Prince Rainier
Week Two. Day Two.
Remember to ask for her name. Remember to ask for her name. Remember to ask for her name.
She's in periwinkle. Blue becomes her so very well.
"Why don't you come every day?" I ask her.
She looks up and curtsies. "Good evening, my prince. I'm certainly glad to see you again."
I wish she'd come by daily. Or at least stay longer. The limited time I get with her isn't enough to get through to her head. She's closed off again tonight, I can see it before I've even reached her. But there's some new wall of ice between us, and I feel it the moment she looks at me. What has happened to her since our last conversation?
"As am I to see you," I say. "Why do you not attend every day?"
"Well…" she looks around at the garden as we exit the ballroom. "Perhaps I am a fairy with magical obligations I must return to."
I can entertain such an idea as this. She seems oddly magical.
"Do these obligations involve pixie dust and magic wands?" I ask.
She smiles. "No wands, but plenty of pixie dust. Unfortunately, I'm quite allergic to it. It makes for a terrible experience."
"Really," I say, and in spite of myself, my smile is gone. "Why do you not attend every day?"
"Well…" and her smile fades as well. She sits down on a nearby bench. "I suppose we all have realities to return to."
"And yours…where might someone find your reality?"
"In a magical fairy tree," she says, and the smile is back on her face, but her eyes are different. Guarded.
"Really," I urge her.
"Not here in the palace, that I can assure you," she says.
"That's not an answer," I say.
"Well, you're hardly asking a proper question. Phrasing is important."
"Well, here: where do you live?"
"What if I chose not to tell you?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Because I do not want to."
"But why?"
"Because I cannot."
"Cannot or will not?"
"Pick one," she says. "Whichever one suits Your Grace."
She's infuriating. Deliberately being shady to keep my attention? That's low. I hadn't thought she'd be that low. I'm oddly disappointed.
"Please," she says, sighing. My face must be easy to read. "Forgive me, my prince. I do not intentionally toy with you. But such a question is…too personal for me."
"Of course," I say dryly. "Forgive my maladroitness."
She won't tell me where she lives. She skips every other day. She stays only for an hour—or two if she's feeling generous—and she never leaves a card. Think, Rainier. What could that mean?
A delicate breeze blows past us. I sneak a glance at my reflection on her wineglass discreetly. The wind has jostled my hair. It actually looks rustically handsome, if I do say so myself.
Focus, Rainier.
This girl is married. Not a maiden, but a married woman trying to pass the hours. A married woman with a difficult marriage, no doubt, if she can attend such limited hours. I look at her as she gets to her feet, watch her walk ahead of me, pausing to touch a gloved finger to a flower. That's why she wears the gloves. She has an imprint from her wedding band, and she wears the gloves to cover it up. Her walk is slow, deliberately slow. Her gaze is thoughtfully forlorn. She has a truly miserable marriage, then. Her husband has broken her spirit almost entirely. While I have reservations about stirring up trouble with married women—my mind is still reeling from the last time I did something like that—there's something in particular about this married woman that just keeps me rooted to the ground.
Walk away, Rainier. She's trouble and she'll suck you into a vortex of misery. Married women always do. Too miserable to live with their horrible husbands, not miserable enough to willingly leave them. Caught in the gray area between passion and dispassion, and I'll tell you—it's ugly in that gray area.
But I already ordered the orchid bush. It's not going to arrive until the 22nd—the last day of the ball. If she continues with her pattern, then the 22nd falls on a skip day for her. But I had been hoping to convince her to come. Only now I am not so certain.
She eyes me for the longest time, studying my apprehension, my hesitancy. She gives me a small smile and sinks into a curtsey.
"I suppose I ought to be leaving now," she says. "Farewell, my prince."
It's early—even for her. She's barely been here for a half hour. But maybe this isn't a bad thing. I need to collect my thoughts. Think this through. Married women are dangerous territory—they always have been. It's so easy to fall in love with someone who's already shackled to someone else. And if I'm going to let diamond eyes consume me, then I need to carefully consider the ripple effect.
"Farewell," I say as she disappears from my line of sight.
And again I forgot to ask for her name.