by K. M. Shea
Elle watched him go, glancing at Oliver when the boy slithered up to her now that the danger had passed. “He is a puzzle,” Elle said, nodding at the retreating prince.
Oliver’s handwriting was awful, but earnest. He’s my hero.
Elle smiled sadly as she recalled Emele’s words about the stable boy. “How very virtuous,” she said, placing an affectionate hand on the boy’s head. “Shall we move indoors? I could use a snack. Would you join me?”
Yes!
“Emele, I am not amused. If this is another one of your plans to make me run into the prince I will thwart it,” Elle said, standing in the doorway of the library.
Emele, holding an oil lamp in the darkness of the room, shook her head and beckoned for Elle to come closer.
Outside the wind howled and rain thrashed against the windows, giving the evening a spooky air.
Elle sighed and swung her crutches, following Emele as the ladies maid walked the perimeter of the library. Emele looked at each portrait, her face upturned at the life-size paintings of long dead nobility. In all of the portraits the men and women were elegantly dressed, usually holding something of worth—a crown, the bridle of a hot blooded Arabian horse, a lapdog, or jewels. Although the hairstyles and manners of dress changed with each portrait, the expressions were the same. They always had pale skin, pinched faces, and usually their heads were tilted up, looking down at viewers with the air of superiority.
Lightning cracked outside, briefly lighting up the library before thunder rumbled in the distance.
Light from Emele’s lamp fell on the portrait of a tall, thin man Elle recognized as the current king of Loire. Next to him, capturing the prince’s puffed pride rather well, was a portrait of Crown Prince Lucien. Just beyond the prince was a portrait of a young man.
Emele stopped and placed the oil lamp on a small table that was tucked against the wall. His Highness, Prince Severin, she wrote.
The portrait was smaller than the others, and the frame was less ornate. It must have been completed some years ago, for Severin was gangly and fresh faced. He couldn’t have been older than 16.
Unlike his father and brother—who had fine blonde hair—Severin had charcoal black hair. A thatch of it hung down over his face, covering his left eye. The rest of it was tied off at the base of his neck. Severin’s skin was tan, and he held a sword, but it was his expression that Elle found remarkable. He looked…haunted. Even as a teenager he had dark circles under his eyes.
I know you do not care much for him, Elle, Emele wrote. I don’t know why, and I know better than to ask. But please, I am asking you as a friend, please help milord.
Elle studied her maid with a calculating expression. “Emele, I am here because I broke my leg falling through your roof. I am not the quality of lady that a noble such as Severin would take note of, much less search for companionship in.”
But there isn’t anyone else. You are the only one who is not afraid of us, of him. You have a true and just heart. Help him, for my sake if not his.
Elle clutched her crutches until the wood creaked in protest. “Blast!” she said, stamping a crutch. “Blast!” she uttered again, glaring at the portrait before growling at Emele. “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll try befriending your dolt of a prince. But I’ll not take the blame when he ignores me and scorns my presence.”
Emele clapped her hands in glee. Thank you, thank you my dearest friend!
Elle narrowed her eyes as thunder made the floor tremble beneath her feet. “I’m going back to my room. I want to sleep,” she said before thumping her way out of the halo of light Emele’s lamp cast.
Emele reclaimed the lamp and hurried to her side. You are so kind, Elle.
“I am,” Elle grunted. “But I owe you my thanks for the care you’ve given me. If this is how you wish for me to repay you, I will try.”
Emele slipped her small slate into a pocket of her dress and placed a protective arm around Elle’s shoulders.
The two walked back to Elle’s room in silence.
That night the servants of Chanceux Chateau rejoiced in a voiceless celebration for the remainder of the storm.
Chapter 6
The Invasion
Early the following morning Elle knocked on the door to Severin’s study.
“Enter.”
Elle slammed the door open with a surprising amount of force and smiled winningly at Severin when he looked up from his papers. “Good morning,” she said.
“Hn,” Severin said, returning his attention to his papers.
“Set the flowers right here, Oliver. Thank you,” Elle said as the groom set down a vase of purple irises on the bookshelf closest to the door.
Oliver quit the room, leaving Elle with the silent prince. “It is astounding that your flower gardens lasted through the temperature drop over the last few days,” Elle said, affectionately stroking the vivid purple petals.
Severin’s left ear flicked as he signed a document.
“The gardens didn’t seem too damaged by last night’s storm. A tree lost a large branch. Marc was sawing it up as Emele and I went out to collect the flowers,” Elle said, tugging on one of the reed-like leaves that split off an iris.
Severin stood and cross the room. He picked up the vase, pointedly holding it out of Elle’s reach. “Did you need something, Intruder?” he asked.
“No. I thought I would come see what you are doing,” Elle said, following him back to his desk.
“Work,” Severin said, placing the vase on his desk before sitting down again. The chair groaned when his weight dropped into it.
“You’re not going out to see the gardens?” Elle asked.
“No.”
“Oh,” Elle said before sitting in a plush armchair.
Severin looked up. “What are you doing?” he said, the points of his upper fangs jutting out past his lips.
“I’m sitting down,” Elle said.
“Why?”
“Because if I want to drink my tea I need to be sitting,” Elle said.
“What nonsense are you talking about? There is no tea here.”
“Of course not. It hasn’t arrived yet.”
“You called for tea in my study?”
“Yes.”
Severin massaged his forehead.
“I apologize. I assumed you would want tea this early in the morning. Do you desire something stronger? Wine, perhaps?”
Severin shot Elle a golden eyed glare.
Elle took no notice and set her crutches aside.
“My servants put you up to this,” Severin said.
“And what if they did? Have you seen Bernadine? The woman wields a rolling pin all day long. I’m certainly not going to refuse her,” Elle said.
Severin released a bark of laughter. “I should have expected it to be Bernadine.”
“She did nothing of the sort. I merely asked what if your servants did.”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Severin said.
A maid pushed a serving cart in the room, pouring Elle a cup of hot tea.
“Severin, would you like some tea?” Elle asked, picking three walnut cookies off a tray of tea treats.
“No,” Severin said.
The maid curtsied and left, leaving the tea cart behind.
Elle hefted herself to her feet and stood, balancing without her crutches, between Severin’s desk and the tea cart. She placed the porcelain plate with the walnut cookies on Severin’s desk before sitting down again.
Severin glanced at the cookies and stared at Elle.
“What?” Elle said, adding sugar to her tea. “There’s no need to pretend. I know you have a soft spot for that particular kind of cookie.”
Severin narrowed his eyes at Elle. “How do you know?”
“Your Highness, give me some credit. We have dined together for some weeks now. There is no one to talk to during our meals except for an overweight dog. I will have noticed some things about you.”
Severin grudgingly crunched on a cookie while Elle stirred her tea.
Elle watched as the prince immersed himself in work. She quietly poured another cup of tea and added cream to it before she unobtrusively stood and placed it by his plate—adding another cookie to it while she was standing.
Elle smiled in victory when some minutes later Severin mindlessly reached for the tea cup and drank from it. He set it down and continued with his work.
Elle quietly crunched on treats and drank her tea. Although Emele would probably be surprised to see Elle’s attempt to prod Severin from his self imposed exile, Elle was selecting a winning strategy rather than a conventional one. She never did anything by halves. She told Emele she would do her best, and she would. The best way to befriend His Illegitimate Highness Prince Severin, Elle decided based on his personality and her observations, was to be as inconspicuous as possible as she steadily invaded his life.
The prince wouldn’t notice her complete invasion until it had already passed.
Elle smiled like a pleased feline as she leaned back in her chair and watched Severin sip his tea.
“Brother, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Lucien greeted Severin at their next meeting.
“Your Highness,” Severin said bowing to his half brother.
“Father’s been a regular pain. He wants me to marry the Arcainia princess. I told him such an arrangement would be entirely unnecessary if we invaded the country and took it over. He disagreed. Violently,” Lucien complained as he draped himself in a chair.
“I find myself in the rare position of agreeing with His Majesty,” Severin said, unpacking a saddle pack.
“You would,” Lucien complained. “However, you don’t know the princess. Her seven brothers dote on her but she’s not even a real princess. The royal family adopted her. She’s a dreadful bore. I’m told she reads books, tours her lands, and is involved with Arcainia’s finance department.”
“Most would mark those as admirable traits in a monarch, Lucien,” Severin said, unrolling a map.
“But in a woman?” Lucien complained.
“If you only marry for beauty you are going to find yourself regretful in your old age,” Severin advised, growling when he opened the last of his saddle bags. He pulled out a long stemmed lily and glared at the orange blossom.
Lucien raised his eyebrows at the flower. “Is one of your servants trying to subtly let you know you need to bathe more?”
“Elle,” Severin growled.
“Ah, your injured guest,” Lucien recalled. “You haven’t kicked her out yet?”
Severin eyed the flower, able to pick out the flat spot where Elle had, no doubt, rubbed the petal between her fingers. “Duval claims she is too injured to move, although she is able to hobble around the chateau with crutches.”
“It’s a shame she’s not pretty. Can her looks be improved?”
“No. Her too big lips house a too big mouth that she opens all too much,” Severin grunted. “Although she no longer looks like a drown rat as she is not wearing cast off dresses from one of my female servants.”
“Fabulous,” Lucien dryly said, placing his feet on the edge of a dusty table.
Severin set the lily aside and uncorked an inkwell. “Have you established contact with Ranger Seventy Eight?”
“I have,” Lucien said, smiling at the manservant who poured him a glass of wine.
“And? What did he say?”
“There was an altercation, but it is under control. Seventy Eight is still on my mission and will not be available for some weeks. Ranger Ten returned from his long term assignment, though. I have his report right here,” Lucien said, setting his goblet down to reach into his royal blue waistcoat and pull out a handful of folded papers.
“Excellent,” Severin said, briefly reading the first few lines of the report. “He says the south borders are inactive.”
“As they should be,” Lucien said, finishing his wine.
Severin shook his head. “Our southern neighbors have more magic in their lands than the rest of our allies.”
“You distrust magic because of your situation?”
“No. I distrust magic because over the last few years it has become unstable,” Severin corrected. “Magic itself is nothing to fear. It is those who wield it that make me wary.”
Lucien shrugged. “I suppose it is that way with all things that are powerful. Do you have your supplies list?”
Severin wordlessly handed over several meticulously recorded sheets of paper. Lucien eagerly scanned them, but found nothing abnormal and handed them off to a servant. “The weather grows cold. We should relocate to a warmer location for our meetings during the winter months.”
“Or we will have the lodge stocked with firewood, as we have done in the previous years. Now, regarding Ranger Ten’s report.”
By the time Severin rode home after his meeting with his half brother, dusk painted the chateau with lavender blue shadows. There was a chill in the air—tonight would probably be the first frost of fall.
Severin dismounted his gelding—the only horse that didn’t turn wild with fear whenever he was near—and handed the animal off to Oliver to be groomed and cared for.
Burke opened the castle doors and drew Severin’s cloak off his hulking shoulders.
Dinner? Burke wrote after passing the cloak off to a maid.
Severin rubbed his eyes. “Not tonight. I am not terribly hungry. I will have tea in my study instead.”
Burke smiled so big his cheeks made his mask bend oddly.
Severin eyed his personal valet before he stalked down the hallway. He rubbed his shoulders, which were stiff with immobility and the cold, and made his way to his study—Burke fluttering behind him like a showy bird.
When he reached his private study he opened it. A steaming cup of cider was arranged next to a bowl of soup. There was a crusty roll slathered in butter, a small bowl of turnips, and a cooked apple. There was a fire in the fireplace, and the room was warm and cozy.
Most surprising, though, was the girl. When Severin entered his study Elle—who stood in front of the window—turned to face him and nodded in greeting. “I thought you might like something warm to eat after your journey,” she said.
She smiled slyly when Severin suspiciously eyed her.
Burke bowed with a fancy flourish—Severin wasn’t sure exactly whom the valet was bowing to—and left.
Elle thumped her way across the room, and Severin was forced to grudgingly admit that she did move a great deal easier in her simple dresses than in Emele’s frills and layers.
The peasant girl sat down in an armchair and started paging through a book.
Severin walked to his desk and sat. He stirred his soup and sniffed the spiced cider before glancing at Elle.
She turned a page in her book and didn’t look up.
Severin took a sip of the warm cider and swallowed. His shoulders loosened and he relaxed in his chair as he took another sip before picking up the roll.
The room was quiet, except for the clinks of Severin’s silverware and the occasionally swish of Elle turning a page.
The following day Elle stood in front of a set of marble stairs, glaring at them. Emele was gone—she said she had work to do and couldn’t entertain Elle. Rather than giving Elle free rein of the floor Elle’s bedroom was on, Emele browbeat the footmen into carrying Elle to the main floor.
This was rather uncharitable, for the only room—besides the kitchen, and Elle was going to stay far away from Bernadine’s kingdom—on the main floor was the dining room. Elle could not go outside—for there were steps directly outside the doors, nor could she reach the upper floors because of the stairs. She was boxed in, thwarted by several dozen slabs of marble.
“Are you hoping to accomplish something by glaring at the stairs?”
Elle turned around at the sound of the familiar voice—the only voice in the castle besides her own. “I cannot climb or descend stairs, Your Highness,” Elle said,
dipping her head to Prince Severin.
“And you hope to change that situation by glaring.”
“No. I was mentally stewing. Emele had me brought here and as a result has corralled me in with the experience of a shepherd.”
“I see,” Severin said, moving to go around Elle.
Elle flattened her lips in displeasure as Severin climbed the first step. She was going to be trapped on the first floor all day if she didn’t do something. It was that desperation that made Elle call out, “Your Highness?”
Severin stopped climbing the stairs.
“Your servants are unwilling to carry me to another part of the chateau lest they encounter Emele’s wrath,” Elle started.
Severin turned around and tilted his head. He looked past Elle as his cat ears flicked.
“Could you ask them to carry me upstairs? Please,” Elle said, swinging herself to the base of the staircase.
Severin narrowed his eyes and his nose twitched.
“…Your Highness?” Elle said, wondering if he had come down with another case of selective hearing.
“Quiet,” Severin said, his voice barely above a growl.
Elle turned around to see what the cursed prince was staring at, but no one was there. She could hear the faint tap of footsteps, but that was all.
Severin exhaled a hiss of air and his ears went flat. He dropped his golden gaze to Elle before glancing past her again. He descended the stairs and spoke in a guttural voice. “Hold on.”
“Pardon, wha—,” Elle almost shrieked when the prince abruptly picked her up.
“Quiet,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder as he tossed Elle across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Elle grimaced. “My leg.”
Severin growled but shifted Elle on his back. They scuffled until Elle was arranged in a position devoid of pain. Her arms were thrown around his massive shoulders, and her uninjured leg was pressed into his side. He held her good foot in one paw that was twisted behind his back, letting Elle stand up in a fashion. Her crutches were wedged under the arm that held her foot.
