Chapter 16
A stranger wakes Eugene up at the crack of dawn. Well, not exactly the crack of dawn, because that describes the point in time when the sun first breaks over the horizon. This is before that, when the sky takes on the depressing, gray hue of night's end.
Eugene cracks open an eye. "Can I help you?"
"I have been sent to help you prepare for your appointments this morning, Mr. Fitzherbert," the stranger says in a businesslike, clipped tone.
"What appointments?" He tries to remember if there's something going on. Maybe he made plans with Goldie earlier? No, she would have reminded him when she left, which was only about an hour ago. He can still feel the phantom impression of her bare arm across his chest, the press of her breasts against his side, the heat of her sleepy little kisses against his collar bone. Good thing this guy hadn't shown up too much earlier – not that an earlier time in the morning was even conceivable.
"The appointments arranged for you by the king so that you can be prepared to assist him in the Reservoir Reconstruction Meeting on Friday."
"Reservoir Reconstruction?"
"Yes, Mr. Fitzherbert. Do you have any preference for what you would like to wear today?"
"Uh, not really. Whatever's easiest."
The stranger nods and retreats to the closet, while Eugene pieces together that he must be a page or something. He sits up and scratches his head with a yawn.
"This might be a stupid question," he calls, "but what exactly is Reservoir Reconstruction? And why would the king think I know anything about it?"
"I don't know, Mr. Fitzherbert," the page says, reappearing from the closet with an overstated blue outfit that Eugene had noticed, but never worn. "I assume that they will tell you during your appointments today."
This turns out to be true as Eugene is plopped down in a study with two strict instructors that he's never seen before and Phil, his etiquette tutor. They all seem very stressed and Eugene quickly figures out that he is in no way prepared for the big meeting on Friday, and these three guys are having to scramble to whip him into shape. So they're multitasking, all three of them teaching at once, which is so confusing at first that Eugene can only sit with his mouth hanging open as his wide eyes dart back and forth from speaker to speaker. Phil slaps him upside the head and tells him to quit gaping.
The etiquette tutor is there to teach him to sit up straight, not fiddle with his sleeves (even though the brocade is very distracting,) drum his fingers, yawn, or speak. Since they're so pressed for time, Phil figures that they should just get him looking like he knows what he's doing, which should work as long as he doesn't open his mouth.
The thinnest of the instructors has arms and fingers as spindly and fluid as an insect as he draws diagrams across great sheets of paper, explaining the complicated political relationships between all the men who will be attending the meeting. It sounds like a mine field and for a moment Eugene thinks that Phil might have a point about staying quiet and not getting involved. This person has this agenda and will push it no matter what. This second person is easily befriended by talking about horses. This third person hates this other person because of a duel eight years ago involving blah blah blahblahblah. This person is slow. This person is rich. This person is that person's estranged half brother.
Eugene groans, crossing his arms over his chest, and mumbles, "Yeah, I know that one."
"Posture!" Phil shouts. "And don't mumble!"
The shortest and roundest of the men turns out to be an engineer, who is there to explain absolutely everything there is to know about dams. How they work, how they're built, their economic and ecological impact on the surrounding area, and the devastation caused by the recent dam collapse.
Oh, Eugene thinks. Reservoir Reconstruction. That's what this is about. He decides that this must be the king's idea of a joke, and somewhere the man is probably snickering uncontrollably. Well, at least someone's getting a laugh out of his near death experience, and - considering how upset the engineer is by the calamity of it all - the king might be the only one.
They keep him there all morning. Then all afternoon. Then most of the evening, until Goldie shows up and says that he's needed for dinner. He loves Goldie, what with her rescuing him and looking pretty and bringing him to where the food is. He grins at her, then smirks at his instructors and strolls out the door.
His back is aching. He always considered his posture to be pretty good, but after sitting ram rod straight for twelve hours he thinks that maybe it's not as great as he thought. Bah. No. That's nonsense. He's awesome.
The king looks far too pleased with himself at dinner, and the queen looks mildly interested as to why he's dressed so nicely, but neither one of them say anything about it.
His instructors gave him homework in the form of a book about dam construction, which is full of equations and figures and diagrams, which is not his thing, so he allows most of it to go over his head. Once he falls asleep, Rapunzel slips the book from his hands and pours over it enthusiastically, her eyes and shoulders growing more and more tired as she shifts the book closer and closer to her face in the waning candle light while the night wears on and Eugene and Pascal sleep.
The next day they do it again, only this time he's wearing something red and it's raining outside, leaving little rivulets against the window. In his boredom, he watches the drops skip and flow down the glass until Phil yells at him to pay attention.
His reading that night is "The Nobility of Corona, eighth edition," which is even less his thing, so he doesn't even bother to crack open. Rapunzel doesn't either as she's already read it and memorized long sections.
His shoulders ache less the next day, and the focus of his education changes from the ins and outs of what's going on to how to sound like he's intelligent. This actually proves to be the more difficult task.
He needs to say things that are factually correct. He needs to say things that are factually correct, and are also not going to rub anyone the wrong way. Without the sarcasm. That are basically what whoever he's talking to wants to hear. Unless what they want to hear goes against what the king wants to hear.
"So what does the king want to hear?" he asks.
"I'm not sure yet. You'll have to figure that out during the meeting."
"Great," he says. "So I'm not allowed to disagree with the king ever?"
"You're not."
"At least not yet."
"Teaching you how to politely disagree with people comes later. You're not ready. Maybe next week."
It sounds like it's going to be the most exciting and productive meeting ever.
"Why does he want me to go to this stupid thing anyway?" he complains that night as Blondie reaches up to massage the kinks out of the back of his neck with her lithe fingers. He moans and rests his forehead against hers, not ever wanting her to stop.
"You're smart and you'll have a different perspective."
"I'm not that smart and I'm not supposed to voice a dissenting opinion."
She shrugs. "Maybe you're not supposed to, but you will anyway. He knows that or he wouldn't have invited you."
"It's less an invite and more an order."
"Oh, stop whining. You're actually involved for once and you have something to do that's not haunting around the castle or getting into fist fights."
He cracks one eye open at her, and her fingers pause in their movements as she gives him a look that very clearly says, bitch, please.
He closes his eye again and skirts right over the part where she tells him that she's disappointed in him or whatever. "You're right. Having something to do is nice. Even if it's something amazingly lame."
She starts to rub his neck again. "Just don't hurt anyone at the meeting."
"I make no promises."
"Violence is not the answer, Eugene."
"Look who's talking! I've got three cracks in my skull that say your motto has nothing to do with non-violence."
She pouts and runs a hand up through his hair. It feels nice – especially as she presses closer to him to stretch out her long, pale arm. "Does it still hurt?"
"Terribly," he hums, wrapping both arms possessively around her waist, the cool silk of her nightdress contrasting exquisitely against his flushed muscles.
"Hmm." Her eyes flutter, and she brings her full lips to within a breath of his own. Her voice drops to a chocolatey smooth purr. "Anything I can do to make it better?"
"Mmm." The tips of his fingers rub coiling figures against her side, and she moves against him in response, a rise of her chest, her stomach, her hips. Her leg slides around his waist, pulling him against her, holding him close, holding him tight, trusting and intimate and letting him feel every inch of her, every movement of her diaphragm, every pulse through her veins. He brushes his lips against hers, just enough to make her eyes slip closed, just enough to make her shudder in anticipation. Then he whispers, his breath warm against her skin, his lips brushing hers with every slow, purposeful syllable.
"I guess you could get me an ice pack."
She blinks at him once. Twice.
He smirks at her.
"Eugene!" She shoves him away, and rolls over in an exaggerated huff, while he laughs and pulls her close again, her back against his chest, her head tucked against his shoulder, their fingers intertwined.