by Alana Khan
Grace
The concert hall is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I visualize pictures from the Internet of the enormous marble government buildings in Washington, D.C. Then times it by ten or maybe one hundred in terms of grandeur and expense. The design of the building is timeless; the gleaming columns of red and blue polished stone are breathtaking.
I was so consumed by the sights of Almering I got distracted. But now that we’re parked at the concert hall my anxiety spirals. I take a deep breath, pull both hands to my sides, straighten my back and sweep into the huge anteroom, trying for all the world to act like a queen.
The foyer walls are azure blue, the doorways are burnished wood, and the ceiling is painted in intricate detail to resemble the pink skies of Emirus.
Everything else is gold. To my untrained eye, it is not gold paint or gold leaf or some fake metal. I believe every fixture, every knob and every kick plate on every door is real gold. I’m certain the cost of one doorknob alone could house a family of four on Earth for a year.
Mauritious introduces himself as the head of the palace guard. His navy blue uniform is covered with enough gold buttons, gold epaulets, and gold braid for five generals’ uniforms back home.
He sweeps us through the next set of doors into the concert hall itself. To see this place, knowing I’m going to perform here in a matter of hours makes my breath catch in my throat. I pause, not breathing for a moment, then my heart hammers in triple time.
I reach toward Tyree and the backs of my fingers unobtrusively brush his. I’d love a treatment right now, but barring that, just the physical connection will do. A gust of his compassionate calm presses into me. It races along my synapses, relaxing my thoughts as well as my muscles.
“Thank you, Tyree,” I whisper. “I’m on overload.”
“I don’t blame you, Grace. It’s pretty overwhelming for a poor boy from Larian as well.”
Calm enough to really absorb what I’m observing, I pay attention to the enormity of this place. The word huge doesn’t do it justice. The size of the hall boggles the mind.
“Six thousand seats on the main floor and the three balconies,” Mauritious intones. “Another five hundred in the private boxes. And there,” he indicates with an arrogant thrust of his fingers, “is His Majesty, Emperor Quirinus’ private suite.”
I keep my mouth from flopping open in awe as I take everything in. From the plush blood-red seats and curtains to the most beautiful, intricately-painted mural of what looks like a pantheon of Emirusian Gods on the domed ceiling, everything is exquisite.
Mauritious stops in front of me, bows low, his long black braid almost sweeping the floor, then stands in front of me and clicks his heels. “His Majesty asked me to invite you to his suite to share an aperitif with him an hoara before your show.”
“I’m honored, sir.” I don’t think I’ve ever stretched my spine so straight or tipped my chin so arrogantly high. “I’m afraid I sequester myself into my private quarters prior to a performance. I meditate and commune quietly with my thoughts so that I may give a performance that will please the angels themselves. I must humbly decline his Majesty’s most generous offer.”
My heart is about to beat out of my chest. I just turned down the ruler of an entire freaking planet. Where did I find the nerve?
Mauritious’ head rocks back in shock, his nostrils flaring, then he resumes his rigid posture. “I understand. You must prepare to entertain a discerning crowd of sixty-five hundred. I will tell the Emperor you’ve graciously declined.”
Is he trying to intimidate me? He did a great job.
“When we spoke with your manager, we were under the impression you would be sleeping on your vessel each night,” Mauritious says. “Might I suggest a change of plans? There are attached quarters off the rear of the building. Miss Grace, if you wish to utilize this it would be easier to ensure your safety, and allow you to avoid trips back and forth through crowded streets. There are four sleeping rooms. They are adequately appointed—nothing fancy. I do not mean to insult you with the accommodations. I simply offer it as an option.”
I look toward Tyree, then Shadow, frowning in confusion.
“Thank you so much, Captain Mauritious,” Shadow says. “You’ve been very helpful. I believe we misjudged Grace’s popularity. The level of difficulty with crowd control took us by surprise. Might I inspect the area?” Shadow asks politely. I forgot that before he became a gladiator he rubbed elbows with presidents and kings.
He returns a few minutes later. “It looks safe and solves the problem of transporting you to the ship and back each day. I suggest we take the captain up on his generous offer.”
We hurry about half a city block through an underground walkway, to our appointed rooms. It’s just as Mauritious described, a small living area attached to four separate bedrooms, each with their own bath. Tyree swiftly inspects all of them and chooses the slightly nicer, slightly larger one for me, for us.
After Mauritious and the guards leave, I sit heavily on the edge of a couch, Tyree joins me. We’re so close our thighs touch.
“I imagine on a planet like this,” Shadow says, “no matter how welcoming the head of state or Captain of his Guard is, that traveling musicians and their gladiatorial escort are considered riffraff. If I were in charge, I’d have cameras placed strategically around to make sure no one walks off with a golden doorknob or two.”
I snort quietly, realizing I wasn’t the only one to have that idea.
“I would assume we’re being watched—everywhere.”
I groan. This means I won’t be able to fully put my guard down.
“Everything will work out.” Tyree gives me a piercing look and then blasts a gust of calm at me.
Petra makes sure the gowns are hanging straight on a clothes rack before organizing the makeup and hair products on the dressing table in my room. Someone suggests I might want to take a nap. I would like nothing better, I got very little sleep last night and my nerves are frazzled.
I glance at Tyree, silently requesting he accompany me. He quickly stands and helps me up. “I’ve been your personal bodyguard since you needed one, milady. I wouldn’t think of leaving you alone on this of all days,” he says, loud enough for any microphones that might be listening.
Okay, so that’s the cover story, he’s my personal protector and doesn’t leave my side. I don’t know how we’re going to manage the sleeping arrangements, but at least he’s not expected to leave me at any time.
“As usual, my lady, I’ll sleep on the floor near you, should you need me.”
“Of course.” I hope he can see my lips purse at the thought he would have to debase himself like that. “My ever-faithful servant, Tyree.” Okay, maybe we can have some fun with this. Don’t couples back on Earth role-play all the time? Well, instead of the French maid with her short skirt and feather duster, we have the hunky personal gladiator in his leather kilt at my beck and call. We’ll make this work.
Tyree performs his magic from his blanket-covered spot on the floor, and I’m asleep before I know it. I wake to Petra’s soft knock. “Grace, let’s get you beautiful. If we start now, you’ll have time for at least some tea and a delicious pastry the Emperor sent over for us. That is,” she raises her voice so everyone in the suite can hear, “if the gladiator hordes haven’t eaten every freaking one of them before you get a chance!”
“We can ask for more, Pet,” I hear Shadow call from the common area around what sounds like a huge bite of food. “They’re the best thing I’ve eaten since I was a free male on Morgana.”
“Even though I love you and Grace forgave you, you’re still a dick.”
“You wound me,” Shadow jokes as he stands in our doorway. He clamps a partially-eaten scone between his lips then places both hands on his chest and acts as if he’s just been shot in the heart.
As Petra slips between him and the doorjamb to leave, he playfully slaps her ass.
“Keep that up big guy and I’ll
put you on restriction.”
“Restriction from what?”
“You have many favorite pastimes, Shadow, and they all involve me. Use your imagination.” She gives him a quelling look.
“My lady,” Tyree says, “I agree with Petra that you should try to get a little food down. Do you want a pastry or would you prefer a sandwich?”
“I know my stomach, Tyree. Thanks, but no food until after the performance. Tea sounds good, though.”
Chapter Ten
Grace
I know I’m twenty-six, but I can’t help swaying in front of the mirror like a little girl in her first fancy dress. Petra did my hair in what she calls a “simple chignon.” It’s a fancy, slightly messy style pulled back in a low bun. Between the dress, the hair and the great job she did on my makeup, I find it hard to tear my eyes from the mirror.
I never wanted to attract attention to myself. As a young woman, I didn’t experiment with makeup or hair. I either wear my hair down or pull it into a ponytail without benefit of looking in a mirror. In my head, I always described my looks as “okay.” I would never use the words cute, pretty, or attractive.
But now, looking in the mirror, I’ve got to admit the word “pretty” wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.
I’m wearing the green gown. It’s the exact emerald color of Tyree’s eyes, and of the three, I think it looks best on me—I really need my confidence tonight. First of all, there are sixty-five hundred patrons out there who will be scrutinizing me. Second, the Emperor of the entire freaking planet will be in his box watching me. Third, Shadow recently informed me that Emperor Quirinus apologized for his faux pas of inviting me for an aperitif before my program, and offered dinner afterward in his private suite.
I don’t know how to weasel my way out of this. No pressure!
“All you have to do is slip on your shoes and you’re ready to go,” Petra pulls me out of my fear-induced reverie. “You look beautiful. Ready?”
I glance in the full-length mirror one more time. “I look...good. Thanks, Petra. You worked a miracle!”
“You’re so pretty, Grace. You didn’t need a miracle worker. You have great bone structure. Let’s get a move on.” She motions toward the door.
I take one last look in the mirror and have a quick internal fight with myself. The little girl inside thinks all everyone will see is the fifth-grader who wore smelly clothes to school. The grown-up Grace can see what I really look like in this exquisite green dress. The deciding factor will be the look on Tyree’s face, although I know in my heart he thinks I’m attractive in anything I wear. And especially when I’m wearing nothing at all.
The hem of the dress is so wide I have to squish it through the doorway. The males are out in the hall, half looking one way, half looking the other—all on high alert. I hear crowd noises from the auditorium, even though we’re several long hallways from there. Soft music is drifting in, maybe there’s an orchestra playing as people take their seats. For some reason, the sound of the crowd is the thing that amps my anxiety into overdrive. Everything just got real.
Where is Tyree? I frantically look around for a moment, then see his broad back, flashes of his bronze skin peeking out from behind the strip of leather crossing his back. Then perhaps he feels my eyes on him and turns almost in slow motion.
The expression on his face when he sees me is a moment I want to keep in my mental photo album until my dying day. His face is at first impassive, then his eyes widen as he sees me. Almost like a double-take, he glances down to my shoes and up to my hair one more time. Then it’s like he’s convinced himself it’s really me and his mouth turns into a grin that stretches wider and wider.
‘Wow,’ he mouths, then “Wow,” he says more loudly. “Grace you look…what’s the best word in your language? I want to get it right. What would be the most beautiful word in the Earth language?”
“Gorgeous,” Petra offers. “Or Exquisite. Try Exquisite.”
I don’t know what word actually comes out of his mouth. It doesn't sound like English, nor does it translate from Larian. But the look on his face says all I need to hear. My stomach tightens, my clit pulses, and rivers of fire flow through my veins.
Now all the males turn to look at me. A few immediately glance back around, knowing they need to do their jobs, but many do the same hair-to-toes once-over. None of them say anything; I assume not wanting to set off Tyree’s blazing protective instincts. But the look on their faces was...impressed? Appreciative? Whatever it was, it gives me confidence.
Petra grabs my instruments, and we all surge down the hall. Half the males behind me, half in front.
“Do you want to carry these on stage?” She asks lifting them toward me. “Or should I put them on the table they’ve set up near your chair?”
I’m on overload; the simple question is too hard to decide.
“I’ll put them out there.” She glides onstage and leans them against the small table that holds a glass and a pitcher of water.
Tyree edges closer, looking around. Surrounded by so many males, we feel invisible. “Want a quick treatment, Amara?”
I nod and furtively touch the hand that’s resting at his side. I’m bathed in warmth and serenity.
“You know you’ll do well, Grace. We all know how magnificently you play. Want advice?” I nod again. “Look at the back doors. Focus on one of the shining gold knobs. Not the faces, not the people, not whether they appreciate your music or not. Just the knobs. The knobs and your music. Dive into your music, play your program, then stand up and receive your applause. I’ll be right here when you’re finished.”
And that’s just what I do. When I’m given my cue, I walk to the oh-my-God golden throne sitting center stage. The applause is thunderous and I know I can’t just sit down. I open my arms and raise them, giving the impression I’m receiving their adoration. In reality, I’m focused on a shiny gold knob that seems like a football field away.
As the applause dies down, I take my seat, grab String Thing for my first piece, and dive in. I sink deeper into the music with every lilting note. I soar with the lively compositions and become melancholy with the serious ones. I’m so immersed in the music I realize I’m improvising during one of my favorite songs, Transformation, that I composed for Tyree. I have such a deeper connection to him now—new variations of music simply flow from my fingers.
Before I know it, I’ve come to the end of my program. The hall is still. I don’t even hear a cough or the rustling of fancy silk gowns. Nothing. Now I’m even more fearful of tearing my eyes from the shiny gold knob. But as if on cue, the hall erupts in clapping and appreciative shouts. If I thought the applause at the beginning of my program was thunderous, this is louder by tenfold.
I read once that the best sign of recognition after a performance was immediate silence. It signifies the audience was so mesmerized they were completely transported. I think that’s what happened. Warmth spreads through my body as I bathe in their approval.
People are stomping their feet. I finally get the nerve to sneak a peek from the golden knob. Most in the audience are Emirusians and look extremely human. Then I see more unusual aliens peppered throughout the house. A shiny silver one that must be from Steele’s planet, an amphibious female wearing a bubbler over her mouth and nose to be able to breathe the air on this planet. So many others I can’t take it all in.
And then the hall quiets as a tall male on the first balcony rises to his full height and is escorted by the royal guard toward the stage.
Emperor Quirinus. His uniform is the same blood red as the curtains. His shoulders are covered with gold epaulets. There is a huge red gem, large as a drink coaster, hanging around his neck and resting on his chest. Hair, long and midnight black, is pulled into a braid trailing halfway down his back. And he’s heading right toward me.
He’s smiling. That’s a good sign. He looks younger than I’d expected, maybe a few years older than Tyree. For someone ruling an entire planet, he isn’t
at all what I’d imagined. For starters, he’s gorgeous. Straight nose, square jaw, and amethyst eyes. The contrast between those blazing purple eyes and his jet-black hair is startling...and attractive.
Mauritious, the captain of the guard, joins us on stage and makes quiet introductions, the applause still rolling like thunder in the background.
“Lord Quirinus, may I introduce Miss Grace. Miss Grace, Lord Argento Quirinus.”
“Call me Arge,” the Emperor croons in a deep, melodious voice.
Am I now on a first-name basis with the Emperor of a planet? Really? Just like that?
Mauritious puts his hands up in a motion designed to quiet the crowd and they do, instantly. After all, their Emperor is standing right there.
