"I don't understand. Perhaps we can work it out, but the pain is too much. This is just too weird. And thrust into a space where one can hardly breathe is not where I am. Hold yourself, because time has stopped. My world has stopped, and to get it back the way it was…is to fight."
The next few weeks or so around the castle were maddening; a flurry of maids and preparations, ingredients bustled through to the kitchen, all royalty and attendants being fitted for strange or wondrous garments. Personally, I had designed my dress myself, and ordered the materials for the seamstresses to create it. Vivianne will never butt into my fashion life, even if that is the only thing I can protect as my own.
Speaking of her, I had tried, at all costs, to avoid her looks, her odd compliments ("Oh, you're hair is so lovely! You really shouldn't wear it like that…"), her very presence at every turn. What I had witnessed was beyond weird, and frightening, and all craziness aside, why should beauty manage to be so important to her anyway? She was second, for the good lord's sake. Was she actually displeased? I was first…. I don't think I'm unattractive, or even merely pretty, but I would never consider myself above all those other beautiful women I had seen in our country. Even Vivianne. Who could judge something like that, anyway? Julien? Was it of his standards? Or was it something cosmic, some higher power that none of us should think to question?
I avoided him as well, though it was much easier. When he was here at all, he always seemed to be in the next room, distant and unreachable, like something only in background. I wonder if he will be at their wedding, or if I'll notice him at all.
It's not a magnificent spectacle to see a princess timid in her own home, and I shan't let it get me down, but still…that event, that small wonder was plaguing even my dreams. There was one I quite remember, a few days before, where I was looking into a full-length, diamond-framed mirror, clothed richly in absolutely nothing. My reflection, however, was wearing a long, red dress, with satin ties and ribbons, mimicking my every move. When I moved my hand to touch the glass, it slowly laced fingers with mine, watching me, until a discreet sword was flung into my stomach, sending me to a surprised death.
While these are minor setbacks in my life, I can't help but thinking they will stay for more than awhile. I should have probably stopped thinking about them; forgotten them, but that's much easier said than done.
February twenty-third was their big day, when all the royals, nobles, bourgeoisies, and even peasants came from underneath the white pentacles of our reign. The Masse Velours had been turned into a fascinating display of floatation…at least, that's how it felt, anyway. Beautiful camps of white satin had been strung across in various places, complimented with pale pink roses or deep red ones to add a dramatic effect. There were people: planners, servants, decorators, in ever pore of my home, in and out of rooms, climbing on walls to strew their dazzling ribbons across, even checking underneath beds for any undesirable dust or unruliness. As I was walking to get a glass of water in the morning, one jumped out from a ravine-like corridor to try to take my measurements. I almost had to shout over his murmurings that my dress had already been fitted, thank you very much! I realize it is a passion to plan someone's wedding, I suppose, but this seemed a little ridiculous. I decided to quickly retreat into my father's room after that, where his almost-bride was absent…taking measurements, getting her hair done…something along those lines.
"Daddy," I ran up to him, still in his black night attire and leaning against the pillows with papers in his hand, and handed him a white rose I had stolen from one of the camps. "Happy Wedding Day." I kissed him on the cheek. "You must really love her."
"Nicole," he kissed me back, "I do, I do, but you will always be my leading lady." At this point I smiled, but I couldn't help letting my face draw down to the comforter, rich silk fabric in crimson. He gently lifted my chin up, grinning in that fatherly way. "Hey, it's going to be okay. Our family, for once!—is extending. You've got to handsome new brothers, a wonderful new mère…even though you two aren't as close yet. Oh, Nicolette, she makes me so happy, and I know she'll make us happy. Just give her a chance." He paused, waiting for a reaction, but when I made none but look at him, he continued, "You are a beautiful, intelligent, extraordinary princess, and my little girl. We will have a wonderful life."
I grabbed a pillow and held fast to it, beginning to rock back and forth. "Father, how did you and Vivianne meet?"
"Oh…well…I was watching you. My little girl looking so beautiful up there…I was truly proud. And amazed that I could have such a family. Some people have ten or eleven members in theirs, and they never have the love or friendship that we do.
"Anyway, while you were dancing with Camille's son—" "You know him?" I interrupted, and he laughed and nodded. "I was mingling with the guests, as usual. Most of them just wanted to tell me how beautiful my daughter looked, and I wholeheartedly agreed, of course. And then…I saw this woman, Nicolette, looking at the tapestry on the wall—you know, that one of the two men from the new country worshipping the angel? And she had this…vibrant, long red hair that moved with every glance of her eyes. And her style was so wonderfully unique, it was just sort of drawing, and her face…her charm…I have never seen another woman so beautiful—except for you, of course—since your mother was alive."
"What about Marianne?"
"Marianne?"
"Marianne," I repeated,
shaking him out of his distant gaze. "Don't you think she is beautiful?"
He smiled, showing off his warm eyes. "Yes. Yes, I do."
I secretly screamed. "Go on."
"Well, I approached her, though I have to admit, I was a little scared. I went around people and tables to avoid her seeing me, and finally, I was able to approach her from the perfect place. I stood a little behind her for a moment, admiring the scroll myself. I murmured, 'It's a lovely picture, isn't it?'
"She turned around very gracefully, scanning me up and down, with no trepidation of talking to a king at all! Finally, someone that saw me as a regular man. She smiled, nodded, and turned back. 'Yes,' she said, 'and the symbolism is wonderful. I like how the men are only regular people—no royalty or nobility—and that even something like an angel will be gracious if their love is strong enough.'
" 'Interesting,' I said, looking more closely at it this time. 'But how do you know they are regular men?' At this point she had backed up to my level, so we were equal in our perspective. 'They both wear only pants, and the ties, of color, seem to be their nicest things. Like they only wore them on such very special occasions as this. And look at her wings, at how much color they hold. All of the electromagnetic spectrum, I think. And look at all the color she admits. It surrounds the men, embracing them.'
"I could only watch her for a moment. I had never looked closely at those tapestries…I saw them only as art, not the old ones you and I have studied in the great monasteries or chapels, but I guessed I overlooked these, only because they were new. 'You are very perceptive,' I told her why she continued to look at the picture. 'Are you a doctor or teacher of any kind?' She smiled again, turning to stare me right in the eyes. 'No, but I have had schooling, which is more than I can say for many girls, so I decided I would use it.' 'It shows.' 'Thank you. You seem to be quite an intelligent man yourself, from the patterns of our well country.' 'Well, I feel not as bright after that spectacle just now.' She broke into enchanting, bell-like laughter. 'Don't be so hard on yourself. Even the most prolific scholars overlook these things as mere art from time to time.'
"I smiled, hardly noticing we were already walking arm-in-arm. I've escorted so many in my life…it's almost like breathing now. I asked her what her name was, and she said 'Vivianne, and I take yours to be Alexandre.' I remarked, 'Alas! My identity is revealed,' all the while enjoying her mirth, and soon after I pledged to tell her that I hardly ever enjoyed looking, I mean really looking, at all the small things around me. After that, I forget how it happened, but we became involved in a quite heated theosophical discussion. I fell in love, Nicolette, and I can't comprehend how it happened so fast. She just…it was almost as if she drew that proposal from my lips, 'Will you marry me.' And I feel like I am young again."
A reflective ten seconds drew by, as he smiled to himself, lost in the creased patterns on his sheets. I hated it. I hated it with such ardor I was bleeding inside, probably giving myself some disease, consumption, hemophilia, anything stressing, and I wanted to scream with envy and passion mixed with shock, as I rarely express my feelings so openly. There's a trait to fix if ever there was one, a major fault in this earthly frame I'm stuck in.
In those ten seconds, while he was leaving the present in a dream world of Vivianne and himself, I leaned in, unbeknownst to him, and kissed him directly on the forehead. "If you feel this strongly about her, daddy, I'm glad. I love you, and God bless."
His happy eyes shifted upon me imminently, dark and glazed with beauty. "Nicolette, you're not going away. You're not going to die."
How little he knew.
That day, I think I realized it. I looked so clearly into his pupils, my lighter shade almost clashing, yet mirroring his intensity. I tried to speak through them, "Please papa! Don't you see? I will die! I will die!" But he wouldn't listen. Or maybe that was me.
The wedding was at three o'clock, and I started getting ready at noon. I showered, brushed my teeth and hair (very basic needs), plucked those one or two hairs that grew in above my lids, and when it was all finished and well, when I had enjoyed a couple of the erythroxylon coca leaves I had stashed next to my bed, I took a long look at myself in the mirror. Here was a girl in her own realm, disconnected from all other entities. She was so lost it was grand; she was made onto a higher scale, with grace and amiability and all that, given a title fit to connote the most wistful ideas inside the brains of millions. A princess, she was called. What was really the case would probably baffle us all, and her title would be reduced (or enlarged?) to that of a mental patient, beating her head against the soft yet cold walls for solace.
At one I was fitted for my dress in la coiffeuse, where as usual, maids and the seamstresses attended to stuffing me in that flowery thing. I was almost literally the model; the baby doll that has peculiarly good posture, while they were the ones admiring their art, their success. I was happy to do it, of course, in all goodness and reality. Manon was there with me, and some of the other girls my age (both servants and nobles alike, distinguished in either their perfect silk frocks and stockings, or the simple beauty of a laced bodice and hiked up skirt), so I had plenty of company, and was joyful when they started discussing how many eligible—and not to mention handsome—young boys would be at the affair. It's interesting to see how they react in manner when in the company of a princess. Some sweat, some try to be themselves; others practice grammar and genteel habits so affluently, I feel as though I'm talking to a snake; a serpent waiting in the shadows of the fauna rather than a teenage child.
"How shall we do your hair today?" a woman with long and abundant red hair asked, examining chunks of my locks by lifting them in her hand in front of the mirror. I was on a pedestal to match the full-length glass, and it was interesting how all the ribbon and thread sort of came together the more they pinched and pulled at my outfit.
"Well, I'm going to be wearing that hat, so I think at least partially down."
"Good choice," said she, and without any more inquiry she began to brush my hair to silk, pulling parts back to elegantly braid. Another woman—I was too focused on an interesting conversation about what goes on at these coeducational schools to note any lasting characteristics—came to paint my face in shades impeccably coinciding with the fabric. She drew out a long line of eyeliner to make my pupils look wild and phantasmagoric, and brushed pink onto my already crimson cheeks for extra effect. "Such soft skin you have," she told me, as I finally saw she was little older than me, and from the southern islands. She smiled brightly, showing off pearly white, fine pointed teeth that went nicely with her complexion and dark eyes. A waif of a girl, she was one of those mysterious, airy people that would do nicely to pose for portraits or appear in plays. I tried to smile when she said this, though she quickly grasped my chin and stared directly into me, using her free hand to mark my lips with color. "Are you ready?" her smile had faded into grotesque intensity, and though I tried to nod, she held my jaw shut for the sake of her work.
At three o'clock, I had appeared in the chapel to take my seat, a comfy sort of pew, as soft as a throne, at the very front of the great cathedral inside the castle grounds. Angels and apostles, black men, white men, brown and yellow and red and blue men, death and life, tears of joy and anguish, magic and unity—all this was present in some form or fashion. The walls were decorated with beads and jewels, mostly crystal, to catch the light as the sun beamed into through le Ange's wings every sunrise. I have never missed a day of church when residing in the castle—to pass this up would bring great ignominy upon myself not only by others, but of my own standards. It had all the makings of an enchanted fairytale…it truly was magical.
I was the Pallas before all, before the bride and groom should make their mark, when only the priest, Father Loriel, was perusing his gilded scripts for the oncoming event. He was a wise old man, who lived in the secreted countryside with his wife, when all their children had grown up and moved away. I loved watching his robes, how each Sabbath they would change in their entire splendor, and on special occasions they would have gold and silver or rubies entwined into their folds. He truly was a holy man, and the kind of person believing fervently in doing the right thing yet still being allowed to take pleasure in what life has to offer. A Puritan would be shocked at our superfluous spending in the name of God, but, as long as it's here and doesn't hurt anyone, we might as well use it.
By the time I had entered the music started, a grand, smooth melody of sorts that I almost swooned from listening to. All or most of the people invited to attend the wedding had taken their places, and it was time for the higher-ups to enter, the ones closest to the king or his bride. I fit that description more than anyone else, well, my two soon-to-be brothers and I, who I hardly believe match up to my magnanimous bloodline. I know, I know. That's an awful thing to say. What do you expect from me, though, honestly? I can't be someone's baby doll, the embodiment of innocence, because I too am a human being; I've gone through things, both good and bad. If I received a full-frontal lobotomy then perhaps, just perhaps, I will have achieved that desired effect of darling naivety in which princesses are so highly recognized with. So I took in the awe, the gasps of viewing such a stunning spectacle; I knew what I would be wearing would be on the main list of conversation for as long as they had known about the wedding (which given Vivianne and Mon Roi's impulsive nature hadn't been very long), and I was pleased to give them what I had owned up to.
My dress was pink again, but a much lighter, softer taste, in the pastel since of the word. Since this was a day wedding, I wanted to fit into the springtime atmosphere that word connotes—even though it was late February and freezing cold outside. I find that kind of odd, since it was almost warm enough for Indian summer just a few weeks ago. Perhaps the temperature fell along with my convictions. Starting from the top, it was sleeveless, though the straps were thick with pink and white, dazzling flowers that glistened in the daylight. The neckline was low and square, not like a V-shape, and was complimented only by a string of pearls at my neck and the soft shine of the fabric. The bodice went down to my waist and stopped to a point at my hips (a sash ornamented my backside), where a full, mesh-like pink skirt hung to the ground. A ribbon tailored the hem of the top layer, and in each fold clusters of sparkling white flowers stood out with small pink bows. It was glorious. I wore open-toed heels with a buckle, shiny and smooth, cream-colored gloves that were laced over my hand resembling something like henna, and over my hair, decorated with small and random braids here and there, there affixed a wide-brimmed hat that was so flowery and pink in all its elegance, I felt as though I was walking through a little girl's dream world as the ideal fancy of a young woman.
I took my place among those first rows, next to my auntie, my mother's older sister, who was handsome and outrageous in her feathered décor. She welcomed me, said I looked as splendid as the way human beings were meant to look, whatever that means, and turned her attention back to her seven children on the left of her. I sat there, hands in lap, perfect posture, waiting for all this fuss to be over: he would just marry the stupid woman and that would be that, we could all go to our respective rooms and get on with our lives. It all seemed to be stretched out to misery just for me.
At three-ten (these affairs always run a little late), the familiar music began, and each set of doors at the entrance (there were five, I believe: two on either side of the main ones) was being opened in order. In all the excitement everyone turned back, except for me, so I was able to smile at my papa, handsome and perfect, as he entered and took his place on the alter. He winked at me, and I blew him a happy kiss—his eyes were so very genuine, I couldn't despise him for this backward love, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julien hastily move down the hall, catching this and that girl's eye, to sit in the front on the right pew opposite ours. I minutely tipped my head to the left to see from under the brim, curiously. My father saw him too, and I watched this man friendly nod, as if it were a business agreement that he should attend, while shuffling to get situated. He was wearing a brilliant blue overcoat, with gold around the pearl buttons, all which were closed up except the first two, which were covered by the wide collar of his snow-white shirt. Those first few buttons were undone as well, to reveal the tiniest look of his bare collarbone before dipping down into cloth. There were frills protruding from his wide sleeves, covering most of his hands save the very bottom of his fingers on, and where the coat handsomely tailored out to his knees, a dark, grayish sort of color in his formfitting leggings matched the richness of his threads. From his knees black leather boots hugged all the way down to strong heels that made that clicking sound when the wearer walked. His almost illuminative blond hair was brushed back into a ponytail, descending only to his shoulders, and I could just detect the silvery glint of an earring as I watched with a lifted brow and curious eyes. In all his messing around, he through a casual glance at the other side of the room, over me, and then stopped, bringing his gaze back up and then resting on my eyes, lips parting, as I continued to watch him through underneath the visor. As was the case many times in the past, he averted his eyes and looked down and away again, almost solemnly, while I slowly leveled my head and turned calmly back toward the alter. My heart was beating with fright.
The bridesmaids entered already, tall, beautiful and thin girls…they were all Vivianne's best friends, I believe. They had talked about making me one, even discussed it with me, but we all had to agree that because I was a princess—the princess, in fact, that would seem a bit vulgar. So enter these potential supermodels, with their long, smoky purple dresses and nails, purple lipstick, and an assortment of flamboyant and creamy eyeshadow that accentuated their shade of color, with every other girl showing off their tresses in tight braids, the ones to the right or left of them letting their locks fall loose. They had serene, uncaring expressions on their face, and I wondered if they could ever feel the pain of a needle or the joy of hearing beautiful music.
When they had all entered, each with her small bouquet of white and silver roses, after a moment, a wave of silence had crept over the guests, and they saw her come through the grand French doors. Like a tribute to the beauty of a single rose, she was a masterpiece of human finery. Her hair had been straightened, and pulled down, dyed a shade of strawberry blonde, as if she suddenly thought those wild curls of hers were too inappropriate for an up and coming queen. Her mouth was red with color—her eyes dark, her expression poised as I've always seen her before (but never of this perspective), and it was so beautiful, so inspiring to someone like me, to view someone in their vibrant and bright halcyon days, never ending, always full of youth.
Her dress was somewhat demure, which was quite rare in all honesty. It was long and slender, with no sleeves, unless one would count the gloves reeling all the way up to just below her shoulders. There were see-through patches of lace here and there, and a little cleavage, but in truth it was a very ladylike gown. Her bouquet was full of the usual: red and white roses, a little gardenia and leaves, and I wondered…for a queen, she surely wasn't putting on much of a show. But it wasn't necessary. She was gorgeous, a hundred times more than me (what were they thinking, anyway? What's happening to people lately…they're all getting stupider. Nothing like the Chaucers and da Vincis of the past). I didn't look at my father, but I knew he was probably bubbling over with happiness. Someone for him to be completely and permanently absorbed in.
There was a small, stifling silence that I only knew of, before the priest went ahead with the vows. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…"
My eyes slowly drifted down to my dainty gloves, playing with the patterns of the lace.
"…Christ adorned and beautified with his presence and first miracle that he wrought in Cana of Galilee…"
I watched intensely, yet hollowly: I was numb and special, because I could pretend to pay attention.
"If any man can show just cause, why they might not lawfully be joined together, let them now speak…"
My hands clenched my dress fitfully, as hard as they could compress themselves, while I remained serene in the face.
"…Or forever hold their peace."
I let go, slowly but surely. The worst was over.
"You may now kiss the bride."
Ugh. I turned my head away.
The mood turned joyous as everyone threw up their hands and clapped. He leaned in and gave her a refined sort of kiss, mouth closed, while they both held smiles so bright it was no secret they were in love, as it was almost taboo to do in any sort of higher state (royalty must never show emotion, it's just too human). Everyone made sounds like "aww" and "ohh," while I only sat there, someone's flawless mannequin who is only present to decorate the benches. I clapped, of course, smiling silently at their happiness, but I wasn't about to melt into a wax pool because of a little public affection. I wondered if anyone else was like that, a little more dignified, reserved.
When they had exited, rushed out the door as if pursued by something, they all stood up and collected themselves, ready to follow. There were people already outside throwing rice and beads on them, getting a close-up look on these two people they probably had very little relations with, but who really cared, as long as they were happy? I for one waited until most everyone was out, though I had a train of friends surround me like officers, standing as serene as those bridesmaids while people looked on in wonder. Did they know who I was? Did they have any idea at all? Probably…these people weren't stupid. I guessed they either admired or resented me, one of the two, and I had no strength left to be obnoxious.
A lovely guitar piece was playing as we all exited, and out of the corner of my eye I could see that man conversing with several young, handsome scholarly types just like him, I assume from Nora Collège, a prestigious school I shall be attending next year, but I dared not look directly over there. They would definitely be the last ones leaving, as these talks could go on forever.
At the reception, everyone danced and laughed and talked and cried—the usual, the vivid emotions expressing a couple's newfound joy were rampant among the guests and attendants alike, their eyes filled with hope for the future yet. I made a speech among champagne and good tidings about how I was thrilled my papa and new stepmother (that word tastes wrong) were finally content in their love life, and when they were all still enjoying themselves way into the night, Vivianne changing her outfits several times and my father suiting into something more sleek, I excused myself, waving goodnight to my friends and the few people that saw me leave (I remained in the background), slipping off to my room to grab Politique from beneath my bed, a gigantic plethora of information, and stealing into the moonlit shadows of the backyard garden.
I found a bench near another lake, a few acres from the immediate pool and labyrinth, and rested my hat in company by my side. For a minute, I simply watched the water, the dazzling lights of the zenith coming into view—that full, wonderful moon rippling across the surface so surreally. The sky was so dark it was purple, showing each and every constellation and lone star, the planets, the rippling of nearby trees. It even had a few misty, wayfarer clouds in its wake, and although it was icy (I'm sure my nose was devastatingly numb), this was truly a soothing remedy to the pains of my inner heart.
So it was done. They were married. She was my stepmother the queen, this wonderful and difficult woman, and she would be there forever; I just had to get to love her. I had two handsome brothers, although they surely didn't act that way, and of course let's not forget my father, the abundance of love and joy in my life. It was for him I had made the sacrifice of new strangers in my house, and I would do so much more—walk alone in the hot and foreign sands of the Middle East, swallow razors in a cup of scolding and rancid coffee, even drown myself in the nearest sea if it meant rescuing him or something he loved. I suppose that meant Vivianne too.
I sighed, but was too frigid to make an actual expression. I didn't like this way of living, though it hadn't even started yet…how was I ever going to make it through? There were going to be strangers in my home—permanently—and maybe Papa was okay with it, but it was just too overbearing for me.
I left my book and hat where they were and moved toward the water. The shore, much like the sea, was sandy and bare the closer to the lake one moved. Small ripples blew across the surface as a silken sheet one throws to the air, and the wind blew my skin just enough to make me cringe for a blanket. I could feel my hair pleasantly become caught in the infantile gusts, moving up and down as a liberated ribbon. The braids still there were a little less bendable, but they still moved with the motion. I stuck the very tip of my index finger in the icy pool (the gloves I had ditched long ago, since there was no real point to wearing them but decoration, and it wasn't as if I was around people anymore), swiveling it around in some quiet dance even I couldn't hear. The sensors in my body chattered lightly…obviously a miniscule portion of me into these freezing depths wasn't too bad, but I couldn't bring myself to plunge it further, or to stop. Sitting there in the middle of nature, a person in the land that was made for her, haunting thoughts began to fill my mind, thoughts over many different things…where will I be in twenty years…how long can the same lifestyle go on…will I always be happy…alone…not alone…how deep is this lake…how far out does it go…. I suppose it was the sheer fatigue of the day, maybe the swallowing pressure a huge body of water puts on its viewer, or perhaps even both. But whatever it was, I was feeling drained and down; I didn't care for anyone, I didn't even care for myself.
I edged nearer to the shoreline, plummeting all five fingertips into the water now, playing with the patterns they printed, while a vertigo swept over my form and I felt I had to lay down. I let myself fall back—there was grass again where my head landed, and I rolled my eyes with thoughts of that archetype. I wouldn't play damsel in distress, even for pretend. It was condescending—to have to save anyone…how weak—of course it was all right to depend on others, but the complete lifestyle of, "Oh, somebody save me, help me," was ludicrous. How can you respect someone whose fate hangs in your very hands? That's where these terrible anti-feminists get their points from: people don't act like that, these damsels, these women do. Because for a man to be rescued by someone in a dress was a shame.
If I had this terrible dizziness (which by now had passed), I would make myself crawl to get aid, not someone else. I wouldn't be a martyr, screaming and crying for life to not leave me, while a man feels in his head that he has to save me; he wouldn't be strong if he couldn't.
Sluggishly, I pushed myself up, putting a hand upon my forehead as if I were drowsy. I was only sad. The hope that was supposed to be there, the hope for a new family, a cavern of love forever, was replaced by something dark and unpromising. Why did I feel more at home away from that place lately, threading through Belle, wanting to escape to the opposite side of the world? It was a terrible feeling.
An escalating sense of power came over me, and as I rose and turned back to gather my things (it was just too cold to be there), I did a double take at the sight of Julien, staring with some faraway countenance from behind the bench at the distant coast of the lake's other side. His hair had been let down, one side tucked behind his ear, and he was adorned in a long black trench coat; black everything in fact, though I was almost sure his earlier attire was beneath. When I had seen him, his eyes, narrow and brooding like a serpent's, slid slowly to match my stare.
"Oh, you scared me," I said meagerly, tangibly breathing hesitant odes to the freeze of the night. He said nothing.
I wanted to run just then, to get away from this man and his sorcery. I wanted no part in whatever he and Vivianne talked of behind closed doors—none of their plans. I've always known there was something wrong about him…that creepy but drawing feeling one gets when confronting someone with peculiar ethics. I wanted to step back to normalcy; be around happy, healthy seventeen year olds who swam in the mainstream but didn't dare go further than that.
But it was too impolite.
I slowly stalked to the bench, setting my hat atop the book and moving it aside. "I'm sorry. Would you like to sit down?"
"Ladies first," his voice was quiet and smooth, and his eyes averted distantly to the moon and back. "Unless you're leaving."
Now's your chance! Take it! Hurry! "I'm not ready to go back just yet." Feeling inadequate somehow, as if I were a cursed doll, I lowered myself helplessly onto the bench.
Julien took a seat. My hat and book sat between us, and in the cold I shivered reluctantly, keeping my eyes fixed upon the rippling waters, illuminated almost majestically by the bright cosmos above. My eyes darted in his direction (though not exactly to him) once or twice…. How would we both get out of this?
"My twenty-fourth birthday was yesterday," he began after a moment, unsurprisingly steady and clear. "I spent it in Nora with a few friends. That's why I was late arriving to Alexandre's wedding."
"I'm sorry, I didn't know. Happy birthday."
I could feel his glance upon me. "Why should you have known?"
I looked him straight in his ethereal eyes. I might have been afraid, but I would never let him realize. "I don't know. I don't know anything about you."
His nod took a thousand seconds. "All in good reason."
"How so?" Now the ice began to melt, floating into the warmer stream of real conversation. I would never have imagined such a thing with someone like him, even though it really didn't help to fill the uneasy tension our combined presence made, hence the forced coldness of his voice and, my reserved and formal answers.
"The better anyone keeps his life out of formal affairs, the better it is for everyone."
"Is that why you always seem the way you do?"
Slight pause. "The way I do?"
"Yes…I mean, well, you know. I suppose it is then."
One side of his mouth curled up into a sly smile. "I know what you mean. There's no reason to be familiar at the castle. I get the job done and leave—really—what's the point otherwise? Although I'm friends with the king, any sort of feeling only gets in the way."
"You seem to have a negative attitude, rather than none at all." I saw the slight raise of his brow and I added, "Well, because of your expressions mainly. You always seem so irate, even when you've said nothing."
"Well…I think a lot."
"Ahh…" I looked down at my lap. "Me too."
After a moment without words, the quiet sway of the blustery treetops filling in for the sound, I raised my head to the North Star and watched its spherical beauty, letting freezing winds blow my hair like a cape in motion behind me. As uncomfortable as it may have been, the sight was five times what any mural could depict, this reality of splendid loveliness. I looked over to Julien and met his eyes once more. He was warming a gloved hand with his other, facing my direction, and even though his nose and cheeks were rosy from the cold as well, he still looked like a handsome nemesis for any fairy book hero. He decided to change the subject. "I see you're reading up on politics."
"Yes." I gave a regal grin. "They're quite fascinating, but I must say, it's a crooked profession."
"Maybe so, but all the great intellectuals of history were deeply involved in them. We must be doing something right."
"Maybe it means, that all those great intellectuals are crooked themselves. And sense they're regarded as higher level mortals, we must not have very much to look forward to."
He made some sort of sardonic laughter sound, looking down at the icy grass. "I think the innocent ones are the higher beings."
Somehow I guessed that was meant for me. "Then what is life without experience? You mean to say all of us who aren't innocent, who know things are nothing."
"Not everyone can be a princess. They can't be as highly educated as you. Those are the ones we should be looking up to."
"The ones that crooked people have to protect? Who have done nothing, good or bad, except to try?" I shook my head. "That's too much a paradox."
"Yes. But that's how it is."
After a pensive moment I let a wry grin slip. "It seems like everyone is doomed on this planet."
Julien's fingers clasped together. "Oh well."
The conversation was going back to chilling for some reason. I sighed. "So I suppose you're quite acquainted with reading the wide world of political literature."
He looked at me queerly. "It's all I ever read."
"All? No poetry, no horror or fantasy?"
"Only when I feel numb."
"As in out of your skin." He nodded. "I know how it is. Sometimes I feel I'm completely alone here."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cold blow his anguished face to crimson. "And yet you have three more family members now."
"I suppose so."
He watched me. "I wouldn't consider them family either."
My head spun sharply. "What makes you think I don't?"
He laughed. "For one thing, those sons of hers. One clueless, one lewd—"
"Excuse me? Lewd?"
"Of course." He was gaining his confident eyes now, the ones he used with virtually everyone as I've observed—except on this occasion.
"All men act like that," I rose an eyebrow, stiffening with cold as I wrapped my arms around my stomach. "They're either all over women or they hate them. That doesn't mean he's a lecher." I had noticed he removed his coat, now handing it to me. I was right; it was still the same outfit.
I took it hesitantly. "Thank you."
"So you're defending him."
"It wouldn't be right to talk about him that way. He hasn't done anything directly."
"And what of Vivianne?"
My eyes slowly dropped to the pink frill of my hat. I had slipped the coat over my frame quickly; it was very baggy and very warm, but now I didn't feel right in it. My inner struggle became visible as I beat against the back of the bench, cocking my head a little. I couldn't go on like this. "Listen…Julien…" I took a deep breath. "I saw both of you a few weeks ago. She was asking you who was the most beautiful in Ange Beau…and, I saw your magic." I looked at him for an instant, and not being able to bear it, turned to watch the lake again. Another soundless sixty seconds.
"I know."
I turned, stunned. Mon dieu! Oh no… "Does Vivianne?"
He waited a moment, stunning eyes fixed securely on my own—he was trying to make me sweat—and just before it became too long he gave me a close-mouthed grin that seemed almost genuine. "No."
I couldn't reciprocate. I shook my head as my lips parted with something not unlike revulsion. My voice was low. "What was that?"
"Vivianne simply wanted to know who was the most beautiful. I have the ability to tell her that, so I did."
"But, Julien, beauty will fade with each person. Why does something so shallow matter so much? I thought she was more sensible than that."
"Well…what makes you think it's outward beauty?"
In spite of myself I almost laughed. "I think neither of us would be eligible for that title."
His chuckle was rich.
"Seriously."
His smile faded with a new type of mask. "No. You're wrong. Princess."
My brows furrowed. "Julien—"
"I think you should know," he spoke, resolved and fraught in his perfect posture, "that I would do anything for you, Nicolette. Despite who I am. Because you are truly beautiful."
He rose to exit.
"What makes you think that I'm anything more than a spoiled princess?"
He glanced down to face me, still dressed in his dark garment. "Because I've watched you grow, ever since I came here. And I know more about your character than you could ever…" He collected himself, though I felt no break, no anguish in his words. "But what I came to tell you was to stay away from Vivianne. She doesn't like you at all. Whether she loves you or not is another matter, but she loathes you." He turned to leave.
"Wait."
He was already on his trek back to the castle.
"Wait!"
My regal shout so affected him that he turned back, and neither he nor I actually realized I was running toward him, the long coat and my full skirts rushing madly behind me, until I landed in his arms, holding on as if I were to fall into an endless hole of space, with lips locked and Julien falling against a frozen cherry tree for support. His skin was cold yet his mouth was warm—I'm sure mine was the same—and it gave me even more of a rush, perhaps because it was the only heated ventilation on these damned grounds. His shoulder muscles tensed with ardor, his hold became stronger once he found himself in the moment, and I sensed he shared the same strange stunned feeling in his stomach that was growing in my own. I literally couldn't move…I was hanging there, immobilized, deep in a ghostly spell and yet, my paralysis didn't come unwanted. Somehow, I was fine where I was; numb in the moment. None of these family matters crept my way, no worries, no pain. All there was was this kiss.