by Aron Lewes
“By all means, challenge me to a duel!” Oliver goaded him. “I'd be happy to demonstrate my skills to you, Your Highness.”
Jonah closed his eyes and raised his chin. Bathed in sunlight, he looked like an angel in respite. “I don't feel like it.”
“That's because you know you'd lose!”
“Keep telling yourself that, Sir Oliver, if it makes you feel better. In truth, you're simply not worth my time and effort.”
As they argued, Arienne lowered her sword, deposited it on the deck, and tiptoed away. She sheepishly returned to Jalen, who had been watching the spectacle with a frown.
“So... I'm guessing it didn't go well?” Jalen asked.
“No.”
“Did you tell him how you feel?”
“No.” With slumping shoulders, Arienne shuffled across the deck. She just wanted to return to her quarters, lie down, and forget the entire debacle.
“So will you ever tell him how you feel?”
Arienne drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with musty sea air before whispering a depressingly honest answer. “Probably not.”
CHAPTER FOUR
When the old woman toddled past him, Findlay set his novel aside and reached for his sketchbook. She was at least eighty, with glorious silver curls, a noble face, and the most storied set of wrinkles. He recognized her as one of the cooks on the ship. A smile lifted his lips as he recalled her delicious stew.
A few feet away from Findlay, the woman stopped to gaze at the water, then she kicked off her slippers and rubbed the crack on her heel. She must not have noticed him, because he doubted she would remove her shoes in front of one of the princes. If Jonah was with him, he would have given her a lecture on improper behavior.
Findlay needed to sketch her. Even when she was rubbing her feet, there was something regal about the elderly cook. His pencil dove to the paper, desperate to capture her spectacularly textured face. He held his breath and hoped his model wouldn't move until he finished.
“What are you up to, Your Highness?”
Findlay jolted at the sound of a young woman's voice. When he glanced up from his half-finished drawing, he saw Jalen standing beside him. Mere maids didn't often approach the prince, but unlike his brother, Findlay appreciated her boldness.
“I'm sketching, my lady.” He showed her his work in progress.
With a raised eyebrow, Jalen glanced in the direction of Findlay's silver-tressed model. “An old woman?”
“Is that really so surprising?”
“Well... yes,” Jalen admitted. “Most men would prefer a younger model. And they'd probably ask her to remove her clothes.”
“I suppose I'm not like most men.”
Jalen sat beside him and watched his pencil dance across the paper. Though she found it fascinating, she shared a less than favorable opinion of his hobby. “Why do you spend so much time sketching, Your Highness? Every time I see you, you're drawing. Or... reading.”
“You think I'm odd?”
“Not really. It's just... surprising. You're a prince. With your money, you could scour the world. You could use your power to make any wish come true. But you choose to do... this.” Jalen pointed at his drawing. “You spend your time staring at old ladies with filthy feet and cracked heels.”
“Goodness!” Findlay chuckled at her criticism. “My models aren't always old!” He flipped through his sketchbook, showing her the array of drawings within.
“I hope I haven't offended you.”
“Not at all.”
“I just find it odd that a young man would spend so much time doing bookish things. It's odd but... refreshing.” Jalen leaned closer to his unfinished sketch. She was impressed by the amount of detail on the old woman's face.
“I find it relaxing. I find it... damn.” Findlay's whispered curse was brought on by his elderly model's departure. As she hobbled away, his lips dropped into a frown. His sketch would never be complete.
“She left,” Jalen noted. “That's a shame. Should I ask her to return and sit while you finish?”
“No. It's alright. I'll attempt to complete it from memory.”
“Are you sure? She'd probably be flattered to know the prince was inspired by her.”
“I'm sure.” Findlay turned to an empty page in his book. “I'd rather sketch you, Jalen, if you don't mind.”
“Oh, so you do prefer a younger model!”
“I wouldn't say it's my preference. I simply thought you had a handsome face, and I'd like to draw it.” He already sketched her once, of course, but he didn't admit that to Jalen, who already looked puzzled by his interest in her.
“Handsome?” Her nose wrinkled at the word. “Handsome sounds depressingly... masculine.”
“It doesn't have to be,” Findlay argued. His pencil touched the paper, where he started an outline of her angular face. She hadn't agreed to be his model, but as long as she was beside him, he wasn't going to waste the opportunity.
“I wonder what makes me more handsome than pretty,” Jalen mused. “Is it my thick, dark eyebrows? My square jaw, perhaps? Or do I simply carry myself like a man?”
The prince corrected her with a sigh. “You are pretty. Pretty, gorgeous... beautiful. I didn't realize the word handsome was so disagreeable.”
“It's not.” Jalen hitched a shoulder. “But it's usually used for men.” She thought he looked sad, so she decided to change the subject. “You're nothing like your brother, you know.”
“Thank you.” After a short pause, he had to ask, “That was meant to be a compliment, wasn't it?”
“It was. I hope I won't be flogged for admitting that.”
“Of course not.” Findlay's lips were raised by a secret smile as his pencil scurried across the page. Jalen's wild black hair was a joy to draw. “I know how my brother is. I know he can be a bit... unbearable.”
“A bit? That's an understatement!” Jalen snickered. “It's a shame Arienne isn't marrying you. You're closer in age, anyway.”
Mother Nature was against him. The sun started its descent; daylight was dwindling. Soon, he would no longer have the lighting he needed to finish his artwork. Even worse, it started to rain. When Jalen felt the first raindrop on her nose, the smile faded from her lips.
“I guess this session is at an end,” reported Findlay, who closed his sketchbook before the rain ruined his art. “But... perhaps you'll sit for me again sometime?”
“I'd be honored.” Jalen leapt to her feet and curtsied. “Not many maids get to spend time with the prince, I'm sure.”
“And not many maids are brave enough to march up to the prince and tease him.”
“When did I tease you?” Jalen gasped. “I don't believe I did!”
“You most certainly did! As I recall, you teased me about my affinity for sketching old ladies.” Tucking his sketchbook under his arm, the prince rose and stretched. “You're definitely a fascinating person, Miss...?”
“Rook,” she finished for him “Jalen Rook.”
“Goodnight then, Miss Rook,” he said with a bow. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
The rain was gentle at first, but as they parted ways, it pounded the deck. Findlay picked up his pace and returned to his room, where he shrugged off his damp coat and collapsed into bed. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the maid's face. Holding her image in his mind, he attempted to complete his sketch from memory. He was somewhat successful, but when he started to draw her eyes, he hesitated. Wide, amber and cat-like, they were two of the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Findlay was afraid he wouldn't do them justice, so he closed his sketchbook and focused his attention elsewhere.
For the next hour, he tried to read. Even then, his thoughts kept wandering back to Jalen and her lovely face. Her rose-red lips, smooth olive skin and round cheeks refused to leave his mind. He was more enchanted by her than he cared to admit.
Findlay's pleasant thoughts were interrupted by his brother, as they often were.
“NO!�
�� Jonah was shrieking in the hallway, so Findlay tiptoed to the door to hear the conversation more clearly. “No no no! This is not acceptable!”
The voice of a random knight replied, “What's wrong, Your Highness? Why are you complaining?”
“You have the audacity to say I'm complaining? How rude! I should have you sacked!” Jonah hissed. “How dare you! Honestly, how dare you?”
“I'm sorry, Your Highness. Let me try again. Are you experiencing a problem, and is there anything I can do to alleviate your trouble?”
“That's better.” Jonah's lower lip protruded as he expressed his dissatisfaction. “My bed's lumpy, my blankets are itchy, and my room's too hot. I'm sweating so profusely, and my clothes are sticking to my body. Furthermore, I think there might be a dead mouse in the wall, because it reeks. I won't be able to sleep in these conditions.”
“I can move you to another room, Your Highness, but I won't be able to do anything about the heat.”
“He can try my room,” suggested Hilda, who suddenly appeared behind him. “You might find it more to your liking.”
“If your room is better, I'll be furious! Why would they give superior accommodations to a commoner?” Jonah breezed past Hilda and entered her quarters. As he marched to her bed, he mumbled a few mild curses.
“I hope this bed is satisfactory,” Hilda stiffly said.
“I hope so too, or I'll have to give up on my dream of a decent night's sleep.” As soon as he laid down, displeasure exploded from Jonah's lips. “No. No no no no no! This bed is lumpy as well! How is that possible? Do they keep rocks in the mattresses? Is there a collection of stones stored beneath it?” Jonah sprang to his feet and kicked the bed frame. “At least this room doesn't smell like something died in it!”
“I thought the bed was quite comfortable, Your Highness,” Hilda objected.
“Of course you would. You've probably stayed in flea-infested inns your whole life. You don't know real comfort.” Jonah crossed his arms and pouted at his bodyguard. “What am I supposed to do now? Do I give up? Do I accept my sleepless night? Do I--”
“You can have my room,” interrupted Findlay. The bespectacled prince appeared in the doorway, hoping to save the day. “My bed's perfect, so if you have any complaints about it, you're mad.”
“I'll try it.” Jonah brushed his brother aside and stomped across the hallway, where Findlay's room was located. Upon entering, his nostrils were flared by his first observation. “It's smaller than my room.”
“So it is.” As he stood behind his brother, Findlay's lips were parted by an enormous yawn. His brother's constant discontent was always tiring.
“It feels cooler, though. And it doesn't reek of dead rodent.” Jonah crossed the room and stood beside his brother's bed. “It doesn't look especially comfortable.”
“You never know until you try,” Findlay encouraged him. He was desperate to resolve the situation. Until Jonah was satisfied, no one else could rest.
Jonah laid down and pursed his lips. After several seconds of quiet contemplation, he announced, “It's not so bad.”
Behind him, Findlay could hear Hilda breathing a sigh of relief.
“Actually...” Jonah sat up and bounced a bit. “It's quite good.”
“Wonderful. Now go to sleep, brother. Tomorrow, you meet your fiance's father. You'll probably want to be well-rested for that, no?” Findlay started to close the door. “Goodnight.”
When he was alone, Jonah hugged one of his pillows and curled up in a fetal position. Cuddling the pillow to his chest, he mumbled, “Can't believe they'd give my brother the better room... what nonsense... if they're not ashamed of themselves for that, they should be.”
Within a matter of minutes, Jonah hovered between consciousness and sleep, between dream and reality. Before he shut off his mind, he heard the sound of cannon fire.
He opened one eye, but he didn't rise. “What the hell...?”
Hoping the noise was part of a dream, Jonah rolled over and tried to ignore it. He gripped his pillow as tightly as he could, crushed his cheek against the feathers, and tried everything he could to block it out.
He was so determined to find sleep's sweet embrace, he wouldn't be deterred by anything, not even a succession of discharging cannons.
