Narcissus

Chapter 4 - The Laughing Coquette

Dealing with the King was not as easy as it sounds. One did not simply save the King from a tight situation—the oldest trick in the book—and earn his complete trust. Sharon knew that because she had tried it. She had saved him from Claw, a dangerous man with a hideously scarred face and a fierce thirst for vengeance: George, in becoming King, had killed his brother. Now while brotherly love was not quite strong between Claw and his brother, it was a matter of pride. It was a dangerous and fun thing to do, toying with Claw and finishing him off in a seemingly accidental thrust of the knife. Yet the King was just as wary of her as he was before, perhaps even more.

It was time to upgrade her trick book.

The thing was, though George was wary of everybody, he rarely showed it. In fact, the only thing that he did show often was his smile, which did not benefit Sharon in the least, because slowly, gaining his trust was becoming personal.

And the chance to do that came.

It was the afternoon of an ordinary day, as plain as it could be, with a sky that couldn't decide on being cloudy or not, a busy market, and thieves running everywhere. Sharon was strolling down the streets, enjoying both the admiring and fearful looks cast her way. She smiled: she had made quite a name for herself in such a short time—those who weren't blinded by her pouty lips and fresh cheeks knew her to be as cold-hearted as, well, perhaps nobody knew who or what could compare with her.

There was an extravagant carriage with the curtains drawn to avoid sunlight, heading for the castle. The carriage driver had a haughty look on his face, as he was the one going to meet the king and queen. It would be the ladies who were going to meet the eligible prince in the upcoming ball.

Oh, to be treated like a lady again—to have warm baths without intrusion, unnecessarily adorned frocks, heavy fans to hide your smile behind, doors pushed open for you to avoid tainting the neat white gloves. And do not forget the infatuated looks of kings and queens alike—even women adore a beautiful lady with her wits. Ah, Sharon would have growled like she did as a baby at the fine carriage. In this envious state, Sharon brewed up a plan—and a wonderful plan it was.

She crept into the carriage as it was travelling under the shades, and before the poor noble could let out a horrified scream, she slipped a knife across her neck and quietly ended her life. Switching into her forest green gown of silk, Sharon smiled—a smile of a child upon discovering a new fantastic toy. She adjusted the veil to cover her face, delicately leaving only her full red lips in view. The corpse, meanwhile, was degenerating slowly into a puddle, thanks to a very useful formula that transformed flesh into liquid.

"Hurry up to the palace!" she drawled to the driver.

Despite the rush, Sharon the lady still missed the daylight celebrations of Prince Jonathan's birthday—but no matter, the evening was where the highlight was, anyhow.

The palace page had directed her to a room, half stumbling as he tried to hide his glances at her mouth—her lips did leave plenty of room for the vivid imagination. In this room she quickly made her preparations.

A nice, hot bath was prepared, complete with a blushing maid scrubbing her back with the air of someone working in the temples (the poor girl probably did think Sharon as a goddess, with her exceptional beauty and staggering gravity). After the bath, some struggle with a tight corset and a rebellious underdress, she changed into an evening dress of a lush claret red, made of satin and trimmed with velvet. Her hair was done by herself, the aforementioned blushing maid in more awe at the grace of her movements. She yanked her hair up, grabbed pink and stuffed then in her hair as if by random: yet the result was far from messy—streams of silky hair flowed to her back and shoulders, some even snaking to her bosom, while the lustrous locks that were trapped by pins were in loops around her head, creating volume. Slipping into a pair of creamy doeskin gloves and matching boots, she twirled in front of the mirror and frowned. The maid quickly brought forth the accessories chest and laid in on the dressing table. Sharon frowned even more as she put on a necklace of amethyst, a ring of ruby, and clinking bracelets of soft gold.

This lady had horrible taste in necklaces.

Oh well, one cannot achieve perfection, it seemed. She was, however, mostly satisfied with her image.

And the ball went beautifully.

She entered with the showy grace of a woman of the world, charmed the men with her inviting smile and svelte wrist waving an Oriental fan. She then declared authority over the women by making every single one of them brimming with jealousy. It was, after all, quite a compliment to say that she was loathed by her kind. The Queen glared at this most imprudent woman with an appalling lack of shame, but could not do anything as both the King and Prince were infatuated with the young thing. The Queen was above the age of caring which way the King looked, but she was most concerned about her Jon: it was the worst nightmare of a mother to be replaced by another in her son's heart, and the goal of every wife. Therefore, it earned the Duke Roger quite some favor when the Queen found out that he was unaffected by her charms, engaging in the only conversation that night which did not involve excited praises of the new Lady or fugitive glances her way.

Still, she worried for her son.

Her son, however, was having the time of his life: not only was the new face in court a devastating beauty, but she also carried matching wits (or un-matching wits, most would argue). Her only fault was that she smiled at everybody the way she smiled at him, and it frustrated him a little to see her bestow her prize so easily and extensively. On the whole, though, she was the dream he was waiting for.

A dream that was not interrupted by her purring in his ear, "Your Highness," (she had this way of purring his title as if it was something very intimate and very, very suggestive), "May I have the honor to meet the squire of such a fine, handsome knight as yourself?"

Jon's knees gave a little tremble as he turned to look at her. Her eyes were laughing and her face was half covered by her fan—a gesture that usually spoke of modesty and shyness, but turned out to be rather bizarrely captivating.

"Certainly, my dear lady," he replied, not wanting to look amateur. Without pulling his eyes off the corner of her mouth that was uncovered by the fan, he told Gary, "Get Alan here—and remind him of his duty to be polite."

A few moments later, Gary dragged a most reluctant Alanna back with him. She was blushing furiously as she bowed to Sharon. A less perceptive one might have interpreted the behavior as timidity or perhaps bashfulness in front of such grandeur, but the clear eyes of Sharon saw that it was hostility, rather than admiration, that shone through.

"Alan of Trebond," Sharon smiled in her pouty way, which was famous now in the court. "Do you dance?" Despite the protests of the young Alan, both Jon and Gary pushed him into the dance, one fairly amused, and the other quite jealous.

Thus, Sharon flirted the whole night, enjoying herself entirely, basking in the sense of victory. Near the middle of the ball, Sharon had pledged tiredness and retired to her room, escorted by the Prince who insisted on "Jon." It was as important to withdraw early as it was to arrive late. Everything was just as planned.

Everything, that is, except the pair of eyes that watched her door close on the dreamy prince.