Hannah just stared. “I’m sorry. Did you say I’m pregnant?”
Nurse snorted. “One of those, huh? You regular?”
“Well, yes. The third week of...” she trailed off, mind racing. She was late, but she'd been late, even skipped her periods before. She wasn’t on birth control and it hadn’t even occurred to her. A relationship had never been in her mind.
“How much longer can I dance?” The summer showcase. It was only a few days away.
“Well, that will depend on you. You can do anything as long as your body is comfortable with it.”
Hannah left the office with a handful of documents. A list of health providers for uninsured women, various community services. Information on pregnancy and nutrition.
“So, are you fit?” Ms. Darlington asked, impatient, when Hannah returned to the rehearsal.
“It's a stomach bug,” she lied. “I’m supposed to take today off, hydrate, and come back in the morning.”
The instructor snorted. “Dancers these days. So delicate. Go, go. Get out and... rest.”
She drove home, having insisted to Andrei that she not show up to classes with a driver. And, of course, his compromise had been to purchase her a spot in a parking garage. She figured that slot cost about what she would have spent on groceries for a month. Guilt nipped her a bit for quitting her job with no notice, but there had been plenty of other servers eager to split up her hours anyway- so she didn't feel too guilty.
Hannah curled up in bed with a glass of orange juice and a croissant, opening her laptop to scour the internet for everything she could learn about pregnancy. A few times she started to dial Andrei, but he hadn't responded to any of her texts, and she was hesitant to bother him if the ‘complications’ he’d had to iron out were more complicated than he’d thought. The housekeeper had said not to worry, this time of the year in their home country was hectic and Andrei would be back soon.
But Hannah worried. And waited. And ultimately decided to try and not worry about something she couldn’t control- but focus on saying healthy for the showcase, and her growing baby.
***
Oana knocked on her door several hours later.
“Come in.”
The housekeeper entered, stopping just inside the threshold. Something about her expression- grave, almost formal, alerted Hannah.
“Ma'am, you have a guest.”
Hannah blinked. “A guest? Who do I know?”
Oana closed the door, crossing the room to the walk-in closet.
Hannah rose, curious. “Oana?”
The woman withdrew a dress from a hanger. A white, floaty fabric with a pattern of blue flowers. The cap sleeves and classically scooped neckline were sweet. It ended right at the knee, shorter than Hannah liked, but Andrei had coaxed her into trying a few new styles to explore her tastes. The dress was pretty, simple... and expensive.
“What do I need a dress for?” she asked.
“No time,” Oana said. “Here, change and I'll spritz your curls and neaten them. I told her you were rehearsing.”
“Her? Oana, stop. What’s going on?”
The housekeeper turned, dark eyes serious. “It is his mother. She has come to see you.”
***
She texted Andrei, not angry, but... concerned. He didn't call, didn’t text, but now his mother was coming to visit, unannounced? What in the... hell... was going on? The possibility that he had sent his mother to break up with her occurred to Hannah. But then common sense reasserted itself.
She sat in a chair while Oana tended her hair. And wasn’t that odd? It was the kind of vanity that would have her mother reaching for a wooden spoon or the Bible. But she was too tired to argue. And the woman seemed to like playing with her textured curls. Hannah had to roll her eyes. Oana sometimes acted like she'd never seen a good southern Black girl up close before.
When Hannah was presentable in a casual, upper class chic kind of way, Oana preceded her down the stairs. As she descended each step, the reality of meeting Andrei's mother hit home. Hannah paused, clutching her middle.
What would the woman think? Would she be disappointed in her son's mate? A Black, curvy broke dancing student rather than some svelte, blonde socialite? Would she demand Hannah leave him? The thought stiffened her spine. Well, his mother could make all the demands she wanted. She wouldn’t leave Andrei unless he marched his late, uncommunicative backside into the house and told Hannah to go. Thinking of him, her heart squeezed, an actual physical pain that caused a gasp to leave her throat. Oana turned, eyes sharp.
“What is it?”
“I... nothing.”
The woman watched her a moment longer. “Come. The... his mother isn’t an ogre. Just a Bear.”
Oana led the way to the sitting room. Hannah knew what it was because there was a sitting room in the house she'd grown up in. Well, her mother’s sewing room where the ladies would gather and knit or scrapbook or read verses and converse before it was time for everyone to return home to prepare the evening meal. But whatever the adult ladies did in the room, it was off limit to men and children, unless invited. The men were almost never invited. She stepped into the room, girded for battle. And stopped.
A tall, elegant woman with a rope of dark hair over one shoulder lounged in an arm chair, thumb swiping across her phone. Royal blue eyes flicked up and away.
“Just a moment, dear, let me finish this page. It took the author two years to write this installment. Shameful.”
Oana shut the door behind her after discreetly pushing Hannah further into the room. She walked forward, but didn't sit. Clasped her arms behind her back, and waited.
Soon the woman rose, sliding the cell into the side pocket of her tailored jeans. “Apologies, dear. I wish I could pay the author to write faster.” She approached, studying Hannah, who noticed the woman’s feet were bare. “Hmm. You don’t recognize me.”
“I don’t watch television, ma'am. Would I if I did?”
“Perhaps. One never knows with Americans. So insular. How are you feeling?”
The question threw her off. Hannah almost answered with the truth but remembered no one actually knew she was pregnant yet. She inhaled.
“I miss my mate. But I feel fine, otherwise.”
His mother smiled; Andrei's smile. But without the warmth. “Really. My first trimesters were always the worst. I’m afraid the Assembly suffered the raw edge of my temper. My husband certainly didn’t survive it.”
Hannah took a moment to respond. “How did you know?”
A sleek black brow rose. “My dear, I'm a Bear. I can smell it. It's very faint- two days ago I might not have been able to tell.”
“Oh. I- can we sit?”
“Of course. It's your house.”
Hannah snorted. “You’re his mother.” Many new, foolish young wives in the community had run afoul of their husband’s mothers, to their downfall.
“Indeed. And his Queen.”
Her knees buckled. Oh. Oh.
***
The Queen had Oana bring some herbal tea and 'biscuits' to chew on. Hannah stared at the shortbread in her hand, appetite nonexistent.
“My son has this depressingly annoying idealistic streak in him I haven’t quite been able to stomp out.”
Hannah eyes rose. The words made no sense, so she ignored them. “Where are you Queen?”
The woman crossed her legs, leaning back in the side chair. “I am Izobelle of Casakraine. Your mate is Prince Andrei Luis Sahakian, Heir to our throne. You, my dear, are in a unique position.”
Unique position sounded like code for something unpleasant. Hannah looked back down, setting the shortbread onto the plate. She wasn’t hungry. “Where is he?”
Manicured nails tapped the carved wood arm. “He's detained, at the moment. I wanted to meet you myself. See if there was anything to be done about this situation.”
Hannah’s eyes followed Izobelle as the Queen rose, a
pproached. “Stand up, dear. Let me have another look at you.”
Hannah rose, uncomfortable with the inspection.
“You dance? I can tell. Your posture is lovely. A bit plump, but that seems to be the fashion these days. The common people don’t like a Princess who starves herself- it makes her seem unapproachable. Naturally pretty.”
“Would you like to see my teeth?”
The Queen laughed. “Not yet. And, my dear, if you think this is invasive, just wait until the media gets ahold of you. You'll have to train with Miahela. But at least she'll have a good foundation to work with. Sit. Now, tell me about your parents. Your former lovers. Your social media accounts.”
Hannah blinked. “I don’t have former lovers.”
“Not even a boyfriend? A childhood sweetheart? No nude pictures lurking in some young man's cloud?”
Hannah’s lower jaw set. She wasn’t ashamed of her family. “I was raised in a conservative religious community, ma'am. We’re mostly farmers. My parents are respectable, God-fearing people who work hard for their living.”
“If that's true, it might actually win him some popularity with the people. Casakraine is still mainly agricultural. It might save him once the shock of mating a human wears off.”
“Save him from what?”
Izobelle stood. “From being forced to abdicate his crown, dear.”
***
The next several hours went by in a flurry of activity. Hannah understood the value of having Andrei's mother on her side- she'd seen too many new wives loose the battle of their husband’s respect when the mother-in-law took a dislike to the bride. So when she was told she would be flying to join Andrei in Casakraine, she agreed. Her place was by her mate's side. Even if they weren’t properly wed in an American court. She didn’t mind Izobelle and Oana scrutinizing her wardrobe. And she didn’t even mind the Queen stating she would take care of finding Hannah a proper medical home once they were in Casakraine.
But she drew the line at missing the summer showcase.
“No. We can be on the first flight after the showcase, but I am not throwing away a scholarship I worked hard for. Aren’t you the patron anyway?”
The Queen sighed. “Yes, and I had intended on being there but present circumstances are a bit urgent. Though, I suppose another few hours won’t hurt. Very well. I'd like to see the performance.”
***
Darlington liked drama. There was no announcement before the start of the introductory group number. The small auditorium- audience members were invite only- plunged into darkness a bare ten seconds before a single, blue spotlight focused on the first dancer, slowly growing to encompass the entire troupe.
They moved, a cascade of steps that began with one person. Silent but for the muted patter of feet on stage until the first deep beats of music began in accompaniment. It was Hannah's favorite number. The concentration required, the intricacy of the choreography- Darlington did not treat them like first year students. They were expected to perform. They were the best in their class, joining the upperclassmen and even a few alumni. Hannah was one of the female dancers whose part was unpartnered- Darlington had said she didn’t have the temperament for partner work, but this would be the last pass she would get.
She’d taken care to eat, and drink, and rest. She performed her set flawlessly in rehearsal before Darlington gave a final nod of approval, pronouncing her fit for stage. Probably to the chagrin of the standby.
She had a thirty second solo in the group number- an eternity with the light focused on her. Hannah understood what she represented- the new, modern dancer. One not fettered by traditional norms of body type or ethnicity or social background. When the piece was over the crowd roared their approval. They left the stage, exhilaration in the faces of every dancer. Even Miranda was too happy to be snarky.
Time flew by. She danced a small group number, herself and two other dancers. And then it was time for the solos. They all waited backstage, tense. There were six solo spots, and thirteen dancers. Part of the mystery and drama of the summer showcase was that no one would know if they would dance a solo until called.
Miranda was first. After her two male dancers, each representing a different spectrum of masculinity among dancers, from uber masculine to more androgynous. One by one, students were called to the stage.
Finally it was time for the last number. Hannah held her breath. Darlington had spent the last several months drilling her, drilling her until she thought she would drop in exhaustion- but then she did that with many students. It was unspoken knowledge that the harder the instructor worked a dancer, the more potential was there to be developed. Darlington didn't believe in wasting her time.
“Hannah Fisher-Sahakian.”
Hannah froze, the polite welcoming applause dim in her ears. Darlington had said Sahakian.
“Get out on stage, you fat sow,” Miranda hissed, pushing her a little. “And don't screw it up. Wait a minute- did Darlington say Sahakian?”
Hannah scrambled forward, the scrambling morphing into a dancer's graceful stalk onto stage. She was so glad her body new what to do. Her mind was just a bit scattered right now.
The music began.
Her piece was a blend, beginning with classical choreography one might find in any traditional Russian ballet. The steps evolved, the beat of the music deepening into something primal. The moves showcased her unprecedented strength as a female dancer. The number celebrated her unique qualities while proving her ability to conform to traditional standards- if she chose.
A final last beat, and the solo was done. She held her last pose, chest rising and falling with the pace of her breath. Silence, followed by thunderous applause. Hannah rose, curtsied with the haughty grace of any prima ballerina, and left the stage. And sank into the nearest chair.
“You didn’t suck,” Miranda said sourly. “I guess we're going to be flooded with plus sized dancers next semester who think fat girls can dance, too.”
“You know, you don't have to be self-conscious about being naturally skinny,” Hannah said. “You're fine the way you are.”
Miranda’s arms folded. “You grow up with parents who won't let you eat because your mother was a second rate ballerina who married up,” the young woman snapped. “You don't know how good you have it on scholarship- no one to tell you what to do.”
A commotion at the back of the stage alerted them. Suited men with blank faces entered the area, eyes scanning the dancers. Izobelle swept through the door, stunning in an off the shoulder black bustier and flowing black silk slacks, walking straight to Hannah. Gasps flooded the small area. She guessed that answered her question about whether Izobelle and Andrei were recognizable from television.
“My dear, that was magnificent. I only wish you weren't my son's mate so I could award you the scholarship- but that would be classless nepotism. I will allow you to award it yourself.”
Hannah stared at the Queen. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she'd be disqualified from the scholarship. But somehow it didn't quite bother her.
Miranda held up a hand. “Wait a minute. I have to make sure I'm not in an alternate universe here. So the whole Fisher-Sahakian thing wasn't proof that Darlington does, indeed, smoke before class sessions?”
Hannah grinned. “You know what is even weirder? I'm going to call your bluff. See if you really are a bitch, or just a poor rich girl under her mother's thumb.” Hannah pointed to Miranda. “Give Queen B the scholarship. But on the caveat that she can't accept any outside funding for expenses- not even from her parents. She'll have to get a job like a regular person. And you should really encourage your parents to sponsor another student in your place.”
Izobelle's brow arched and Miranda looked stunned. Several of the other dancers shook their heads and walked away in disgust.
“I'll have the foundation speak to her parents about the sponsorship,” Izobelle said. “Young lady, welcome to Casakraine. Your patron is the Pri
ncess Hannah.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She wrote her parents before she left. There was no choice. If the Queen was correct and Hannah's face would be on the news, then eventually someone- even in their small town- would recognize Hannah and tell her parents.
The calls and emails from media and bloggers began- at first just in the arts scene because the summer showcase was covered every year, and then from larger media outlets once the whole Princess angle was exposed- Hannah realized she would have more than fifteen minutes of fame. When an article popped up in her Facebook feed- and she did take a moment to appreciate the irony of engaging in social media when she still refused to watch television- featuring her with a still of one of her leaps, Hannah took a moment to panic. The article did mention that she heralded a new era of dance that welcomed women of all body types, and praised her for being a role model.
A role model.
So she had to be the one to break the news to her parents first. But she wasn’t quite sure what to say. And realized the most direct way to figure things out was to ask. So she rose from her bed, checking that it wasn’t yet an indecent hour, and walked down the hall to the room where Izobelle stayed. Hannah supposed she have to get used to the security at the end of the hall, and then men on the grounds- but then she wouldn’t be living here much longer anyway.
She tapped on the door, wondering if there was some etiquette she should know about approaching a Queen. And realized that good manners and common sense were probably the best etiquette.
Izobelle answered. “Yes, dear?”
“I have a question.” Hannah felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I’m not sure how to ask. Andrei said the matebond is considered marriage...”
The Queen sighed, waved a hand for Hannah to enter. “Let’s not talk about this in the hallway.”
“I don’t want to take up any of your time. It's just that I’m writing to my parents and they’re very conservative. So...”
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