Beauty's Cursed Prince

by Mary E. Twomey

  “You didn’t have to do this. I’m really fine.”

  “I ate most of the strawberries earlier. You looked like you could use a few more.”

  She took out the yogurt and peeled back the lid, smelling the contents with pure happiness before she dug in. “You didn’t have to leave your fancy party to come out here and bring me food. That’s real sweet of you.”

  “It was getting a little claustrophobic in there.”

  “With all of your adoring fans?” Her eyebrows bobbed a few times as she ate.

  “Ha, ha. No. Your boss is making things real uncomfortable, talking down to Cordray in the middle of dinner, as if he needs to be put on a leash or something.”

  “Ah. That makes sense. She’s trying to impress the Baron, taking on his causes and putting a megaphone to them.”

  “I’m sure she’s succeeding. But trust me, the Baron’s the only one who’s impressed.”

  She shrugged. “Then she got what she wants. Hopefully she’ll be pleased.”

  Henry shifted in the old, yet immaculately clean grey interior. “How long has she been seeing him?”

  “A few months. She’s been trying to move her way up the social ladder. He was on her list.”

  “List?”

  “Of eligible bachelors she could date to up her status.” She spoke without emotion, as if they were talking about the weather. Then she smirked and pointed at Henry with her spoon. “You were on that list for a while. So was your father.”

  Henry shuddered. “Tell me you’re joking.” Though, upon second thought, he recalled Lady Tremaine trying to draw his eye with her breasts, as if that was all it took for him to follow a woman around.

  She shook her head, her gaze focusing back on her yogurt. “It’s best when she gets what she wants. If she desires the Baron, then I hope it works out, I guess. People should get what they want every now and then, right?”

  “And what is it you want?” he asked quietly, with a slight playfulness to his voice.

  She stared out the windshield without speaking for several beats, and for a moment, Henry wondered if she hadn’t heard him. When she finally answered, her voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper. “Nothing I can have.”

  Henry turned in his seat. “You mean to tell me a cup of yogurt and some fruit didn’t solve all your problems? Huh. Goods not as advertised.”

  She broke out of her slight melancholy to share a smirk with the prince. “I’m perfectly content. I’ve got a roof over my head, work enough to keep my hands busy, and now I even get to share a picnic with my new friend. This is wonderful, by the way.”

  “I had to get out of there. Bringing you food was selfish on my part. Seeing your smile? Almost as lovely as the Baron’s grin.”

  She laughed at Henry’s imitation of the Baron’s thin-lipped grimace that passed for his smile, deepening the dimples he loved to stare at. “Wow, that was spot on. I mean, if only your nose was running, you would match him perfectly.” She scooped another dollop of yogurt. “I’m sorry you weren’t enjoying your evening.”

  Henry tilted his head as he observed her. “You really mean that, don’t you.”

  She nodded, and tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear. “Of course. Who would wish a bad night on you? You seem pleasant enough.”

  “That’s what they put under my title: Prince Henry – Pleasant Enough.” They shared an airy giggle, and Henry realized how very easy it was to be himself around her. She was unassuming and unabashedly sweet. “Honestly, it was a little tense. The Baron is always trying to push his agenda at these things, which is a bad idea all the way around. These dinners are for officials to have a night away from politics, so we can all learn to get along as people, rather than operating only as representations of our policies.”

  “I think that’s a wise idea for a party. So many times we get caught up in the things that divide us. It’s nice to see you’re part of something that’s bent on uniting, even when that seems like an uphill battle.”

  “The parties are my father’s brainchild.” Henry tucked the compliment away, savoring the notion that she admired something his father had done. “He’s very good at what he does.”

  “I’m sorry the Baron was being difficult. I guess some people can’t turn it off. He must feel very strongly about locking up the Lethals.”

  Henry stiffened. “Is that your take on things, as well?”

  She scolded him with a smile and a slight shake of her finger. “Now, I thought these parties weren’t for politics.” Then she leaned back in her seat and mulled over his question. “I think you can’t choose the Pulse nature grants you. That’s no reason to lock anyone up, as far as I’m concerned. Everyone has to learn to be responsible with their gifts. Lethals are no different.” She ate another bite of yogurt. “If they do kill someone, however, then yes, they need to be locked up and rehabilitated.”

  “And what’s your Pulse?”

  “Private,” she replied without missing a beat.

  Henry frowned. “Same as your name? Is that private, as well?”

  “I already told you, my name is Henry. It’s probably why we get along so well.”

  “Hmm.” Henry was beginning to feel the pangs of irritation. “Is there a reason you’re being so secretive?”

  “If there was, I’m not sure I’d come out and tell you.” She sighed, staring out the window at the bumper ahead of hers. “Working for Lady Tremaine is… difficult. Nothing I can’t handle, of course, but the last guy who came to the house looking to talk to me got me in a heap of trouble.”

  “And you think I’ll come to your home and cause trouble? Do you live on her property?”

  She nodded. “She’s got two daughters around my age. They’re not so different from their mother. They want to marry well, so any eyes that are diverted from them toward me tend to make my life more difficult.”

  “So, if I invited you to the next one of these dinners, you probably wouldn’t be able to come.” Henry’s tone was glum as he scratched his cheek.

  She turned to gape at him, bereft of any sort of reply. Henry watched too many emotions flash across her lovely features as she processed the offer. For a moment, his hopes raised when she leaned toward him, but then she drew back with the knee-jerk hesitance.

  “I probably wouldn’t.” Then she did something so precious, Henry’s whole body became endeared to her. She reached across the console and linked her little finger around his. It wasn’t quite hand-holding, but something that was just theirs. “But I would want to,” she admitted, holding his gaze with a hint of longing for options such as the ones he presented. “I would want to very much.”

  Henry stared at their joined fingers, a wistfulness clutching his heart, making him wish for simpler times. “Do you ever feel like life’s grown far too complicated?”

  Her brows bunched together. “Aside from me not being able to go to your party, what’s got you down?”

  Henry’s normal reaction to questions that invited him to open up was to shut tight and keep it all inside, lest his private thoughts leak to the press. But there was something about her that he instinctively trusted. He’d had that same inkling towards Belle—the woman he’d hired on the spot to be Adam’s housekeeper and in-home nurse. It hadn’t been long, but so far, there hadn’t been any huge implosions Adam had reported, other than her egregious need to shine his shoes, apparently.

  Henry studied her short fingernails, and stretched his thumb to trace along her wrist. “You can keep what we talk about between us?”

  “You sincerely overestimate the amount of friends I have. Of course, Henry. What’s overcomplicated in your life these days?”

  Henry’s mouth went dry, but he powered through. “The whole issue of Lethals wasn’t a huge deal to me when we were drafting up policies, but now that one of my closest friends is married to one… I’m not sure.”

  She let his words hang and crackle around them for several beats before she pulled a few out of the air to e
xamine more closely. “What aren’t you sure about?”

  “All of it. I don’t know. I mean, I still stand by the spirit of the policy. We’re not willing to divert more funds into developing the pill to grant Lethals their normal magic while muting their deadly abilities. It’s a good idea, but not one that the government can justify paying for when there are other more harrowing things that need our attention and funds. Giving them a life where they don’t have to be fearful of harming their loved ones is all we should be expected to provide the public. Anything beyond that is whipped cream—nice, but not crucial. Taxes should be spent on what’s crucial, not what’s comfortable.”

  She mulled over his words, running her tongue across her teeth as if she was tasting each syllable to see how it settled. “I think that’s a fantastic policy. The one problem is that ‘crucial’ might be subjective to some people. Being cut off from all magic might seem like a Level 10 problem, while to others, it might seem to be a luxury. It may be that your criterion is good and noble, but hasn’t been clearly quantified to the public. Perhaps spelling it out in terms of life and death, using that scale, might help people see your side more clearly.”

  It was Henry’s turn to taste and test her words, turning them over to see how they fit with his current plans and worldview. “You’re right. I haven’t been clear enough.”

  She offered him a compassionate expression, her eyes softening around the edges. “The good thing about that is it’s a fixable problem.”

  “This is nice.” Henry took a chance and brought her hand to his chest, cradling it over his heart. “You’ll tell me all the holes in my politics, but you won’t tell me your name?”

  “You don’t need my name. You’re doing well enough on your own without me.”

  Henry plucked a pen from his pocket and took her napkin from the bag. “You may think I don’t need your name, but I know for sure that you need my number. I’m guessing you won’t give me yours?”

  She stared at the napkin he handed her with his digits scrawled across in neat, blue script. “You’re giving me your phone number?”

  “I guess I am. The thing is, it’s only useful if you use it.”

  She finally took the napkin and folded it twice, sticking it in her pocket. “Thank you.”

  “Still no name?” He tilted his head at her, his mouth drawing to the side in mild frustration.

  She clung to her secret, while Henry clung to her hand in the quiet of their private moment.

  5

  Cheeks and Feet

  “Ella! My dress needs ironing. It got left on the floor last night, and now it’s all wrinkled.”

  When Lady Tremaine installed an intercom system in the house, Ella knew it would be the end of any semblance of quiet time. Her stepsister’s voice was worse than a bullhorn—nasally and demanding as it was. Ella bit her tongue, but then let it loose to the squirrels that chased each other around her bedroom in the attic. “Shocking that when Anastasia leaves something on the floor, it stays there till morning.” It was the fourth irritated order in the past twenty minutes, but Ella did her best to keep her complaining confined to her bedroom, trusting the pitched ceiling of the attic to trap her negativity so it didn’t carry into the wind.

  The squirrels paused and shook their fists in the air at her stepsister, swearing to avenge Ella and right all the wrongs done to her.

  She smiled at the creatures as she tied an apron around her jeans and tank top. Her apron was a man’s flannel that had the back and sleeves cut off, leaving the high collar and front intact, with a ribbon to secure it tight to her waist. She adored her little creations that made her feel fashionable, as opposed to existing as only a functional being.

  Memories of the night she’d shared with Prince Henry a week ago filled her heart, pushing out any frustrations she might otherwise dwell on. She pulled her curls into a messy bun, and then completed her ritual of pressing her hands on her closed door, shutting her eyes and repeating the last words her father had said to her before he passed. “You’re capable and kind. If you have those two things, you’ll never lose me, and you’ll never lose you.” Her lashes always pressed more firmly together when she pledged the last part of her father’s final commission to her. “In all things, have the courage to be kind.”

  It had been just over two years since her father’s death, and she’d never failed to draw hope and solace from those three sentences. As she descended the stairs in the two-story home, she locked the mantra tight in her chest and prayed it would stay there, untouched, no matter how vexing her stepfamily became.

  Anastasia’s voice was lower in pitch, laced with a constant whine. “Ella, I told you I needed you to pre-cut my grapefruit. I don’t understand why this is so difficult for you.”

  Ella moved to the fridge and pulled out the bowl marked “Anastasia”. “This one’s yours, hun. You dug into mine by mistake. Yours is sugared and cut, just how you like it.”

  Anastasia sniffed at the grapefruit in front of her and slid it over, eyeing the new bowl with equal disdain. Her thick arms were crossed over her squat frame, making her look like a spoiled toddler. “I don’t like grapefruit.”

  “I know. But it’s on the list of things Lady Tremaine approved for you to eat.” Ella tapped the list on the fridge, not liking the fact that she was the one who had to enforce the diet Anastasia’s doctor laid out.

  Anastasia’s round nose rose in the air. “You’re trying to torture me! You’ve always been jealous of my clothes and the fact that I have friends, and you don’t.”

  Ella kept her sigh tucked inside. “Actually, I thought we could go on the same diet together. Then you have a friend going through the pain of it all with you.” Ella didn’t mention that Anastasia’s diet consisted of far more food than Ella was normally allowed to consume. She’d been looking forward to splurging on fresh grapefruit for breakfast, carrots with hummus for a mid-morning snack, tuna with apples for lunch, and an entire dinner of baked chicken, roasted vegetables and rice.

  Anastasia rolled her eyes and scoffed, always sounding like a pig when she expressed her disdain. “Like I’d want to do anything with you. Next thing you know, you’ll have me cleaning the floors with you, spending my life on my hands and knees.”

  “I would never ask you to clean,” Ella replied, keeping her voice soft and indulgent. Anastasia was the youngest, and Ella had given up all hope that the twenty-two-year-old might actually grow up. So she treated Ana like the child she was, sighing through her tantrums and cleaning up after her. She was ordered to do so by Lady Tremaine, whose daughters could do no wrong.

  Ella stood at the counter with her grapefruit, cutting into it quickly before Lady Tremaine got a mind to take it away for whatever reason served her vindictive purpose that morning. She wasn’t allowed to sit at the table, so she kept a safe distance from the proper women, dining while standing, and keeping the counter between her and her stepsister to give Anastasia assurances that Ella wouldn’t ruin her breakfast by getting too near. “Are you ready for your photography class final?”

  “I don’t know. Am I?” Ana asked, batting her eyes at Ella. Ana had short, stubby lashes that matched her mud-brown hair, framing her small, beady eyes to add only malice and feigned duress to her expressions. “You know I’m no good at photography.”

  Ella stabbed into her grapefruit. “I told you when you enrolled for the semester, I’m not doing your homework for you. I certainly can’t take your finals for you. You do such a great job picking out your clothes in the morning. You have a real flair for colorful things. I’m sure that’s translated into your passion for photography, as well.”

  It was true. Anastasia had stuffed herself into hot pink leggings (her signature color), a pink-and-purple polka dotted turtle neck, with a yellow scarf to match her groaning high heels.

  Ana harrumphed and licked the sugar off the top of her grapefruit, blanching. “This isn’t sweet enough.”

  Ella pretended she hadn’t heard her steps
ister, knowing that any response would be the wrong one. If she gave her more sugar, Lady Tremaine would surely have something to say about it. If she refused her sugar, Ana would tackle her to the ground, sit on her and pull her hair—a punishment Ella had always hated.

  She wolfed down her grapefruit and tidied up the kitchen as quick as she could while Ana huffed and complained about the lack of the pastries and thick cream she was used to.

  Ella was grateful to get the kitchen in order before Lady Tremaine rose, her black hair in a tight bun that seemed to give her a miniature facelift. She was tall, but even sitting at the table, Ella felt like her stepmother towered over her. “Good morning, Lady Tremaine. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you for prying into something that’s none of your business.” She unfolded her emerald cloth napkin with a crack she insisted must be present, or else the napkins hadn’t been starched enough. “I need the house spotless today, Ella. None of your mindless daydreaming, and keep your friends out of the house. If I see one bird, so help me, I’ll snap its neck and serve it to you for your supper.”

  Ella’s mouth tightened, but she nodded subserviently. “Yes, ma’am.” She set the grapefruit down in front of Lady Tremaine, along with the coffee she’d freshly brewed in a slow-drip contraption that was “all the rage” according to Drizella. Just like that, the reliable coffee maker had been sold. A ceramic grinder, as well as a new drip funnel, had been purchased. It took three times as long for the grounds to brew, and Lady Tremaine insisted that the beans had to be roasted and ground by Ella to maintain the right flavor.

  Coffee had become the constant battle in the Tremaine household. It was never hot enough, and then it was never bitter enough. Ella had grown to hate the stink of the stuff, knowing that no matter how closely she followed the instructions, Lady Tremaine would never be pleased unless a new husband was serving her the beverage in a solid gold cup.