Princess Amisha Mani's jewels and ankle bells clicked and clacked against her shapely form as she followed her father and the Raja of Calcutta. She stayed behind, but she couldn't help that her intricate jewels made sounds as she walked. As she watched her father and the prince go into a room, she sprinted, trying her hardest to be light on her feet as she stood by the doorway, eavesdropping curiously on their conversation.

"Your Majesty, I have a proposal for you," the raja said in his normally mordant tone of voice. The princess listened quietly as they continued speaking to each other.

"Yes, Raja Kumar Chatur?" the Maharaja asked, wondering what the prince wanted to talk about.

"Well, I may have the solution to your problem," the raja said, speaking in riddles. The Maharaja stared at him with suspicion.

"What problem?" he asked. "Is it one of which I am not aware?" The raja snickered, continuing his persuasive dialogue.

"I am pretty sure you are well aware of the situation, Your Majesty," Raja Kumar told him. "In fact, everyone is aware of the situation."

"Everyone? What is the problem, Raja Kumar?" the Maharaja asked frantically with worry. The Raja stood in front of where the Maharaja was sitting, leaning forward and placing his large, dark hands on the arms of the chair.

"Your daughter, Your Majesty! The princess! Rajkumari Amisha Mani of Delhi!" he exclaimed emphatically. The princess, who had continued to listen to their conversation, grew nervous. Not another suitor, I hope, she thought in her head.

"Oh yes, Raja Kumar. What about her?" the Maharaja asked, standing up and pacing around the room as the raja continued speaking.

"She is unwed, and before long, no raja, sheik, nor sultan will want her as a wife," Raja Kumar said. "For her youth and beauty will fade like a flower that was once in bloom." Princess Amisha gasped quietly, hearing the raja say that about her. How dare he, she thought, no one shall speak of me that way.

"Youth? Beauty?" the Maharaja asked, confused about the point he was trying to make. "I don't understand, Raja Kumar. What are you trying to tell me?"

The suspense was killing Princess Amisha, as did the anticipation of his answer. She gulped without making a sound as she peered in, lifting the fallen blue, sheer sari off her face. Neither her father nor the raja noticed her, for they were too busy engaged in their conversation.

"I am willing to pay you a lot of times more than the Bhutanese sultan did three months ago," the raja offered, gesturing toward the king. "That was her last marriage proposal, am I correct?"

"Yes, but…" the Maharaja trailed off, thinking of something to say. "No! You can't put a price tag on my daughter!" The princess was in shock—Raja Kumar Chatur was no older than thirty-nine, and she was but eighteen. I will not marry him, she thought, he is much too old for me. However, she was happy about her father's initial response, but it faded once Raja Kumar told him additional details.

"Your Majesty, I'm afraid there is a price for the dowry," the raja contradicted. "Therefore, there is a price tag on your daughter. The Rajkumari's beauty is known far and wide. Rajkumari Amisha Mani is…special." The Maharaja stared at him as the princess remained outside the doorway, listening to what he had to offer her father for her hand.

"I will make the best compromise with you. Do you trust me, Your Majesty?" the raja continued.

"Why, yes, Raja Kumar. I have known you since you were a young man," the king replied, listening attentively to his offer.

"I am the Crown Prince of Calcutta, but with my marriage to your daughter, You Majesty, our kingdoms will be united. Think of it this way—I am getting older as days pass, and I need a wife—a young wife who will be good for me and who will bear me a son. He will also be your heir, for I will inherit the throne of India when you pass," the raja said. The Maharaja seemed interested in his offer, and was eager to learn more.

"What will you offer me for my daughter's hand?" he asked calmly, looking at him with his soulful dark eyes. Princess Amisha grew nervous—she hated the idea of being spoken of an indispensible, prized object. Her lips trembled, tears filling her blue eyes as he spoke.

"Your Majesty, I am willing to pay you 600 million rupees, and with that is the 400 acres I own back in Calcutta. The Bhutanese sultan only offered you 50 million for the Rajkumari, but my offer is much more profound and numerous. Of course, when she and I are married, we could rule India together as the new Maharaja and Maharani."

"That will be upon my death Raja Kumar," the Maharaja said. "Well, it is a hard choice, but I must let my daughter know."

"I'll send for her maids to get her," he said, making his way near the doorway. The princess heard his footsteps, but remained quiet and stationary as tears fell down her face.

"No, raja," the king ordered, prompting him to stop at the doorway's threshold. "We will wait until we next see her."

The princess was sobbing inside. She had known the Raja Kumar Chatur since he was a teenager. She was just a small child, and the idea of marrying a much older man whom she didn't love broke her heart. Why must commoners have the luxury of marrying for love, she asked herself as she wiped her eyes, why is there not a prince in India who is my age and will love me like a woman rather than his queen.

Once her tears were dried off from her ivory-white face, she walked past the doorway, but once the raja and her father caught sight of her, they both snapped their fingers once to get her attention. With the urge to ignore them both, Princess Amisha was obedient and stood in the doorway, looking at them both with inquisitive blue eyes.

"Ah, Your Highness!" Raja Kumar said, approaching the princess in a friendly manner. "We were just talking about you."

"Oh?"

"Yes, uh," the raja began, turning to the Maharaja nervously. "You can tell her the news."

"What news?" she questioned in her soft-spoken tone. The Maharaja came forward and looked at his daughter, admiring her beauty with pride.

"I have made a decision," he sighed, the princess looking at him attentively. "Your future has been decided, daughter."

"My future?" she asked as she put on a charade of oblivion.

"Yes, my dear," the Maharaja said. "You will be marrying Raja Kumar Chatur in the coming months."

Princess Amisha looked at the raja with contempt in her intense blue orbs, studying his features carefully. He always wore black with a coordinating turban, had a mustache, a deep tan, and sinister black eyes. He was not very attractive, and he was much older than the princess herself. Most importantly, she did not love him at all and knew for a fact that she would rather be stripped of her title than to marry him. She didn't hesitate to shake her head at his news.

"No," the princess said. "I will not."

"I am so sorry this news is so unexpected, but the raja is getting older and he needs a wife to bear him a son," the Maharaja said. "With your marriage to him, you will become the Maharani of India one day."

"Maharani? Have you gone mad, father?" she questioned. The raja butt into their small talk, and raised his large, dark hand to cease her defiant reaction.

"Please, Your Highness," he said, speaking to the princess. "I have never taken a wife, and because you are an unwed woman, I have decided to put an end to the problem with the suitors you have had."

"Raja Kumar, I'm flattered by your offer, but I do not love you," the princess said firmly.

"It isn't about love, Your Highness," the raja said, taking her delicate, white face into his hands and lifting it up so their eyes could meet. "I am Calcutta's Crown Prince, and it would only make sense for us to marry and become the King and Queen of all India."

Princess Amisha's eyes filled with tears as his fiery black eyes stared into her blue ones, and her lip trembled with fright. She wasn't really afraid of the raja, but his presence was intimidating and made her uncomfortable on so many levels. Once he let go of her, her voice began to crack as the warm, wet tears rolled down her cheeks.

"It is not fair," she cried. "How could you?"

With that, she ran from the room with her small, fine hands covering her sad face. Though several of her personal maids tried to stop her and ask what was wrong, she ignored them and ran up the stairs, sobbing and weeping until she entered the guest corridor, where she crashed her back against the stone wall and slid down until she sat on the floor with her knees to her chest. She buried her face in her silken skirt and cried as hard as her heart would let her.

Meanwhile, Alfred was in his designated room when he heard the faint banging sound against the wall. Curious, he opened the door and peeked out. Then, he heard crying and followed the sound only to see the princess sobbing uncontrollably. He walked slowly, his bare feet against the cool, stone floor and he knelt in front of the woman who had put him in a trance of admiration at the dinner party.

"Are…you OK?" he asked with deep concern, gently placing his hand on her smooth white arm.

"Who is there?" she asked in her language.

Their eyes met, and at once, Princess Amisha felt strangely at ease. He had been one of the strangers that Sadar had introduced to her and her father, but though she was more relaxed, tears still fell from her clear blue eyes and she closed them to release her grief and strong disapproval of her father's decision to marry her off.

"Who are you?" she asked in Hindi, looking away from Alfred's sky blue eyes. He looked at her with confusion.

"I…I can't understand you. Do you speak English, Your Highness?" he asked, looking at her as his concern grew deeper. She opened her eyes and sighed, looking at her bare feet adorned with gold ankle bells.

"Yes," she answered. "I am sorry I spoke Hindi to you."

"No worries, Your Highness," he said genuinely. "Why…are you crying? Is something wrong?"

"I am alright. There is nothing I can do about the source of my sadness," she said in a soft, feminine monotone laced with her Indian intonation.

Alfred loved the way she spoke—it was very fitting for the daughter of a king, and it perfectly coordinated with her magnificent beauty. Even when sad, the sound of her voice appealed to Alfred as much as her physical splendor did, and this was the first time he was close enough to admire every detail of her beautiful visage. Her eyes were the brightest blue shade he had ever seen, and it looked as though the ocean were in them. Her face was finely chiseled—high cheekbones, a fine jawline, and beautiful skin that was white as ivory. The sheer blue sari that covered her head had slipped off when her back slid down the wall, revealing her long, curling black hair as the sheer fabric rested on her shoulders. The crown of her head was adorned with strings of jewels that all met at the bindi hanging on the top of her forehead, which was gold with diamonds and small sapphire stones set into it. He smiled sadly at her as she studied his features.

He was nothing like any man she had seen before in her life. Being in India her whole life, she had been surrounded by men of dark hair and complexions, but Alfred was different—the American had sandy blond hair that framed his handsome, youthful face. He also had blue eyes, but his were the same shade as a clear daytime sky. She had seen only few blond-haired people in her lifetime, but they were only visitors and guests at the palace. He wore glasses on a regular basis, but right now, he wasn't because it was nighttime and he was ready to go to bed. She still had the sad expression as she began to cry again.

"Aw, don't cry, Your Highness," Alfred said, looking at her. "What is bothering you? Please tell me." She sighed and looked at him, wiping her eyes gently.

"I am being married off," she told him. "I would never marry the Raja of Calcutta by my own free will." Alfred looked at her curiously, recalling about how the same raja she was set to marry told her about marriage customs in the Indian royal family.

"Raja? Which one?" he asked.

"Raja Kumar Chatur of Calcutta," Princess Amisha told him.

"Was that the guy dressed in black and looks evil?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood with his nonchalant attitude.

"Yes, but I would not consider him to be evil. He is just…intimidating," the princess answered. "I overheard my father, the Maharaja, and him talking about what Raja Kumar would give my father in exchange for me."

"In exchange?" he asked, baffled by the idea. "You are a human being! Not an object, Your Highness! He should allow you to—"

"Kind sir," she interjected, staring up into his sky blue eyes before sighing. "I always wanted to marry for love, but being a princess, I am expected to fulfill a specific duty. The Raja of Calcutta, if I marry him, he will become the new Maharaja upon my father's death, and that will make me the Maharani."

"What?" Alfred asked.

"I'll be queen of India," she repeated.

"Then, it shouldn't be that bad, right?" he asked, waiting for assurance.

"I do not think you understand, kind sir," Princess Amisha told him. "I am being married off against my will to man much older than me. Raja Kumar Chatur has never taken a wife, and because he is a crown prince, he will inherit a prominent title one day."

"Oh," he said. "I understand, then."

"My father has been trying to marry me off since I was thirteen, but the suitors that come to India to meet me have not measured up to our standards," she said.

"Why do you have to be bought like some object, Your Highness?" Alfred asked. "That's just cruel."

"It is a custom," Princess Amisha answered with a sad, morose sigh. "He said he will pay my father 600 million rupees and include his 400 acres of land in Calcutta into the dowry."

"Dowry?" he asked. "And what he hell is with all the land? He must be rich."

"Yes, his family is very wealthy," the princess told the young man. "His family swims in miles of gold coins and dines off plates of pure gold."

"You swim in diamonds," Alfred remarked in a jocular manner.

"Excuse me, sir?" Princess Amisha asked defensively. "Was that an arrogant remark?"

"No, not at all, Your Highness," he said, shaking his head rapidly with anxiety. "It's just that…you know…you dress so well."

"I will take that as a compliment, kind sir," the princess said, sighing to calm herself. Their eyes met again, and Alfred felt a strange feeling inside as their gazes grew more intense and deep.

"I have never seen a blue-eyed Indian before," he said with a chuckle.

"Neither have I," the princess said.

"And your skin is, like, so white, too!" he exclaimed playfully. "You are the first white person I've seen since crash-landing here. Dude, everybody's close to being black."

"Yes, I guess I was cursed with the genes," the princess replied shyly, somewhat uncomfortable with his playful demeanor.

"Nah, you're not cursed. You're blessed," he said with a smile. "My name is Alfred, by the way."

"Oh," she said. "Alfred."

"And, I'm sorry. I forget your name, Your Highness," he said. Looking at him with brighter eyes, she inhaled deeply and looked at the blond American man.

"Rajkumari Amisha Mani," she said. "You may call me Your Highness, or if you really are compelled, Princess Amisha."

"I like the second name better," Alfred said, standing up and looking down at the exotic beauty as she placed the sari back over her head.

"I just realized that my sari was off my head," she said with a slight bit of shame in her voice.

"You don't have to hide your hair in front of me, if that's what you guys do here," Alfred told her, continuing to admire how beautiful she looked in her blue and gold finery. "Where I come from, women showing their hair isn't a big deal."

"It is not so for us, either," Princess Amisha said, letting the sheer blue fabric go. "I am not a Muslim, but a Hindu. A woman can wear her sari in anyway she desires."

"So, you guys don't have to cover your hair?" Alfred asked. "Sweet. Your hair is the blackest I have ever seen in my entire life."

"Every Indian I have ever met has black hair like this," the princess said, looking up at him strangely.

"I've never seen such beautiful black hair in all my life," he said, admiring the strings of sparkling jewels woven into her curling hair. She looked up at him with sincere gratitude; she had been known for her beauty, but she was never complimented as sincerely as Alfred had done just seconds before. Her frown turned to a closed smile.

"Thank you," she said. Alfred then extended his hand to her, and she looked up at him, wondering what he had meant.

"Need help standing up?" he offered.

Princess Amisha extended her hand up to let Alfred hold it and pull her up, and once she got to her feet, their eyes met again; this time, the princess' deep gaze allowed her to assess the young American as a person. Judging by how he spoke to her, he was a light-hearted soul who loved amusements and jokes, and even though the princess wasn't used to such behavior being portrayed around her, she admired that he tried to cheer her up. Placing her hands together as if in prayer, she bowed her head slowly.

"You are a good soul," she said with a spiritual tone of voice. Alfred's memory sparked thoughts in his head of the nuns at his Catholic school back home doing the same thing as the princess.

"Well, thanks, princess," he said.

Suddenly, the chatter of approaching women interrupted their moment together. Seeing it was her maids, Princess Amisha let them come to she and Alfred, and then at that moment, the princess began speaking in her mother tongue again.

"You must be going to bed now, Your Highness," a maid dressed in green and yellow said, holding the white, smooth hand of the princess gently.

"Yes, of course," she answered, looking back at Alfred. "Good night, kind sir."

"Good night, Princess Amisha!" he said cheerfully as the princess was taken off, leaving a trail of the scent of jasmine and lavender.