by Morgan Smith
A red flannel petticoat joined the clothing on the floor before she won again. This time, when Lind sat down again, it occurred to her that he seemed different.
Smaller.
He called a main of five. The cubes flipped up and through the air and tumbled down.
Eleven. Another skin lost.
She kept her eyes down. The last thing she wanted now was to anger him. At any moment, he might tire of this, and then…she swallowed, and pushed the thought away.
They’d been at this for ages. Why didn’t someone come to see what was happening? Why wasn’t the guard bringing another victim in here?
She lost another petticoat and her new woollen socks.
The Prince refilled their cups, and clinked his against hers in a sort of half-exasperated salute.
And then she won again.
He got up again, this time very slowly. The snake-tongue flicked out again, and the dark eyes seemed almost to devour her in a fury, but he stepped past her and this time the trembling was real, she could feel the stones rumbling and the walls were shaking and he cried out so loud, she thought he was dying.
It was somehow more terrifying than anything else about this terrifying day. She could hear the roar of an unholy wind whistling past her ears and there was a red mist rising, like a spray of blood, and a high, keening whine, as if there was some small animal caught in a trap.
Katya fell to the floor, her hands over her eyes, and wept in terror.
***
Somewhere, from very far away, there was a voice, asking her in desperate tones, if she was all right. Begging her to say she was, to say anything, to please be all right.
From even farther off, there was a frantic thumping of fists on wood.
And then a strong arm was around her shoulders, and a man’s voice was whispering “Hush, now, love. It’s all right. I swear it.”
Katya pulled her hands away from her face and looked up into deep brown eyes.
Eyes that saw her, and only her.
Below those eye was a straight, aquiline nose and a tender mouth, and his arms tightened around her shoulders.
The pounding on the door grew more agitated and frantic.
She looked at the man holding her. Behind him lay five snake-like skins and half of her own wardrobe. One of the wine-cups had fallen from the table and lay on the floor beside them.
“Wha- what happened?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” he said, bewildered. “In truth I don’t, but – oh, my love, whatever it was is down to you!”
She sat up, suddenly very aware of his arms and her half-dressed condition, and blushed a deep red.
The pounding was now joined by some shouting.
Prince Lind – well, she assumed it was still Prince Lind, although how he could have become so transformed was not something she could grasp, not in her present state – Prince Lind seemed disposed to ignore the rising clamor outside the room.
“You have a name, I imagine?” he said, smiling down at her. “I don’t mind telling you it’s going to be deuced awkward introducing my bride if I don’t know her name.”
“I – oh, you cannot be serious,” she said.
“Why not, my love? Why should the Prince not marry the loveliest, bravest, smartest woman in the realm? What else could be more fitting?”
“But I’m just – I mean, I’m only…” her voice trailed away, in awe and disbelief.
Because Lind still saw her, all of her, and only her.
Because beauty is not only skin deep.
###
Discover other titles by Morgan Smith
A Spell in the Country
Flashbacks (an unreliable memoir of the ‘60s)
Casting In Stone
The Plague Village
No Good Deed
Connect with Morgan Smith
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