by P. J. Fox
“I admit,” she allowed, returning her gaze to the jungle, “that the decline is there.” Now she spoke in a gentle tone. Almost courtly. And he saw a glimpse of the woman she must have once been. Child, really; she’d been born during the end of an era. “But though our vanity is, admittedly, somewhat…ah, frayed, it shall never fail.”
“You need to come home.”
“Home? Home? This is home, though its ruination be before you!”
“Lakshmi—”
“You may have forgotten, but I haven’t!”
A pigeon, startled, flew away.
She shook her head, seeming to regain her calm. Her grasp on reality was, Ash realized, even frailer than he’d at first thought. “When I was a child they greeted me on the streets. Huzzoor! Huzzoor!” Huzzoor meant Your Highness. “We were loved, you know.”
They hadn’t been, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her so. Even now, members of India’s 565 royal families gave up careers and moved home, trading a life of promise for the life of a semi-royal. There was a nostalgia for the past…or, rather, for what they envisioned the past to be. They dreamed that by clinging to certain traditions, they could keep those traditions—and thus their hope of a return to better times—alive.
But the truth was that India didn’t want them.
Within his cousin’s lifetime, royal families like his controlled more than a third of India. If control was even an accurate term. Each potentate, while technically independent, was himself controlled by a representative of the Raj. Those few families who’d survived British rule with their titles intact had done so by sucking the collective cock.
Impotent in so many ways, they resorted to asserting themselves by other means. Bored royals became famous for their excess. That it was pointless was, to them, part of the game. Ash remembered, as a child, sitting in frightened silence as his father railed on at the dinner table about the Maharajah of Patiala with his sterling silver bathtub and the Maharajah of Bharatpur with his twenty-two Rolls-Royce garbage trucks.
He could hardly blame his people for losing interest.
Most families had sold off their stables of polo ponies, heaps of jewels, and armories of heirloom hunting rifles. They’d had to. Gone were the Rolls-Royces, gone were the palaces. Some more enterprising families had turned theirs into hotels, selling fantasies of the Raj to Western tourists.
But some, like his cousin, remained.
She’d made no effort to keep pace with modern times. He wondered if she even knew what the internet was. He remembered, as a child, being astonished that she didn’t own a television. But of course she didn’t; she had no electricity. And what would it show her, that she wanted to see?
“There’s nothing for us,” she said suddenly.
“That’s not true.” He found himself being surprisingly gentle. Perhaps he had changed. “Princess Devi is a successful advertising executive.”
“A pitchwoman.” Lakshmi snorted. A most un-princess like sound.
“Prince Brahmvir is a successful polo player. And my father—”
Lakshmi waved dismissively. “Yes, yes. I know all about your father. Caspar is in trade. A disgrace to us all,” she continued. “He mingles with commoners. Outcasts, even!”
Caspar had electricity.
“And you.” Lakshmi turned again. “I suppose you’re in trade, as well.”
“Yes,” Ash agreed.
“And I suppose you’ve done like him and married an outcast.” Outcast referring to those with the misfortune to have been born outside of India. Who weren’t even seen by the Gods as fit to be Untouchables. Not even Hindu. “Or a sub-continental person.” She sniffed.
At least she wasn’t still snorting.
Ash, like Lakshmi, was descended from long-ago Persian invaders. He owed his gray eyes and pale skin to that heritage, along with a genetic contribution from a British ancestor whom no one acknowledged. That man had been a colonial agent and had, in the words of his own commanding officer, gone native. There were stories of elaborate pujas in the River Ganges, and harems and elephants.
He’d been a bit eccentric.
Sub-continental persons referred to other Indians. Those with the misfortune to be born darker, or further to the south. He thought of telling her about Belle. Instead he asked, “where is your brother?”
“Up on the roof. He spends most of his time up there. He likes to pretend he’s shooting invaders.”
Lakshmi didn’t seem the least bit perturbed.
“I should check on him.”
“Oh, no need. He’ll come down soon; he knows its almost time to fix my tea.”
And, indeed, the man himself appeared a short time later.
He ignored Ash. “I’m afraid that we must sell the necklace.”
“The maanga maali?” Lakshmi’s eyes widened. “I won’t hear of it.”
“We have…expenses.”
Lakshmi turned to Ash. It was Jitendra who went into town, she explained, when they needed things. Jitendra who did what few chores there were, and Jitendra who oversaw their finances. Meaning that it was also Jitendra who parceled off what few remaining heirlooms they had, one at a time, so that Lakshmi could have her tea.
“Lakshmi,” he asked slowly, “when was the last time you visited the city?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “I haven’t left this room in twenty years,” she said.
Ash blinked.
“Or perhaps longer. Time has no meaning, here.”
“We are content.” Jitendra sat down. He passed Lakshmi her tea in a chipped cup from which most of the design had faded. “We are alone, of course. The government ignores us. They should have the good grace to restore our lights, at least. You will tell them?”
Ash didn’t respond.
“I can only conclude that they do not know we are here.”
They knew. The siblings hadn’t paid taxes in a decade. Their ancestors might once have been rulers, but Lakshmi’s and Jitendra’s rule extended no further than the rusted gate and the sign proclaiming their presence. And that purely on the sufferance of the government they so loathed. They saw themselves as victims but, in truth, they’d been treated with kindness. As much kindness as people who themselves labored in poverty could provide. The kindness of being left alone, to dream.
“You could leave here. Come to live with us. Have friends.”
“Friends are for commoners. Your father is little more than a commoner, squandering his heritage on—what? Buying and selling trees? And goats? No. I would rather starve in the streets than stoop so low as to engage in trade. Work is beneath us.”
“I have no need of friendship,” Jitendra added, “with such a spectacular view.”
THE END OF PART TWO
The story continues in PART THREE of The Prince’s Slave, COLLARED IN HIS CARE. Look for Collared In His Care, available NOW from Evil Toad Press. In the meantime, P.J. Fox welcomes visitors to her website, pjfoxwrites.com, where they can learn the latest updates on her characters as well as on what she herself is doing (and writing). She encourages fans to contact her, and welcomes questions and comments of all kinds.
THE PRINCE’S SLAVE
Collared
In His
Care
P. J. FOX
SEVENTY-ONE
Belle had read, in one of Ash’s books, about spiritual redemption through sex.
Kamadeva was the Hindu God of Love, or one of them. His consort, Rati, was his constant companion and partner in achieving his purpose: she, in him and through him, aroused sexual feelings. She, in turn, was the Goddess of Passion. Or, more succinctly, of sexual pleasure.
She could also beguile multiple men at one time.
Belle smiled, a little ruefully. She could only imagine the horror that such an idea would provoke in Maine. Or at least her part of it. The whole conception of religion was so different. Sex was, for so many, something to be endured. Sometimes, if one was lucky, enjoyed—sometimes. But never s
omething to be celebrated. Sex was dirty, shameful. Not something God did. Many of Belle’s friends had been raised Catholic, thoroughly indoctrinated with the idea of original sin. The virtuous woman was pure, chaste. And those things meant untouched. The most ideal woman of them all had been a perpetual virgin. Belle’s family had attended an independent church, but the viewpoint there hadn’t been much better. A woman who allowed herself to be defiled was a harlot.
A licked cupcake. She remembered that exercise very well. Her Sunday School teacher had brought in a box of cupcakes for the class. She’d held up a cupcake, frosted with pretty pink frosting, and asked every boy to come forward and take a lick. Then she’d asked which of those boys now wanted to eat the cupcake.
Do you see this? This is a woman who lies with men. No decent, reasonable man wants her.
The message had been clear: guard your virtue or you, too, will end up being gnawed by a raccoon in the bottom of a dumpster.
Alec stopped and pulled out his water bottle. “You about ready to turn around?”
Belle slowed to a stop and turned. The snow was almost melted and Belle had been celebrating her freedom from being house-bound by going for a run. The treadmill might be good for preventing cabin fever, but it wasn’t the same. And cabin fever, as it turned out, was something that happened everywhere—even in a house as large as theirs.
Winter had come and gone.
Ash had come and gone and come again. He’d left on some sort of business trip and then he’d left on some sort of family-related business, which he hadn’t chosen to discuss. The holidays had come and gone and they’d been good. Belle had tried not to think about her family. She hadn’t broached the subject of contacting them with Ash and he hadn’t asked. If she was really honest with herself, she didn’t want to contact them.
She wanted to live in her own world, just a little while longer.
A world where she was free.
She was afraid that, if she did contact them, everything would be ruined.
They’d somehow convince her that she’d made a terrible mistake and she, in turn, would be powerless to resist their pull: back to America, back to college, back to a life of clear right and wrong and responsibilities. Back to putting her mother, and her mother’s dreams, first. Back to believing that the most important thing was for her to get a stable job with benefits, so her mother could retire to a nice nursing home. And not have to depend on social security, like Jane Alexander from next door who’d ended up in the state-run facility.
Jane Alexander who’d had to eat gruel, and nobody visited her.
Belle didn’t want that life. She wanted her life. She didn’t want to end up right back where she’d started, miserable and too guilt-ridden to admit it. Not contacting them meant protecting the nascent sense of individuality she’d only recently managed to form. It was too fragile for exposure to the outside world.
She didn’t want to lose her studio, her art, her life.
Or Ash.
Some day…she’d reach out to her family.
When she knew what to tell them.
In the meantime she was focusing on the present moment and doing her best to ignore the fact that a future loomed.
This morning, that meant running with Alec.
“You’re getting old,” she said. “We’ve only run a couple of miles.”
“I am getting old.”
They’d taken to running together in the weeks since the thaw. Alec had just showed up one morning while she was tying her shoes and asked if he could join in. And Belle, pleased for the company, had welcomed him. Alec had mentioned that he had children. Daughters. But they’d grown up and moved on, with lives and families of their own. Belle suspected that he was lonely, and that her companionship filled a kind of void.
Which was confirmed when he told her, “you’re just like Stella.” Stella was his oldest daughter. “So bossy.”
“Some martial arts master you are.”
“I prefer to do my killing from a supine position.”
Belle rolled her eyes. “You’ll be killing them from a Barcalounger if you don’t keep your lung capacity up. And, speaking of which, I was thinking you could teach me how to do that thing with a fork before Ash comes home so—”
“No forks.” Eskrima was all about making do with found objects, on the principle that not relying on a weapon made one both a more independent—and more effective—killer. A master of the art could kill as easily with a gun or a pen.
“Well I wasn’t going to use the fork on him.”
“He might like that.”
Belle laughed. She and Alec had come a long way. When she’d first met him, she’d been terrified of him. A hulking, near-silent figure, he’d escorted her to the bathroom. But when he told her that he’d sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic instead of trying to shoot her, if she tried to escape, she’d been a little less scared. Still, she hadn’t liked him.
She did now. Theirs was an easy friendship, born of a common bond and a shared goal: to love Ash, and to tolerate him. Alec had never explained what had created the debt of loyalty that he owed, and Belle had never asked. She understood the need to keep some things inside. To treasure a secret, private core that the rest of the world couldn’t touch. His secrets were a part of him, as hers were a part of her.
“Well I’m going back,” he said.
“Alright.” Belle took a sip of her own water. “I’m coming, too.”
They made the run back in silence. A companionable silence that felt as comfortable as old socks, the kind of silence that could only be shared between a very few people. There were no sounds except those of nature, and the sounds of their own breathing. Belle concentrated on those, thinking as she had from the first moment of her arrival that this place was dreams made real.
Only in her dreams had she imagined such beauty; that she was surrounded by it all the time made not creating art impossible.
Sooner than she wanted, the path ended. She was home. She patted Alec on the back, leaving him to whatever he did after his runs, and jogged up the steps to the colonnade. She wanted a shower and a cup of coffee and to sketch out her latest ideas.
But Luna was at the door.
Luna was never up and about at this time of the morning.
Belle saw the expression on Luna’s face.
She had that tilting sense of unreality, like she’d just been pushed through a fun house mirror. Seconds ago, her morning had been completely normal. Now, in the span of an eye blink, she knew that something was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
She’d felt like that before. When she and her mother had been in an accident near the border. They’d been talking about nothing and Belle had been thinking about how much she needed to pee and then they’d been upside down, suspended from their seatbelts in a snow drift. She’d been jarred from one reality to the next again when she’d been kidnapped.
“What?” she asked.
Luna shook her head, too upset to speak. Her lower lip trembled.
God, Belle thought, was it Ash? Had something happened to him?
And then, “there’s someone here to see you. Someone from the government.”
The Romanian government? What was going on?
Luna glanced back toward the door, and then at Belle.
Belle swallowed.
“She says her name is Charlotte.”
SEVENTY-TWO
Charlotte.
Belle hadn’t laid eyes on Charlotte for the better part of a year. If she’d stayed at TUD, she’d be studying for finals right about now. She thought. Or finals might be over. She’d lost interest in the academic calendar, that arbitrary set of dates that had once controlled her life. A life that felt like lifetimes ago.
There was a time when she couldn’t imagine not putting school first.
She’d seen school as her responsibility.
At some point, she’d started choosing her own responsibilities.
She shook her head. She wasn�
�t ready for this.
And how had Charlotte found her?
And why was she here?
She let Luna lead her down the hall, and into the small parlor. She wished she’d had a chance to shower and change. She hadn’t worked up much of a sweat, it had been a short run. But she felt at a distinct disadvantage, dressed as she was. Like most women, Belle viewed a flattering pair of jeans and a coat of mascara as akin to a suit of armor. Armor she’d need, in the confrontation to come.
Instead, she’d be facing Charlotte for the first time in all this time wearing yoga pants and with her hair in a topknot.
Luna opened the door. She was being so quiet, so servile. She was terrified, Belle realized. She needed Belle to be strong for her. She glanced up, and their eyes met. Belle answered her unasked question. “Yes,” she said quietly, “we’d like some coffee.”
Yes, everything is going to be alright.
And then she turned, and faced Charlotte.
This was her friend. Wasn’t she?
Then why was Belle so nervous?
Charlotte looked the same. Did Belle? She didn’t know.
Charlotte stood. She didn’t speak, at first. Just stared. She was wearing a suit. Beige, tropical weight wool. The kind of thing sold at Brooks Brothers. It fit her well. Her pumps were beige, too, with a sensible heel. Her scarf was printed in some abstract design. Poppies, Belle thought abstractedly. Charlotte had always looked good in red.
She seemed older. Which she was, Belle supposed. But not this much older. She had a…gravity about her now. It was the bun, Belle decided. And the fact that Charlotte wasn’t smiling.
“Hello, Charlotte.”
“You’re alive.”
Neither of them moved, or spoke, for a long minute. The distance between them seemed enormous. Finally, Belle forced herself to walk forward. She stopped next to the couch. In front of the fireplace, where a fire had once again been lit. “Sit,” she said, gesturing.
