Prince Rainier
Week Two. Day Four.
Being in love with a married woman is always a nasty, complicated situation. Being a prince in love with a married woman can make the situation a little less difficult. A prince can call for a divorce. I could do it. I could. Her husband isn't likely to speak out against me. Although I'd be inclined to believe he's a powerful, wealthy man considering the quality of the gowns she wears, I don't think he's actually important enough to make my father reconsider my divorcing them.
Provided, of course, that I do divorce them.
I'm still not sure if I should. I thought about it. But I can't figure it out. She's here, you see, and I'm so out of sorts—let me tell you—I haven't once caught my reflection since she arrived, but I'm fairly certain that I'm not looking my best right now.
She doesn't seem to notice me watching her. She doesn't even look in my direction. She's maddening. I'm the prince—what could be more interesting than me? Am I seriously expected to believe that you find the paintings in the hallway more appealing to your eye than my face? Maybe she's looking at her own reflection on the glass. I suppose I'd pass on staring at a prince if I could stare at a face like hers.
She drifts out into the gardens again, wine in hand. That's either an invitation to me to get closer to her or a signal to get far away. I don't need this nonsense. Married women are volatile territory and I've no business treading in such dangerous waters. Prince or not, I'd rather avoid causing a scandal no matter how eager she seems in one. I don't need her. Sparkle all you want, little diamond. I'm not getting any closer.
I last twenty two minutes before I'm running out into the garden, searching for some sign of her gown. What color is it tonight? I think hard. Purple. In the right light it looks gold. There she is. By the cherry blossom tree.
"What must life be like here?" she asks quietly when I arrive, sensing my presence. "In a palace where everyone treats you…well…like a prince?"
"I'm not sure how to answer," I say. "I've never been anyone but a prince. I've never known life any other way to compare it to anything."
"Has there ever been a time when you felt like you could be anything else?" she asks.
"Well…there was this one time," I say. "This one night…on a ball just like this…a merchant from the east had been travelling through the nearby town of Amonta. Have you ever seen the town?"
"I have," she says. "It's very close to the palace."
"Well…this merchant brought all sorts of goods from his homeland, one of which was Bolbec."
"I've heard of the stuff," she says. "It's…strong, as I'm told."
"Strong isn't half of it," I assure her. No, Rainier. Don't smile. You're irate. Be irate. "The stuff is poisonous. I had one glass of it and I passed out within the hour. The next morning, I was caught in the worst situation, on the brink of death. And…the merchant—he just laughed at me. Talked over and over again about how commonly he saw such sights. And it got me to thinking about all the things he's seen, all the places he's been, all the princes he's laughed at. Some people will never leave their nests, never see anything out there, never meet such a range of people. As a prince, you get to travel and you get to see new faces…but not as freely as a merchant would. And I suppose…if there was ever a time I would have wanted to be someone else, then maybe that morning would have been it."
I did not just tell this girl about the Black Morning.
"Hm…" she seems to be pondering my words as she steps up onto the brick lining of the flowerbeds.
"And you?" I ask. "Was there ever a time when you wanted to be something other than…whatever you are?"
Her face doesn't change. "Every day," she says. My eyes fall on her gloved left hand, lingering on her ring finger, trying to imagine the imprint there. "When I was young…I used to want to be a pianist."
"A pianist?"
"Yes, sir. I used to play all the time before…" she trails off again, lost in some distant thought.
"What made you stop?" I ask.
"Life, I suppose," she says.
Husband.
"Life."
"Indeed," she nods, holding out her arms to keep herself balanced as she walks the brick line. I take her hand to keep her steady. "I wanted to be a pianist."
"And what have you become instead?" I ask her. The first step to confronting this problem—I can't take a single step further with her if she doesn't admit she's married.
"Someone very, very different," she says.
I watch her as she spins ahead slowly. Everything she does is timed. Why does she make life so complicated? Why do her eyes sparkle like that? Why does her near crippling melancholy draw me in? What is it about her solitary air that makes her so alluring?
Don't do it, Rainier. Don't take another step.
I stop abruptly. She doesn't notice. Good. Now I have time to think. I draw a mental line right here in the grass between the hydrangeas and the azaleas. She spins on ahead towards the freesias, but until I've figured this out, this is where I'll stay.
Trying to think anything through when she's not around is impossible. My head is too foggy with thoughts of diamond eyes and long brown hair and a sad little half smile and thoughts of quiet and desolation. But when she is near, my head feels oddly clearer and foggier at the same time. Now—if ever—would be the perfect time for me to think this through, while she's spinning ahead and humming a tune I've never heard of to herself.
Don't take another step. You can turn around and walk away right now. You can leave her to her husband and her melancholy and her sparkle and she'll haunt you for days, months, weeks, years, but a day will come when you'll wake up and she won't be the first thing you think of. You'll forget her. You'll marry and carry on with your life just as she'll carry on with hers. And you'll think of her in the distant future now and again. A sparkle or a smile or a hint of her relentless sadness will reach you somehow. But in time, it'll fade and be gone. And she will fade back into the shadows from whence she came and she'll become nothing once again—nothing but a memory. A memory of clinking champagne flutes and ballgowns and music and gardens. A distant and beautiful memory.
Or you could take the step. And if you do, things will never be the same again. Your mind will never again be free to wander wherever it should please. You'll think of her first when you awaken, and last before you drift into sleep. You take that step, and you'll fall. You'll fall in love, and falling in love with this girl will change you. It will change her. It will change the game. It will change everything. Falling in love will change your world. Here you are, walking the delicate line between interest and love, and for once, the choice is yours. But whichever way you go, there's no going back. Take the step back or take the step forward. Once it's done, it's done. Choose wisely, Rainier.
I linger there, standing uncertain, anxiety coloring my face. I wonder if she'll see it if she turns to look at me. But she's distracted, humming something to herself so silently I can barely hear it—I doubt even she can hear it. There have only been a select few moments of my life where I've felt myself walking the line between two daring choices such as this one right now. In each of those times, I've had clear choices and I've had to make my own decisions. But not this time. This girl gives me no option. She seals my fate when she pauses at last by the violets, turns halfway, and whispers softly,
"I've never told anyone that before."
Six words. Not much.
She doesn't linger after this. She's shaken by what she's told me. She sinks into a curtsey and leaves. I sit in a corner of the ballroom for the rest of the evening, watching the people pass me by dancing and laughing until sunrise when the birds start to chirp and the cleanup begins. I slowly walk to my room. I should try to get some sleep in before tonight's ball, but I can't. A sleeping draught seems pointless when I've got so much to think about.
'I've never told anyone that before.'
Six words. Not much. But I could feel it in the silence between us, and I can feel it as I lay in bed. I can feel it as Ivan pulls the curtains shut around my bed, enveloping me in darkness.
I can still feel her hand in mine. Her phantom touch lingers even after exhaustion has come to claim me. The echo of her voice soothes me to sleep.
She's broken and reclusive and quiet and hurt. But she's also slow simmering and sparkling and clever and free. There's something dying in her, but something close to breaking free.
Six words. Not much. But it's enough.
I am in love.