Author Note: Sorry about the lateness... AGAIN... this took a lot of time to write for some reason... but I hope you guys enjoy it! :D Oh, and for those of you who don't know, there's apparently going to be a Tangled short made for spring of 2012 about the wedding! :D fun stuff, eh? :D haha anyhoo, thanks for reading, waiting, reviewing, and faving! :D you guys are the best! :D
Soli Deo Gloria
Disclaimer: Disney owns Tangled, its characters, and its story
There is a mountaintop—or rather, several mountaintops—covered in snow. At the base of these mountains is a very large cliff ledge. So large, in fact, that the capital city of Orae rests quite comfortably upon it.
A sprawling, walled city of stone houses, slate roofs, and streets littered with glowing lampposts, the capital remained quite stark against the snowy landscape. Each street rose up higher and higher along the mountain base until finally reaching the great castle of the royal family. The castle was a tall structure, walled and heavily protected by battlements. The three Keeps of the King stood at the very center of the castle, all attached together by long galleries that ran through the lower three floors.
Upon the topmost turret of the middle keep flew the banner of Orae—a dark blue background resplendent with an impressive white buck's head, a golden crown resting upon his enormous horns.
It being the winter months in that part of the world, darkness had come on early. Now only the flickering fires in home hearths, street lamps, and the torches along the city walls illuminated the deep, quiet night.
But the night was not so quiet.
Three of the royal guardsmen huddled around a blazing brazier set in the top left corner of the castle walls. They pulled their furred cloaks tighter about themselves, listening to the wind howl and the snow falling from the slanted roof of the royal chapel. One of the men withdrew his long hunting knife to stir the coals in the brazier, a grin crossing his whiskery face when his action released more warmth.
As he sat back in his seat, the coal-stirrer spoke.
"Do you think the king and his guests are having a good dinner tonight?" The man sounded wistful, his eyes following the sparks from the fire.
One of his comrades nodded, grunting, "Probably are. You know how excited Head Chef Samson gets when he has the chance to show up the other chefs. He'll have made them a feast."
"But that Chef Arnold of Corona is supposed to be one of the finest cooks in the whole world." The first speaker remarked cheerfully. "What if he and Sam had a contest? Each man and his kitchen staff make a full five-course meal—with us as the judges!"
His companion slapped him upside the head, barking, "Oh, shaddup, Todd. You know full well that the closest we'll get to tasting a head chef's dish is when they have leftovers."
"And they won't have leftovers, Elliot?"
"With the families of ten kingdoms swarming upon the castle? Nah. Looks like we'll just have to settle with our ordinary rations tonight." Elliot muttered morosely.
The third man rose to his feet, rolling his eyes, "You two are the lousiest soldiers I've ever laid eyes on. For goodness sake, you've got the plushiest job in the army: watching over the royal family and whatever foreign dignitaries happen to be visiting. Stop complaining about the food and start working again. Now!"
"Yes sir, Captain Jacobson." Both Todd and Elliot replied as their superior officer stalked off into the chill night.
Todd then cast a sideways glance at his fellow soldier. "Do you think they'll be having chicken?"
"Roast chicken—with sweet sauce imported from the Torren Peninsula." Elliot predicted glumly. "I can just imagine it now… Prince Harold is probably commenting on it as we speak."
"Nice and tangy, with a delicate hint of sweetness only the saucepans of the Peninsula can provide." Harold said thoughtfully, a half-eaten drumstick in his hand.
Eugene raised an eyebrow but did not respond. He was too busy making sure his son did not decide to demonstrate his slingshot's capabilities. Thankfully, however, Thomas and Harry, Jr. were too busy enthusiastically eating and jabbering to bother trying to one-up each other. The two boys were the same age and had always been remarkably good friends. Harry was built much like his father—bigger than expected. And, also like his father, he had an earthshaking laugh that seemed to make the room tremble.
Not that the castle dining chamber was very hushed to begin with. After all, there were at least ten different kingdoms being represented here tonight. And the ambassadors, princes, kings, high-ranking noblemen, their wives, and their children provided plenty of noise to more than slightly deafen the waiters lining the walls.
"Eugene-," Rapunzel turned away from where she had been conversing with Clara of Roan, "-aren't you going to try the chicken?"
"Hmm?" Eugene craned his neck to see Ginger, Little Harriet, and Helga breaking into a rush of giggles.
His wife sighed, nudging his elbow, "Your dinner, dear. Eat your dinner."
"Just a moment." He turned to see his eldest daughter in a whispered discussion with Big Harriet and Michael's daughter Jennifer. What could they be talking about?
"Eugene." Rapunzel finally resorted to setting her hand—wet from her water glass—upon his wrist.
Eugene jumped, his skin suddenly turning icy cold and his knee knocking painfully against the nearest table leg.
None of the other guests seemed to notice the sound, too engrossed in debating, remarking, and narrating on events in their lives as well as the happenings in everybody else's.
The prince consort of Corona looked down at his wife, seeing her familiar smile. "Yes, Rapunzel?"
"Don't worry about the kids." She squeezed his wrist. "Just eat."
"Right." He nodded and stole the fork from the man next to him, having dropped his own on the floor when his wife had startled him.
Eugene set about cutting into his chicken breast, his keen ears easily picking out the conversations going on around him.
Oswald, steward of Roan and husband to Clara, leaned over to speak with Harold. "Tell me, Harold, how are the wool exports from Orae doing against the wool exports from Dorian's kingdom of Gralt?"
"Very well, actually. Unfortunately for Dorian, his herds of sheep have experienced a tragic epidemic, causing their wool to be patchy and thin. Thankfully, the goats of Orae are built of hardier stuff. Our creatures have been giving an abundance of wool."
"And what about the milk market?"
"There is not as much demand for goat milk at the moment. Corona's cows are seeing to that." Harold gave Eugene a sly wink, laughing so loudly that the decorative swords on the wall shook. "But of course, what's a little friendly competition between friends, eh, Fitzherbert?"
Eugene grinned, "Let it get too friendly, Harold, and you might find your goats completely out of a job."
The prince of Orae laughed again, slapping Oswald on the back and knocking the monocle from his eye. "See that, Ozwick? Fitzherbert's always had a good sense of humor."
"It's Oswald, sir." The steward replied, fumbling about for his monocle (which had, incidently, landed in the butter dish).
On Eugene's right, Prince Michael of Killrae argued politics with Baron Richard from Elcott. Michael was a conservative when it came to economic and cultural issues, holding to the traditions he had been taught by his grandfather. Richard, a hothead and a young baron, clung to the liberal end of the political spectrum. Thus it was that both men were hard at work trying to convince the other that he was in the wrong while maintaining that he, himself, was in the right. It was a common argument the two always fell into, and their wives, sitting next to them, merely rolled their eyes and continued talking about the recent elopment of a famously widowed countess.
A sudden ruckus at the opposite end of the table took his attention off the vicarious affair. The clamor, loud enough to break through the general hubbub, had occurred when a waiter tripped over an apple one of King Gregory's children had dropped. The waiter had been carrying a silver platter of jello cups, had tripped on the apple and then on the rug covering the flagstones. Now most of the cups were tumbling and spinning around on the hard floor as the waiter was helped to his feet by his fellows.
Eugene watched as a jello cup rolled slowly past, following it all the way to the end where his son surreptitiously picked it up. The prince consort narrowed his eyes and pointed at Thomas, mouthing a warning.
Thomas nodded, but the expression on his face his father recognized all too well. That boy was up to something.
"Rapunzel, I think that-." Eugene started to say when Harold interrupted him.
"Fitzherbert, what do you think about the problems rising in the Midlands?" The prince of Orae asked, spearing a stack of baked carrots with his fork.
"Well-," Eugene cast another warning look at his son before muttering, "-aren't the Midlands constantly in trouble somehow?"
Oswald carefully sliced up his potato, commenting, "Yes, they are. However, Corona has always been first to act whenever a crisis in the Midlands occurs. I mean-," he pointed his knife at Eugene, "-technically, the people there are descendants of Corona's citizens. I know some may not consider them worthy of protecting. However, in the past, the royal line has often lended a hand or even a whole arm to ensure the chaos there does not utterly destroy the people."
"That has been the theme, yes." Eugene replied, half-wondering and half-hoping his wife was listening and would quickly think of a pretext to free him from the topic.
After all, he was getting tired of talking about how messed up the Midlands were. Everyone knew they were messed up. He knew especially, given the number of reports he dealt with day after day about the country stuck in the near middle of the continent. But why did every person with the remotest bit of power suddenly assume that the Midlands were the priority of every conversation between semi-equals?
His ears suddenly became aware that Harold and Oswald had decided to continue the chat without him. And now Prince Gregory of Pharx was joining in, clearing his throat and saying that in no certain terms did the Midlands resemble Pharx—even with that sticky piece of history about the whole civil war that resulted in a change of monarchy.
Eugene took a bite out of his cheese biscuit, planning on using the 'oops, my mouth is full' excuse to avoid another conversation about work. Then, of course, at that moment his wife touched his arm.
"Eugene, Ginger is trying to get your attention."
He swallowed, coughed, and asked, "What makes you think that?"
Rapunzel smiled, answering lightly, "Considering that she's been calling 'daddy' for the past minute…"
"Be right back." Eugene hastily scooted his chair out, nearly knocked over the waiter who had hurried forward to help him, and went down to where his youngest was still calling for him.
He crouched down next to her chair, "What is it, Ginger-snap?"
Ginger beamed at him and then turned to Little Harriet and Helga, explaining breathlessly, "See? I told you he's the same guy!"
Helga—a year older than her sister and Ginger—shook her head. "I don't see it."
Little Harriet frowned and jabbed a spoonful of pudding at Eugene, splashing some vanilla on his nose. "Of course he's the same guy, Helga! He's Ginger's dad and that means he married Miss Rapunzel!"
Eugene patiently wiped the pudding from his nose, asking, "Ginger-snap, what are you guys-?"
"He may have married Miss Rapunzel, but it doesn't mean he was Flynn Rider." Helga retorted, crossing her arms.
"Yes he is!" Ginger protested, grabbing her father by the collar and tugging. "Please, tell them, Daddy! Tell them you're Flynn Rider!"
"Ginger-snap, let go." Eugene easily removed her hand and rose to his feet, looking sternly down at the trio of girls. He sighed, "Tell you what—whenever I get the chance, I will personally tell you all about how Flynn Rider stole a crown, got licked in the ear, and eventually saved the lost princess. But for now-," he turned his daughter back around to face the table, "-you girls need to finish eating."
"But Daddy-."
"Not now, Ginger-snap. Later." He patted her shoulder and headed back to his seat.
"Is she okay?" Rapunzel asked as her husband took his chair.
Eugene nodded, "Yep. But I hope dinner doesn't take too long because I think the kids are getting bored."
Rapunzel smiled and reached over to dab the pudding smear off his nose. "You've been 'puddinged'."
"Better than 'fryingpanned'." He replied, smirking.
"Oh, you are so getting a snowball in the face for that one."
Her husband chuckled as he returned to his meal. "Darling, I will be more than happy to accept your challenge tomorrow morning. We'll even bring the kids and use it as a lesson on proper snowball handling." Eugene cut himself another piece of chicken, "How early do you want to get up?"
"Depends. Can you spend an entire day knowing that you've been soundly beaten by your wife in a snowball fight?" Rapunzel asked jokingly.
"No—but I can spend the entire day gloating over yet another triumphant win against the lost princess."
She laughed, "You are ambitious, aren't you?"
Eugene took a gulp of his drink, shaking his head, "Ambitious, no. Confident in my snowball-fighting capabilities, yes."
His wife smiled mischievously as she began to salt her mashed potatoes, "Tomorrow, you'll be eating your words faster than you're eating your chicken."
"At least this stuff is edible. The stuff at Salis-." Eugene stopped when Rapunzel clapped a hand over his wrist.
She nodded over to where Prince Clyde and his wife Bonny were listening to a long tale as told by Ambassador Orthus of Axuria. "Shhh. They might hear you."
"Clyde doesn't care if-."
"But his wife might. Remember, she's the Head Chef's daughter." Rapunzel released his wrist and went back to her food, murmuring, "You need to learn some tact, dear."
"Tact?" He frowned, and then gave a little assenting nod. "All right."
Harold's wife, Felicia, leaned across the table and started speaking to Rapunzel.
"Rapunzel, did you receive that letter I sent you two weeks ago?" Felicia asked, carefully moving a platter of goat meat out of her husband's reach.
"Probably. I get so much mail some days it's almost like I'm drowning in it." Rapunzel said, sighing.
"It's your own fault for being next in line for the crown, dear." Felicia teased with a smile. "But anyway, what I wrote to you about was that there is a new botique in the city. It's an absolutely darling place, with all kinds of merchandise. Slightly expensive, but that's only fair considering it is the holidays and people are still doing last minute Christmas shopping."
Eugene groaned, not entirely sure he wanted to hear about scarfs and dresses and other retail for the remainder of his meal. Felicia was a kind woman, but as her husband had often lamented to Eugene, she liked to shop. Nay—not like—the princess of Orae positively adored the experience. And Eugene feared that she might corrupt his wife.
However, fortunately for him, Rapunzel enjoyed shopping, but not nearly as much as Felicia.
Rapunzel smiled after Felicia finished a lengthy description of the various wares the botiqued offered. "To be perfectly honest, Felicia, I'm one of the people who haven't finished their Christmas shopping."
Felicia raised her eyebrows, "Ah, late this year?"
"Late every year." Rapunzel nudged Eugene's elbow, deploring, "There are just some people who are harder to buy for than others."
The princess of Orae waved her hand dismissively, "Just get him a cravat—that's what I always get Harold."
"I've got one in every color now." Harold said, making a face at Eugene. "I didn't know there were that many shades of puce."
Eugene narrowed his eyes, "What's 'puce'?"
"You tell me." Harold responded grumpily, even as he glanced around to locate the dish of goat meat.
Rapunzel shook her head, casting a sideways glance at her husband, "I don't think a cravat will do this year, Felicia. Eugene's a special case. Besides, he always tries to outdo me when it comes to giving Christmas presents."
"You could do what your dad does and give me next year's almanac." Eugene suggested, grinning.
"You'll only read the one he gave you, though." His wife sighed.
"True—but at least it's not a cravat."
Harold, having given up on his quest for the goat meat and settling for another drumstick, nodded at Eugene. "Try asking for a new razor, Fitzherbert. You can get rid of that scruff on your chin."
The prince consort frowned, "What are you talking about? You've got a full beard."
"Yes, and you should consider growing one yourself. I'm telling you—they're much more practical as well as impressive." Harold stroked his beard smugly.
His wife elbowed him in the ribs, ordering, "Harry, leave the poor man alone. He can do what he wants with his face."
"Then how come I can't do what I want with my face?" He asked impishly.
"Because if you shave your beard I'm never kissing you again."
Harold's face fell, and he said weakly, "What a terrible thought. I didn't know you liked it that much."
"You've never asked." Felicia replied with a small sniff.
Eugene looked at his wife.
"No." Rapunzel said, shaking her head.
"'No' what?"
"No, you can't shave off your goatee. No, you can't grow a full beard. And no, you are definitely not growing a mustache." She replied, her voice quite firm.
Eugene set down his knife and fork, replying calmly, "I wasn't going to ask that."
"Then what were you going to ask?"
"Can you please pass the greenbeans?"
"Oh, sorry." Smiling apologetically, Rapunzel did as asked.
Eugene began refilling his plate, muttering casually, "But the mustache thing is still-."
"No, dear."
"Gotcha."
Dinner progressed into dessert as the main dishes and used plates were whisked away by Chef Samson's kitchen staff. Then trays of chocolate muffins and sugar cookies were brought in along with steaming pots of coffee and hot cocoa.
The guests of the Oraen royal family partook of these delicacies with great enthusiasm—the children particularly.
Eugene winced as he watched his son take yet another muffin off the tray. Thomas would be bouncing off the walls all night long. At least Harold and his wife had deployed a fleet of nannies to handle the kids while their parents got some well-deserved sleep. Although after tonight, Eugene was not entirely sure any of the stern ladies would be willing to watch his children.
Mentally forming an apology for his son's future misdeeds, Eugene picked up his fork and prepared to attack the muffin set before him. He had made it halfway through the delicious steaming chocolatey goodness when something bumped against his foot.
Thinking nothing of it, Eugene reacted instinctively and pulled his foot back.
But then something bumped against his foot again—and this time he recognized the motion. Someone was trying to play footsie with him.
He glanced over at his wife and said, under his breath, "Stop it."
Rapunzel frowned, "Stop what?"
"You know exactly what." Eugene muttered, lifting his right leg up to rest on his left.
"I'm not doing anything."
"Yes-," he was now forced to move his left foot around, "-you are. You know I don't like that."
Rapunzel glared at him, hissing, "You don't like what? Seriously, Eugene, I'm not doing anything."
"Oh, really?"
Eugene flipped up the tablecloth to stare pointedly at his own feet. His wife's feet weren't touching his however. No—there was a man's boot seeking…
Eugene quickly glanced up to see Harold frowning unhappily at his own wife. Ah…
"I—I think Thomas is doing something he shouldn't. I'll take care of it, though." Eugene hurriedly left his seat and strode over to his son's, shuddering slightly as he went.
Thomas and Harry, Jr. were engaged in a rather violent arm-wrestling competition when Eugene reached them. Harold's other sons Hubert and Hernandez were eagerly cheering them on, unaware of the approaching adult. Several of the younger sons of the visiting royals and nobility were also egging on the combatants, banging fists on the table and roaring out loud insults and encouragement. Meanwhile, some of the older boys glanced down the table to where the girls were sitting. The adolescent boys muttered to each other, laughing about some mysterious joke even as they continued to spectate.
For a moment, Eugene forgot about his son and suddenly had to fight an overwhelming urge to box the teenagers about the ears. Who were they, to be looking at his eldest daughter? And what were they laughing about? His fingers slowly closed into a tight fist, but then Eugene remembered speaking to Annabelle just the night before, and he eased his hand open again. Settling himself with an austere frown, the prince consort glared at the older boys in a way that clearly spelled out his terms. The teenagers immediately pretended to be finishing their dessert, trying to ignore the tall, intimidating father.
Suddenly, Harry, Jr. made a terrific yank and forced Thomas's hand onto the table. Harry, Jr. whooped victoriously, pumping his fists into the air as the crown prince of Corona groaned in his defeat.
"Told you I'd beat you, Tom!" Harry, Jr. declared, grinning broadly.
Thomas shook his head, retorting, "That doesn't mean anything. I can still outrun you any day."
"No you can't." One of the other boys rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, Harry's one of the fastest guys ever."
Thomas narrowed his eyes and protested, "I sure can beat him! I could outrun the castle guard if I had to."
Eugene sighed. He knew whose fault that would be if his son really did manage to annoy the guards into chasing him. And he also knew that the boy would be able to outrun them. There was no doubt about that.
Now, however, was the time of intervention. It was getting late, the kids were obviously done eating, and it was time to herd them to their bedrooms before the dinning chamber suffered catastrophic damage.
"Okay—okay—stop." Eugene said decisively as his son and the other boys continued to argue.
The majority of them obeyed. The ones that did not, however, were soon drowned out as the prince of Orae stood up and started to speak.
"My family, friends, guests, and companions." Harold began expansively, his chest swelling with happiness and food. "Thank you all for undertaking long, arduous journeys to reach Orae for the annual Winter Conference. I hope you have had your fill of Chef Samson's delectable banquet, and that you are all ready to have a good night's rest. We will have one week of vacation and then, three days after Christmas, we'll begin the actual 'conference part' of this get together. Now, I wish you all a very good night. Breakfast is at nine tomorrow morning, but coffee will be served earlier to those among us who don't have the sense to sleep in." The prince of Orae bowed, effectively ending the meal and giving his guests permission to depart for bed.
A little while later, Eugene and his son joined Rapunzel, Annabelle, and Ginger in the hallway. Rapunzel was giving her daughters last-minute reminders to brush their teeth and get to sleep on time, given that the children were to be sleeping a floor below their parents.
"And don't forget to make your beds in the morning." Rapunzel said, looking down at her son. "That goes for you especially, Tom."
"But Mom, the maids-."
"It's polite, dear. Now-," she turned back to her daughters, "-Annie, you're in charge in case anything happens. Make sure your brother and sister behave themselves, and if you need anything at all, just send for us. Our room is the second one to the left of the staircase."
Eugene nodded, adding, "And by the way, we'll be waking you guys up early tomorrow morning to participate in a snowball fight."
His wife frowned at him, but he only grinned in reply.
"A snowball fight?" Thomas's eyes widened. "Really? Aw, this'll be great! Just wait until-."
"But now—bedtime. Goodnight to you all." Rapunzel hugged each of her children goodnight, despite Thomas's protests against it.
Then the royal children of Corona trooped down the corridor with the rest of their companions, leaving their parents to head on upstairs to their own bedroom.
"I think I ate too much." Eugene said, unbuckling the straps of his suitcase.
"Dear," Rapunzel called from the bathroom, "you say that every time we come here."
Her husband nodded as he removed his pajamas from his luggage, replying, "That's because Harold seems to think everyone eats like he does. Seriously, did you see the size of that platter of venison?"
"It was rather large—but remember he has about twenty guests and the children to think about."
"I still think I ate too much."
"Then pace yourself next time." Rapunzel said as he walked into the bathroom, her chameleon riding on his shoulder.
"Pace myself?"
"Yes." She smiled up at him.
On his shoulder, Pascal abruptly let out a rather wet sneeze.
Eugene sighed and wiped reptile spit off the side of his face, muttering, "I'm starting to miss Corona already."
"We have three weeks."
"I know—it's just… Orae's so completely different. It throws everything off, somehow."
Rapunzel tilted her head slightly, "I thought you liked the wandering life?"
"Well, I did. But I never went to Orae much. Snow's not really my thing." He shrugged, glancing over at the clawed-foot tub sitting over in the corner. "I think I'm going to take a hot bath before going to bed. Relax the muscles, you know."
"Good." His wife turned back to the sink and switched on the faucet. "I like it when you smell clean."
"That makes two of us." Eugene replied, going over to the tub and turning on the tap. As water flooded into the tub, Rapunzel heard him muttering, "Pascal, get off my shirt."
She smirked and continued to brush her teeth.
A half-hour later, Eugene emerged from the steamy bathroom wiggling a washcloth in his ear. His wife was sitting on one of the armchairs provided in their guest room, reading a book outloud to Pascal.
Their bedchamber was dimly lit by candlelight, and the curtains on the windows were closed against the chill. It was a fairly comfortable room, with handsome wallpaper and carpet to set off the dull grey of the flagstones. The room was partitioned into two equal sections by a thicker curtain strung up from the ceiling. One area was dedicated to sleeping while the other was for sitting and relaxing.
Eugene took the remaining armchair, still drying his ear as he glanced around at the room. "This isn't the same room we got the last few times we visited, is it?"
His wife shook her head, "No. Apparently the wallpaper is being redone and the smell of glue is terrible. Felicia said that the day after tomorrow, however, it should be back to normal and we can move in."
"Good thing too." Eugene extracted the washcloth from his ear and balled it up, tossing it in the laundry hamper by the door. "That's one of the rooms that connects to the sauna."
She gave him a stern look, "You're not going to spend your entire vacation time sweating in the sauna, Eugene."
He pointed his finger at her, countering, "I'll have you know we men get most of our work done in there. I must have signed at least fifteen treaties with Harold last year."
"Yes, I remembered that. Dad wasn't too pleased, was he?" Rapunzel asked as she closed her book and allowed Pascal to climb into her hand.
Her husband shrugged, mumbling, "I didn't know the ink would run that much…"
"At least Harold had the scribes copy down extras for you."
"No kidding." Eugene grinned, even as the chameleon let out another sneeze. "Hey, is the frog okay?"
"Cha—nevermind." Rapunzel sighed in resignation and stood up, still cradling her chameleon. "Pascal isn't used to the cold that much. He's not made for it and he needs to keep warm."
"He and everybody else in this joint. Where's the fireplace?"
"Behind you, Eugene."
Eugene got up and trotted over to the small fireplace. There was already tinder and wood in the hearth, but the maids had evidently forgotten to light it. The prince consort quickly located the flint and set to work, striking the flint against the steel blade of his pocketknife. It took a few hits before sparks began to fly, and eventually flames started to lick at the tinder. Eugene spent another minute tending the fire to ensure that it would not go out during the night. Then he rose to his feet and made his way to the bed where his wife had already curled up under the covers.
It was not until Eugene lay down did he realize there was a problem.
"Um, sweetheart?"
"Hmm?"
"Can you scoot over a smidge?"
"'A smidge'?" Rapunzel asked, amused.
He nodded, "Yeah. Just a—a little more."
"Eugene, if I scoot over any more smidges I'm going to fall off."
There was a slight silence broken only by the crackling fireplace, the wind's call outside the windows, and Pascal's inquisitive chirruping.
Then Eugene said, "I think this bed is too small."
"It's fine." Rapunzel replied.
"No, I seriously-," he groaned, standing up to gaze down at the bed, "-think it's made for only one person."
"Eugene, why don't you just get back in-?" She sat up, suddenly recognizing what he was talking about. "Oh… this is a really small bed."
Eugene shook his head, "It's so tiny it could have been made for elves."
Rapunzel frowned at him, and he clarified, "You know—the kind of elves that make shoes or cookies."
"Okay. But there's nothing we can do about it tonight. Just get in bed and go to sleep."
"Rapunzel, it's not going to work."
"Try." She commanded, lying back down.
Rolling his eyes, Eugene blew out the candle and climbed into the bed once more. After shifting uncomfortably around for a few seconds, an idea hit him.
"I know how to solve this. All we need to do-," he wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her closer, grunting, "-is cuddle."
"That would have been more romantic if you hadn't grunted."
"Sorry—it's just that your elbow went into my ribs." He muttered, carefully adjusting so as to make her more comfortable.
Rapunzel moved back slightly so as to rest against him, murmuring, "At least you took a bath tonight."
"I was thinking of you. And, just for the record, I am so glad you're not the type of woman who likes to play footsie."
"What?"
"Nevermind."
A few seconds passed, then Eugene jumped slightly, jerking his foot back and protesting, "Rapunzel!"
She grinned, laughing, "I couldn't resist. Besides, this bed is small so it's almost impossible to avoid."
"Yeah, yeah—nice excuse."
Her smile widened, but she did not respond, evidently wanting to go to sleep. He did not blame her, of course. It had been a long trip—several hours crammed in the carriage while trying to keep the kids from biting each other's heads off. Thankfully the ride back was three weeks away, and in the meantime they would be on unofficial vacation, which was always nice.
Just then, something small squirmed his way into Eugene's shirt pocket. Eugene moaned, hissing, "Pascal—out."
"Shhh." Rapunzel set her hand over his.
"He's in my pocket again."
"He's cold."
Eugene wrinkled his nose, "He's wiggling."
"Chameleons have been known to do that on occasion." His wife replied quietly.
"Why do I put up with this?"
She interlaced her fingers in her husband's, answering, "Because you love me."
"Well—yeah. But still…"
"Go to sleep, Eugene."
He stopped talking and instead listened to the wind screaming outside and to the flames in the grate. Soon, soft little chameleon snores began to drift up from his shirt pocket. Then, almost an instant later, his wife fell asleep, and he could feel her breathing slowing down as her body relaxed in his arms. Eugene wondered, even as he himself started to enter unconsciousness, what their children were doing at that very moment.
It was probably a good thing he did not know, or he might not have fallen asleep that night.
"Charge the battlements!" Thomas yelled, waving his slingshot in the air and laughing madly.
"Charge the what?" Harry, Jr. asked as he gazed up at him from where he lay, sprawled out on the floor.
Thomas, balancing precariously on the headboard of his friend's bed, shrugged, "You know—the little castle things that stick up on the wall."
"Oh—battlements." Harry, Jr. got to his feet, grinning. "I thought you said 'cattle-mints' as in-." The rest of his sentence was cut off as Sir Alec's son Juan knocked him over after having done a swan dive from the top of the bookshelf.
Both boys rolled across the floor, wrestling with each other. Thomas watched their progression until they rolled into a bookcase and sent books falling on top of them. Then the crown prince of Corona lifted his face to see the chaos that was going on in the rest of the room.
There were about fifteen boys spending the night in Prince Harry's room. Of course, originally, only four of them were actually supposed to be there (Harry, Jr., Hernandez, Hubert, and Thomas). However, the other boys decided that invading their host's privacy was only necessary, and the sons of noblemen, kings, princes, and other dignitaries snuck in after the stern nannies had departed for the evening. Harry, Jr. was not going to give up his room without a fight, and he recruited the help of his brothers and Thomas in order to defeat the impertinent mob. Four against eleven were not good odds, however, and soon a rather badly organized enlistment took place. In fact, it was so badly organized that Thomas ended up on the wrong team. But by that point the pillow fights and wrestling matches had begun and no one cared much anyway.
Thus, the complete story can be summed up in the following sentence.
There was a full-scale war going on in the Oraen prince's bedroom around midnight.
Over in one corner, Hernandez and Hubert were hurling stuffed animals (as stolen from their sisters' rooms, naturally) at an oncoming group of their fellows. Justin, son of Steward Oswald, received a heavy panda bear in the chest, knocking him down flat. His companion picked up a small stuffed kitten and threw it at Hubert, forcing him to duck. In another corner, one that had been dedicated for the schooling of Prince Harry, three boys were having a paint-fight with jars of different colors. One of these boys had green streaked up the side of his face, and his friend had blue running down his back. Their opponent, a short, shrimpy looking boy from Gralt, looked at if he had been dipped in a man-sized orange and purple vat. He was also winning the skirmish, flinging paint at the other two and howling out the terrifying war cry 'PEANUT BUTTER!'
Towards the middle of the room, two lines of boys were clacking wooden swords together and dancing across the floor. They feinted and dove, whirling about each other, locked in their respective duels. Of course, since most of these boys were taking fencing lessons, the combat was more precise than normal play. This did not stop some of the kids to trip over their own feet, however, nor did it prevent accidental whacks to their comrades' stomachs.
Then there was the battlefield itself providing plenty of blankets, rugs, loose stones, and toys to feature as obstacles in the terrific conflict. A fencer slipped upon a rubber ball, sending the missile flying through the air and bouncing off the wall. One of the painting enthusiasts kicked over a pile of paper, using it as a distraction while he splashed paint upon his foe. Even Prince Harry himself, who really should know the dangers of his own room, managed to get his legs tangled up in the carpet.
Thomas reached down to grab Harry, Jr.'s hand, but Juan emerged from beneath the bed and renewed his attack with a shout. Thomas crouched and loaded his slingshot with a piece of candy from his back pocket, preparing to fire. He pulled back the band, closing one eye and sighting through the fork as his father had taught him. Nevertheless, just as he was readying to shoot, a pillow bashed against the side of his head and he landed on the floor with a grunt.
"Aha!" Landon, son of Prince Michael of Killrae, held his pillow above his head triumphantly. He turned his face to the ceiling, crowing, "I have defeated the dreaded Rid-!"
Abruptly, a stuffed aardvark hit Landon in the head.
Thomas turned over onto his stomach, grinning at Hernandez. "Thanks a lot!"
Hernandez, perched on a fallen armchair, tossed a zebra up into the air before deftly catching it. He laughed in answer and pitched the zebra at Landon, nailing him in the shoulder.
Thomas pushed himself up from the floor and, keeping his head low, ran towards a makeshift shelter of his erst-while bed. The cot had been flipped over, its light frame making it easy for the biggest boys to overturn it. Thomas ducked below the barricade, reloading his slingshot while listening to the yells and moans echoing about the room. A rather manic grin crossed his face and, without another second's hesitation, the prince leapt over the cot and sent his missile (this time it was a tiny lump of clay) towards one of the fencers.
The boy dropped his sword, clapping his hands over his backside and yelping. Eric, who was heir to the throne of Pharx, turned around to see who had attacked. His eyes narrowed.
Raising his sword in the air, Eric bellowed, "I'll avenge you, Leroy!" He stormed towards Thomas.
Thomas, aware that Eric was older and bigger than he was, fled in the opposite direction. He dropped into a dive and slid underneath the school desk, dodging the flying flecks of paint as he went. Then the boy hastily picked up a forgotten play sword and turned around to face the prince of Pharx.
Being of the ages of seven and nine, the boys did not bother to exchange witty remarks. Instead, Eric charged forward, swinging his weapon with all his might and hooting his battle cry. Thomas blocked the strike and then lightly skipped backward. He avoided another hit, weaving past Eric's play sword to bring his own down upon it. The wood clacked together—a peircing noise amid the cacophony of sound.
But then the prince of Pharx lifted his wrist and threw Thomas off, wresting the sword from his hand. Holding the two weapons, Eric grinned widely, declaring, "You know what this means, Tom."
"Yeah…" Thomas sighed and stood still as Eric stuck his finger into his mouth, removed it, and wiggled his wet digit in the other boy's ear.
Squirming, Thomas jerked away, protesting, "Okay—enough! You won!"
"Tom!" Harry, Jr. called from the other end of the room, where he was currently sitting on Juan to thwart him from escaping. "I need your help!"
"Gotta go." Thomas fetched his slingshot and hurried past Eric, slapping at his ear and groaning.
Harry, Jr. dodged another stuffed animal as Landon, who had by this point switched sides—not that they were keeping track anyway—continued to lob them from his hideout behind the bookcase. Thomas knocked aside the next fluffy pig, hissing to his friend, "What's up?"
"Try-," Harry, Jr. panted, pinning Juan's arms to the floor, "-to get Hubert and Hernandez to tie Landon up."
"But what about Eric and Leroy? They're the ones who really want your room."
He shook his head, "Can't handle them now. Just go."
"Okay." Thomas followed his order and raced forward, scanning the room for the two brothers.
He spotted them hiding behind the cot and, darting by a paint-splattered Marcus (the youngest son of Baron Richard), Thomas joined them.
Hubert took a deep breath, muttering, "We're done for."
"No we're not!" Thomas retorted sharply. "Listen, Harry needs you guys to go get rid of Landon."
"Not with Eric and John trying to wet-willy us into surrender." Hernandez replied.
The crown prince of Corona rolled his eyes, "I'll take care of them. You guys just go!"
"Right." The brothers did as instructed, jumping out from behind the cot to stop Landon from throwing stuffed animals.
Thomas closed his eyes, psyching himself up for what he would have to do. Then, reloading his slingshot, the boy sprinted around the barricade and began firing.
And so, the battle went on.
"Would you like some more tea, Princess Louisa?" Little Harriet asked the doll, holding up the kettle of her tea set.
The doll, of course, did not respond, but Little Harriet poured a liberal dose of tea anyway.
"Lil' Harriet, can I have more tea?" Helga waved her cup around, upset that the dolls and stuffed animals were being served before anyone else.
"Yep." Her sister marched over and also poured her a cup of 'tea' (which was actually water, for those of you who are curious).
Ginger, who had by now grown bored of playing dolls, propped her elbows up on the table, her chin in her hands. She blew her bangs moodily away from her forehead, gazing at the ceiling. She really did love playing with dolls. She really did love playing with her friends whom she almost never saw. But she was in Orae, there was snow outside on the ground, and she still had not gotten a chance to experience it quite yet.
"What's snow really like?" Ginger asked absently.
Helga sniffed and took a sip of her tea, "What do you mean 'what's snow really like'? It's snow—what else is there?"
"Helga, she's never seen it before!" Little Harriet glared at her sister.
"Yes she has—she came in through the front gates, didn't she?"
"She was in the carriage!"
Ginger sighed as Little Harriet and Helga continued to bicker. At least when she and Thomas argued, there was always an interesting wrestling match. All Little Harriet and Helga ever did was yell at each other, with some hair-pulling to get the point across. Not a single half-nelson between them…
Fed up with the squabbling sisters, Ginger announced, "I'm going to see the snow tomorrow but I still want to know what it's like now."
Helga rolled her eyes, "Just stick your head out the window."
"I can do that?"
Little Harriet's face brightened, "Of course you can! I do it all the time—come on!" She raced over to the window, throwing back the flowery curtains.
Ginger hurried over, a broad smile crossing her face as Little Harriet began to flip open the latch. Behind them, Helga took another disdainful sip of her tea and wondered if she could spend the night in her other sister's room instead.
"You just have to-," Little Harriet grunted, pushing open the windows, "-stick your head out and look."
Ginger followed her directions, taking care to keep a tight hold on the windowsill. Then she inched forward and leaned out into the night.
Cold wind rushed past her, stirring her short hair and filling her ears with the sweeping music of the mountains. She could feel the ancient world around her, the great towering peaks that rose up to touch the black sky above. She even tasted the chill of the atmosphere, and, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she suddenly realized that snow was falling.
Little flakes spun and twirled through the air, catching the light of the keep's windows and sparkling brightly. They were tiny flecks of white, beautifully mesmerizing as they performed a graceful, delicate ballet on the breath of the north wind. Several of these fluttering drops of snow had already landed on her face, infinitesimal dots of cold melting upon her skin.
Ginger gasped and impulsively stuck one arm out to catch more of the snow. She beamed in awe, watching a small acculmulation pile onto her skin. The closest thing she could relate to the experience was having someone sprinkling sand upon her arm. But Ginger knew that was a poor comparison.
Sand had no magic—and snow did.
Little Harriet, who had by this point joined her, smiled up at the falling snow. "Do you like it?"
"It's the most wonderful—the most amazing…" Ginger could not find the words—or rather, lacked the vocabulary—to describe the snow. It just… was. And that was more than enough.
"Stick your tongue out and catch one!" Her friend encouraged, opening her own mouth wide.
"You can eat it?"
"It's just frozen water—of course you can eat it." Helga snorted from the table.
Little Harriet narrowed her eyes and turned around, snapping, "Be quiet, bossy! Ginger's never-."
Her next retort was lost on Ginger as she stuck out her tongue to catch the magical flakes. It was a thrilling experience, sending shivers up and down her spine. She wondered if her father had ever done that before.
Just then, the door of their room opened and Annabelle walked in.
"Ginger, Mom told me to make sure that you brushed your teeth and-." She stopped, frowning at the two little girls sticking their heads out the window. "Ginger!"
"What?" Ginger turned around, sighing. Her older sister always seemed to get in the way just when things were getting exciting.
"Don't-," Annabelle quickly came over to the window, shutting it and securing the latch, "-do that. Do you know how dangerous that is?"
"Annie, we weren't going to fall out." Ginger said exasperatedly.
Her sister shook her head firmly, "Doesn't matter. You'll catch a cold if nothing worse happens and I've got to take care of you. Did you brush your teeth?"
"Yes."
"And get a bath?"
Ginger stepped away from the window, groaning, "Yes, Annie."
Annabelle nodded, "Good. Now, it's past midnight and you three need to go to sleep. And don't you dare think about looking out the window again."
"All right…" Ginger and Little Harriet muttered, glaring at Helga who continued to primly sip at her tea.
"I'll see you in the morning, Ginger. Goodnight." Annabelle gave her sister a half-hug and, after checking that the window was completely locked, exited the room.
"Sisters." Ginger murmured grumpily, climbing into the bed she was sharing with Little Harriet.
"No kidding." Her friend replied as Helga stood up to blow out the candles.
Eugene was sleeping quite peacefully when something hard suddenly struck him in the small of his back. He opened his eyes blearily, trying to figure out what had just hit him. Almost five seconds later, however, the same object thumped against his back again and he found himself falling. A moment later, he landed on the floor with a painful yelp.
His wife had kicked him off the bed.
Moaning, Eugene rolled over on the rug beside the bed, tenderly feeling his nose where it had scraped against the flagstones. There was some movement above him—blankets and sheets shifting against each other. Then a faint voice murmured his name.
Eugene, still preoccupied with his nose, did not respond.
"Eugene?" Rapunzel sat up in the bed, confused to find that her husband was no longer beside her. "Eugene?"
The prince consort sat up carefully, responding, "If you wanted the bed to yourself, all you had to do was ask."
"Eugene! Oh-," Rapunzel scooted over to him, trying to see him in the dark, "-I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"
"The floors here are harder than the ones in Corona."
"You didn't—I didn't hurt you or-?" Rapunzel gently brushed back his hair, wincing as he let out another groan.
"No. I'm fine."
"Are you sure you don't-?"
Eugene shook his head, "I'm good, dear. Just a little bruised, but I'll live." He smiled up at her, muttering, "There's no way two of us can fit on that bed. I'll just stay down here."
His wife sighed, "Eugene, no, you'll be-."
"Kicked off again, probably." Eugene grinned, "Better me than you. But I seriously doubt we'll get much sleep tonight unless we do this. Can I have my pillow and a blanket?"
Rapunzel hesitated, and then did as he asked.
Eugene made himself a fairly suitable arrangement on the floor beside the bed. It would be colder—and he would definitely be feeling some soreness in the morning—but he was not going to kick his wife off the bed. He moved around somewhat, trying to find a spot that did not have a pointy rock poking into his back.
Rapunzel, her eyes narrowed in concern, shook her head, "You don't have to do this."
"I'm doing it anyway." Her husband replied, pulling his blanket tighter around himself.
She lay back down, still watching him. "Will you be all right down there?"
"Yeah."
"By yourself?"
He grinned, "Well I'm not really that much by myself. I've got you, don't I?"
"Yeah…" She continued to watch him get comfortable on the floor. Then she rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.
"And what about you? Are you going to be all right?"
There was a long silence.
"Rapunzel?"
Slowly, her arm dropped down from the bed.
Eugene reached up and took her hand, feeling her fingers wrapping tightly around his palm.
"You're not allowed to let go until tomorrow morning." Rapunzel said, her voice quiet.
Eugene smiled, "Okay. I'll try not to."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight, my love."
He kissed her hand and then lay back upon the floor, suddenly realizing that Pascal was still snoring in his pocket.
"Yep. Definitely not by myself." Eugene whispered as he felt his wife squeeze his hand.
Annabelle paused at the door to Prince Harry's bedroom, listening to the shouts and other loud noises coming from beyond it. It sounded as though a catastrophe were taking place in the chamber. And she was sure she could hear her brother's voice amid the other yells…
She sighed and shook her head, muttering, "There's no way he brushed his teeth."
A sudden holler of 'I got Eric! I got Eric!' resounded from inside.
Annabelle rolled her eyes and continued back to Big Harriet's bedroom, deciding that she would let her parents sort that problem out in the morning.
She opened the door and stepped into the room, admiring the pink walls of Harriet's domain. She also had pink walls in her bedroom back home, but she did not have nearly as many lacy coverings. Nor did she have a tapestry with the royal crest (a goat head wearing a crown) spread against the far wall. The blue did not really compliment the pink, but Harriet felt duty-bound as eldest of the Oraen royal children to have the tapestry in her room.
The girl herself was on her bed, lying on her stomach and trying to finish up the puzzle she and Annabelle had been tackling for over an hour. Sighing, Harriet tossed another ill-fitting puzzle piece onto the floor.
She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the bed canopy, asking, "Have Helga and Lil' Harriet started fighting yet?"
"Thankfully not. I told them all to go to bed, though." Annabelle took a seat on the guest bed as provided by the nannies of Orae. It squeaked slightly, but was otherwise quite comfortable.
"And your brother?"
"He'll get to bed eventually. But it sounds like there's a battle going on in Harry's room."
"Probably is." Harriet shook her head, muttering, "I don't even understand why Mom and Dad thought it would be a good idea to invite everybody except for Philip and his father."
"At least we have the room to ourselves." Annabelle pointed out.
Her friend nodded, replying glumly, "Yes, and Philip is still in the Bowl Forest and not here."
"I thought you didn't like Philip that much."
"I didn't. But then he became what my father persists in calling 'my suitor', and suddenly he was ten times more interesting. Did you know he can name at least a hundred different types of wood without blinking?"
"He is the son of the Woodsman Duke."
"I know. A duke's son! I would've pegged me for a prince rather than a duke's son. But Philip is so strong and brave and… handsome…" Harriet smiled dreamily, trying to fit another piece into the puzzle.
Annabelle tilted her head in curiosity, "So your father doesn't care if you have a suitor at thirteen?"
"Are you kidding? Dad's the one who refuses to let us do anything together alone until I'm fifteen—and even then you can bet he'll have us with an armed escort."
"Is it really that serious?"
Harriet snorted, "No. Philip's just the only boy around my age that seems to have a brain. All the rest of them are obsessed with hunting and beating each other at some other stupid sport. Philip is an artist."
"Artist of what?"
"Wood, of course. Did you know he carved this for me?" She undid the necklace at her throat and showed it to Annabelle. It had a black leather cord, and was quite unadorned save the handsome wooden pendant. There were delicate carvings in the shield-shaped pendant, clearly done by a master hand.
Annabelle ran a finger over the work, murmuring, "It's very pretty."
Her friend beamed, "Isn't it? He framed the 'H' perfectly with little flowers. And on the back is the family crest. And the way he talks about things… honestly, I never thought hearing about a chunk of dead plant could be interesting but when he talks about lumber and trees—I'm mesmerized."
"Yeah…" Annabelle could relate to that. But it had always been about literature and stories—not wood.
Harriet grinned, adding, "And then of course he smells like wood, which is even better. Since he works in all the warehouses—supervising and following his father around—he ends up smelling like a different kind of wood every day. I like it best when he smells like cedar, though mahogany's not too bad. And maple is fairly interesting too. And don't even let me get started on redwood."
"Do you talk about anything but wood?" She asked suddenly, tearing her thoughts away from the librarian's assistant.
"What?" Harriet looked taken aback.
"I mean—there has to be more to him than just wood."
"Well, wood is a big part of who he is. But there is more." Harriet smiled, glancing to the side, "See, Annie, he can sing."
"Sing?"
"Like a bird—and his whistling's not too bad either. But he has the most wonderful voice. I like listening to him talk but when he sings… well, then I remembered why I'm being courted by a duke's son rather than a prince." She let out another sigh of contentment.
Annabelle smiled, "Well, I'm very happy for you, Harriet."
"Thank you. Now, what about you and that library boy who kept watching you pour over books?"
"Hmm?" Annabelle absently—or perhaps not so absently—grabbed her Pooh-bear for comfort.
Harriet rolled her eyes, "Oh, don't try to hide it, Annie. I know you like him."
She relented, "Okay, I do like him. But he's my best friend and you know how that goes. I've already told you about those complications. Not to mention the fact that he's only the librarian's assistant."
"Well if I can marry a man who talks about wood all day then you can marry a man who smells like book leather and glue and paper."
Annabelle smiled, "He does smell like that—it's from the binding process used on the books whenever he has to repair them and…" She stopped, suddenly realizing what her friend had just said. She turned to Harriet, frowning, "What do you mean 'marry'?"
Harriet shrugged, "That's what my father says all the time about me and Philip. He always moans loudly that his eldest daughter—his only responsible child—is going off to marry the woodsman duke's son and leaving him behind with no one to care for him in his old age."
"Mr. Harold is the same age as my dad."
"I know. But Dad always acts silly—especially when Philip is around."
"Yeah… Dad's the same way with Stan. Though he doesn't really act silly it's more-," Annabelle looked up, making a face, "-more overprotective than anything."
"Really? What happened?" Harriet asked interestedly.
"Oh—nothing."
"Annie, you're squeezing that bear to death. What happened?"
Annabelle hastily relaxed her hold on her Pooh-bear, muttering, "Well… I was saying goodbye to Stan, you know, because I wouldn't be seeing him for three weeks. And Stan actually told me that he-," she smiled slightly, "-that he was kind-of upset I would be gone for so long. That I'd be up here with the older sons of all these kingdoms and so on."
Harriet smirked, "Ooo… jealous."
Annabelle shook her head, protesting, "No, not jealous. He's just-."
"Overprotective?"
Annabelle sighed, "I don't know. But anyway, there I was, giving him a goodbye hug and then Dad decides to barge in and ruin it. I was mad at him for the entire trip to Orae. But then we talked and everything's fine now but… he's never been that bad before."
"He's new at it. You're his first teenager." Her friend replied dismissively.
"I know. He said something like that."
Harriet laughed, "Well, that's way better than what my dad would've done. If my dad caught Philip hugging me then it'd be 'goodbye Philip'."
Annabelle shook her head, "That's because he's your suitor. Stan's just a friend."
"Just your best friend."
"Exactly. He's just my best friend, Harriet. He's not a suitor or anything else." She said, wanting to make the fact very clear.
"So you're not going to marry him?"
"What? I—I don't—no. I mean—I don't know whom I'm going to marry or if I even get married at all."
Harriet nodded thoughtfully, tossing another unwanted puzzle piece into the floor. "At least your parents don't have anybody arranged for you to marry like Claudia's parents have for her."
"What?"
"Claudia's dad signed a contract with this nobleman that she would marry his son. Claudia hasn't even seen the guy yet—she won't until the official betrothal period takes place and that won't be until she's seventeen."
"How horrible."
"Claudia's all right with it, though. I mean, I suppose since she's been told all her life she's going to marry this guy, she's used to the idea. I wouldn't be. I'd run away." Harriet vowed, smiling as she fitted a puzzle piece into place.
Annabelle pursed her lips, "Do most kingdoms have arranged marriages?"
Harriet nodded, "A lot of them do. Traditionally, they're not technically arranged until after the two prospects have met each other. But their parents are usually in contact years ahead of time so it's basically the same thing."
"How do you know this?"
"Mom told me. I asked her if she and Dad had anyone picked out for me almost as soon as I learned what an arranged marriage was."
"Did they?"
"They had been looking—but only to see who was eligible. They were going to let me choose whom I wanted, though." Harriet looked up, "Why do you ask? Have your parents expressed interest in that option?"
Annabelle frowned, admitting, "I—I don't know. I mean—Dad certainly would not have been Papa's first choice if Mom had grown up as a princess. But then the whole 'lost princess' episode took place and Dad won."
"Your parents have such a romantic story." Harriet sighed wistfully. "My parents just met at a ball somewhere. How boring is that?"
Annabelle, who had not heard this comment, continued distractedly, "They wouldn't really choose someone for me to marry. They chose each other—they wouldn't make me to—Dad said they wouldn't… didn't he?"
"After all, what's more romantic than falling in love under a bunch of lanterns? Mom said she fell for Dad while at the punch bowl. I mean, the punch bowl? Really?"
"I mean, an arranged marriage might be convient but they would never… they wouldn't…"
Harriet shrugged, declaring, "But then again, my parents are so weird already I suppose that falling in love at the punch bowl was inevitable."
Annabelle was silent, still lost in this scary possibility. Harriet looked over at her, frowning.
"Are you okay, Annie?"
"What? Oh—yes. I'm fine, just a little tired."
"We probably should go to sleep like the 'responsible eldest children' we are. We can finish this puzzle some other time." Harriet shoved the puzzle off her bed and into the floor and then blew out the candle.
Snuggling deep down in her covers, the princess of Orae smiled, "Goodnight, Annie. I always like getting the chance to talk with you. You actually listen—unlike most of the other girls."
Annabelle pulled her Pooh-bear tighter to her chest, muttering, "Goodnight."