”
“That’s tomorrow? Oh. Of course. The royal ball.” I give a reassuring smile, and she pats my hand tenderly before she walks off, leaving me alone amongst Prim’s paintings.
Chapter 18
I return to my room to find it full of stylists. Mae walks in from the closet and rolls her eyes when she spots me.
“Thank goodness you’re here now. I need you to choose a gown. Come with me.” She gives the group of stylists a hard look before marching back into the closet. I can’t work out what’s going on, so I offer them a sheepish wave and follow Mae.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was expecting me.”
Mae shakes her head with a grumble as she rummages through a row of black clothes covers hanging on a rail.
“The Queen of Rossini has requested to have dinner with you and the Prince,” she mumbles. She unzips a bag to inspect a dress, then shakes her head and zips it up it again. She moves to the next one. “Of course, no one cares about the schedule.” She’s talking to herself now. “We’ve got to get you ready for tonight, then plan what you’re going to wear for the ball tomorrow. Why did we need to push the wedding forward? Who has ever heard of an engagement ball just four days before a wedding?”
She shakes her head and unzips another cover. “Purple. Perfect.” She pulls out a lilac organza gown and holds it up to my shoulders.
“Do I not get a say in this?” I ask, raising a brow and giving her a wry smile. But Mae is not in the mood for my jokes.
Her gloomy disposition takes me by surprise. Up until now, she’s always been so warm and polite. But I guess the stress of these upcoming events are too much to keep a brave face on. At least, around me.
I place a hand on her shoulder and she halts, as if my touch just sent an electric current through her arm.
“I appreciate everything you do for me, Mae,” I say, looking into her misty eyes. The corners of her mouth fall downward and she sniffs. Then, with a little hiccup, she pulls me in for a hug.
“Well, come on then. Let’s get you ready. Your prince is waiting for you.”
I see absolutely no point in having dinner with Cristiano’s parents. They sit still like statues, barely touching their food. Neither one of them says a word.
Still mortified by the fact I kissed the Queen’s rings, I keep my mouth shut and only offer a bashful smile between bites.
Perhaps sensing the awkwardness, Cristiano talks for everyone.
“The Adronni forest is very impressive. We had an enjoyable morning and caught some fine birds.”
He looks from me to his mother, then to his father, and finally settles on me again. I smile back, but his parents do not give him eye contact and neither one of them makes so much as a twitch with the corner of their mouths.
This sort of reception must be normal, though, because Cristiano continues to speak, undeterred. I imagine he’s the talker in the family. I’m not sure what his brother is like, but I figure he must follow in his pa
rents’ footsteps if he is to be King.
“I would like to try shooting someday,” I think aloud. The queen lifts her gaze to give me a shrewd look. It’s the sort that says, “Princesses do not go shooting.” But she doesn’t say anything, instead, she lowers her gaze to her food again.
After dinner, Cristiano’s mom complains of a headache and returns to her room, meanwhile his dad rushes off to take care of some business with my birth dad. Whatever that may be.
Now we’re finally alone, Cristiano touches my elbow and my whole body shudders with delight.
“I have a surprise for you,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. I can’t stop a giggle from escaping my mouth. He takes my hand tenderly and places it in the crook of his arm, then he leads me into the garden.
The setting sun sends an array of red and orange colors over the darkening garden. As we round a corner, I gasp at the hundreds of fairy lights hanging up in the trees lining the path.
“You did all this?” I ask, in awe.
Cristiano’s smile widens. “I confess, I had some help.”
We walk through an opening in the trees and enter a clearing. A large white sheet hangs between two maples and a little table sits between two giant bean bags. Cristiano gestures for me to take a seat, and he pulls out a packet of popcorn from his jacket.
“Wow, you’re like a magician!” I say, taking the treat. “I wonder what other tricks you have up your sleeve.”
Cristiano winks at me, then he places his phone in a little device and a movie starts to play. The picture is stretched wide on the sheet in front of us.
“For my next trick, I’m going to make all your stress... Disappear,” he murmurs into my ear again. Then he settles down on the beanbag next to mine. I chew my bottom lip.
“Stress? Is it that obvious?” I ask him. I thought I had been doing a great job of acting cool and suave. Not at all like I’m about to have five thousand panic attacks rolled into one.
Cristiano reaches over and takes a fistful of my hair, then pulls me in for a surprisingly tender kiss.
“You can’t hide anything from me,” he whispers against my lips. I shut my eyes to stop him from reading my soul.
Prim is coming back tomorrow. Soon, this fairy tale will end and I’ll be back in my little apartment, alone.
A tear rolls down my cheek in spite of my best efforts to hold in my emotions, and the graze of Cristiano’s thumb along my jaw has me blinking under his gaze again.
“My sweet Violet. Whatever is the matter?” He asks so softly, it prompts more tears to leak from my eyes.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve wanted to tell him the truth. But with each passing day, it’s grown harder to do. Now we’re spending our last night together, and tomorrow we’ll both be busy with royal engagements and the ball. By nightfall, hundreds of regal guests will be milling around the grounds and it’ll be impossible to get a moment alone before Prim sneaks in.
Prim! I need to call her.
Cristiano gives me butterfly kisses along my forearm and my thoughts melt away until I’m thinking, Prim––who?
His sandalwood cologne washes over me and the bristles of his short beard caress my cheek as he moans against my ear. The movie soundtrack covers his soft moans, and the navy hue of the night sky gives us more privacy than we’ve had all week.
But a slight cough in the distance reminds me that the royal guards are nearby.
Cristiano pulls back to look at me, and for a few minutes we just sit there, looking deeply into each other’s eyes like we’re having an intimate staring contest.
My eyes water, but I daren’t blink. I’m worried that he might disappear if I do.
“Cristiano, I have to tell you something,” I whisper. A swell of emotion is building in my chest. Sensing the change in my mood, he cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead against mine.
“Remember our conversation the other day? About your special quality that I adore?”
His question pulls me out of the moment and I blink furiously to clear my vision. So much has happened since that conversation in the limousine, I had completely forgotten about it. I hold my breath and nod, biting my lip.
This is going to be my reality check, I know it. He’ll say it’s my Downton Abbey accent, or the way I walk so prim and perfect. He’ll come out with something that reminds me he’s fallen for Prim.
“I love your quirky sense of humor,” he says through a breath, and his words paralyze me. Which is a good thing; because on the inside, I screeched with laughter.
I can think of a million compliments that a prince might offer his bride-to-be. None of them are about her sense-of-humor.
“Oh,” I blurt, exhaling with a squeal like a deflating balloon.
Cristiano smirks at me, as if I’ve just delivered another joke. “Don’t misunderstand me. I love your red hair. Under the sun, it looks like a floating river of red fire... I love how soft your skin is under my calloused fingers.”
I hold my finger up to his lips. “As much as I’d love to hear more about your calloused fingers,” I whisper, with a wry smile. “You can stop there.”
I don’t need compliments right now. In fact, I don’t want to hear another syllable. All we’re doing is playing a game of make believe, and dragging our feelings out of each other is only going to make everything a hundred times harder.
Now is the perfect time to finally tell him the truth. But how can I explain without sounding completely crazy?
Cristiano takes my interruption as an invitation and grins at me so broadly, I lose track of my thoughts again.
“You’re right,” he murmurs against my mouth and my lips vibrate under his deep rumbling voice. “We’re wasting time with words. Let me show you how I feel.”
It’s quite poetic really, that just as Cristiano grasps the back of my neck and kisses me, the music in the movie reaches its crescendo. As Cristiano and I kiss, lacing fingers and moving to the music, every atom in my body tingles. I close my eyes, succumbing fully to the moment.
I picture the stars falling like glitter around us and fireworks illuminating the sky above.
We break apart panting, and it takes all of my control not to grab his collar and throw myself on him again. Caught up in the fairy tale moment, I grin at him, squeeze his hands and say the only thing going through my mind, “I love you.”
We press our foreheads together, eyes closed, and exhale in unison. Then Cristiano’s response shatters my heart into a million pieces.
“I love you too... Primrose.”
Chapter 19
The next day, I wake up in a miserable mood. I feel like a jerk for falling in love with my sister’s prince. And I feel like an even bigger jerk for not finding the courage to tell the Prince the truth.
Prim promised me that after all this is over, we would tell our parents about the switch. But what about Cristiano? Does she want to wait until after they’re married to drop the bombshell? “Oh, surprise! The woman you kept making out with all month is now your sister-in-law!”
My life is a mess.
Prim keeps telling me she couldn’t care less if Cristiano and I have kissed. She has no feelings for the Prince, and if she could, she would change places with me forever.
The idea has its appeal, but I would be living a lie... Permanently. No. She’s got to come back, and we need to come clean about the switch.
I guess there’s a tiny part of my mind still clinging to the hope that something can be done so Cristiano and I can be together. Maybe Prim can marry his older brother? That’s not weird, right?
The staff must have worked all night decorating, because the main areas of the palace are ready for the ball. Red and white organza material hang in sweeping waves across the ceiling, and huge bunches of violets and roses adorn every surface.
Getting ready for the ball takes hours of rigorous work. After an extremely thorough wash and wax, my stylists trim off my split ends and work on styling my hair. Mae buzze
s around barking instructions at the maids, and all the energy in the palace is giving me jitters.
My heart races at the thought of going to a royal ball. This is the thing of dreams. The ultimate Jane Austen novel experience. Only, the ending I’m heading for makes me feel more like I’m in a Shakespearian play. There’s no way I’ll find my happy ending in this story.
Mae coaches me on what I’m expected to do. Approximately twenty minutes after the guests arrive, my mother and father will gather everyone to the grand staircase. Cristiano will stand at the bottom, and I will make my big appearance at the top.
Then I have to descend the steps, take Cristiano’s hand and join him in a waltz.
After that, Cristiano and I will circle the room, speaking to the distinguished guests, and finish the night with another waltz.
It all sounds simple enough. But I can foresee ten thousand opportunities to make a fool of myself.
First of all, my champagne yellow gown is huge. The skirt is a full circle of material poofed out with three layers of netting, and a sheer satin overlay. It’s a total trip hazard, and it’s very likely I’m going to knock into something––or someone. It takes no less than one hour for three maids to tie up my corset––it’s not tight enough until I’m taking shallow breaths––and loop all the buttons running down the back of the dress.
Mae watches from the side, giving instructions, and then claps at the end.
“You look enchanting. And now, the finishing touch.” She marches out and I glance at the wall mirror. My hair is swept up and backcombed into a huge loose bun. Wisps of red hair float down my cheeks, softening the appearance of my angular face. The sweetheart neckline of the dress shows off a little cleavage and tiny cap sleeves sit snug on my shoulders.
Mae returns and rests a dainty tiara in my hair. “There, now you are ready.”
She steps aside and I catch my reflection again.
I don’t look like me. At all. The stylists have put far too much blush on my cheeks and red rouge on my lips. My lashes are long and thick like spider legs. And the tiara sparkles so much, I’m pretty sure it’ll blind everyone at the ball.
