Prince Rainier
Week One. Day Five.
The girl of interest didn't turn up yesterday. I half got to thinking that she isn't real again, but there she is now. Champagne in her hand. Glitter in her eyes. She's a puzzle. I check my reflection in my champagne flute. My hair's fine. Of course. I haven't moved an inch all day.
"I'd go with Vanilla if I were you," I say, handing her a tall flute. "That one you're drinking is quite ghastly."
She smiles and accepts the flute from my hand. "Between you and I," she says. "I've always thought that the world must be in on some practical joke to convince me that champagne tastes good."
"You don't think it does?" I ask her.
"I think it's too sweet," she says. She pauses and smiles at me. It's a dim, faded smile that seems to echo back to years of golden days past. "It's certainly a pleasure to see you again, Stranger."
"I've seen very little of you here," I point out.
"I'm on a tight schedule. Congratulations," she adds. "On the new addition to your family. You must be thrilled."
"I am. My uncle has waited a great many years for this child."
Take a step, Rainier. It's a tried and true method to settle into a lady's company. If she falls into step beside me, then I have her company for as long as we walk. If she does not, then I need to find some way to keep the conversation going or I'll lose her, and I am desperate to know the story behind the diamond eyes. I take a step. She follows suit. My chest feels awfully light all of a sudden.
Perfect. Now you have a moment to gather yourself and think of a way to keep her attention. I'm about to pull together a compliment, but she saves me the trouble.
"I can't understand it," she says, looking around at the ballroom. "All this pomp and grandeur…for a baby."
"This is no ordinary baby," I say. "This is the Duke of Burlington. One day, he will be the heir to the Silverlands and Shores."
She seems put out. "What a burden for a child to bear," she says. "Where is this lord of Silverlands and Shores now?"
"Sound asleep in his cradle," I tell her.
It is sort of stupid, now she brings it up. Why two weeks? It's not as though he'll remember it. And from the rate that the wine is disappearing, I doubt anyone will remember much about this fortnight.
"Blissfully unaware of the world celebrating him," she says to herself. "How unlucky he is."
"I don't think too many people here will agree with you," I say.
"Of course they won't," she says. "They are with drink and music and excellent company. There's no reason for them to be seeing the misery in all this."
"He will be much older when he assumes the responsibilities for those lands," I tell her. "Too old to care about burdens and responsibility by that point. Perhaps too old to mind the misery."
"Perhaps. So then this fortnight must be repeated in twenty five years. So that he may enjoy an hour or two in the sun before his torment begins."
"I suppose we must repeat the fortnight, then. Will you come again if we do?"
"If I'm still alive in twenty five years, then I shall," she assures me. She raises her glass in a salute. "To celebrate happiness in misery."
"Happiness doesn't exist within misery," I say.
"I haven't always found that to be true," she says. "They are not incompatible, you know."
"I think they are," I say. "How can you be both? You are either happy or miserable."
"Only a select few of us can find happiness in misery," she says.
Unfortunately, that's all she's tempted to say to me. She drains her glass and glances at the clock.
"I ought to be going now," she says.
"It's barely midnight," I tell her. "The ball's only just begun."
"Not for me," she says. "I'm terribly sorry. It was nice to have met you, my prince. Farewell."
She dips into a curtsey and turns away. I watch her go, but it's only when she's gone that I realize I didn't ask for her name.
At least my hair looks good.