Enchanted

by Alethea Kontis

  “My fault,” he said quickly. “Are you ready for my question?”

  She nodded sternly.

  “Do I look as stupid as I feel?” he asked.

  Sunday bit her lips together and swallowed the laugh, which died as a snort in the back of her throat. One did not laugh at His Royal Highness. After a few more mental counts of three beneath the constellations of candles and crystals above, she felt calm enough to reply. “You could wear a sackcloth,” she said, “or nothing at all. No one would ever think you looked stupid or be traitorous enough to say so.”

  “Exactly,” said the prince, “which is why I’m asking you. I think myself a relatively good judge of character, and you seem the type of person who does not lie casually.”

  They’d only just met; how on earth would he know such a thing? Was it a challenge? “In that case,” said Sunday, “you look fine. Very smart. Very handsome. As a prince should look. Although...”

  “Tell me.”

  It was a challenge! All right, then. She had costumed herself for her mother’s sake, attended this circus overflowing with strangers, and despite her inner turmoil had somehow attracted the notice of the crown prince himself. He had invited her to dance his first dance. He had taken her hand and not let go. He had asked for her honesty, and she didn’t have the energy left to be anyone but herself.

  “There is a rather large chunk of your hair sticking out on the left side.” In truth, his hair stuck out a bit everywhere, but the left side was slightly more dramatic than the rest.

  “I knew it!” the prince said through his teeth. “Damn nuisance. There’s no help for it.”

  There’s no help for either of us. Sunday hoped he couldn’t feel her hand trembling in his. “I’m sure if you smoothed it down quickly, no one would notice.”

  “You said it yourself, Miss Woodcutter: everyone would notice. They will all say I am too vain for my own good.”

  She took in every syllable he uttered, but his eyes spoke to her in other words. He knew. He knew they were both pawns in a game long played by their elders, and he was as desperate as she to change the rules. “I would do it for you,” she offered, “but then everyone would say I was too familiar.”

  The prince threw back his head and laughed loudly. Sunday tensed in his arms. Every eye in the room turned to them, and every other mouth whispered her name. She was instantly reminded of her place in the world. Perhaps it was a good thing. She had been feeling entirely too comfortable with this man who was supposed to be her enemy. She felt her cheeks turn instantly red, which no doubt sent more tongues wagging.

  “I love that you blush.”

  “Why did you do that?” Sunday whispered.

  “Because everyone was looking,” he said, “and now everyone assumes that you are too familiar, so you must dance every other dance with me after this. In order to save yourself the humiliation of dancing with a lunatic all night, you have no choice but to tame my wild locks.”

  “Scoundrel.” His playfulness drew her in. She reached out a hand and gently coaxed his chestnut hair back behind his ear. It was thick and silky, and her grooming was over with far too quickly. His eyes never left her face; they continued to tell her things she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear.

  Half the room gasped. Sunday didn’t care. She saw no harm in letting a handsome, powerful man adore her for a while. She looked the prince straight in the eye and returned his smile, and they danced on. In that moment, she was the most beautiful woman in the room.

  Too soon, the dance came to an end. The prince stepped back, released her, and bowed. A chill swept over her. She was surprised to find that she wished she were still in his arms, still talking, still smiling, her body still engaged in an activity that distracted her from the sadness and complications of her life. He had shocked and confused and embarrassed and scared her, but she had felt those things. She’d been nothing but numb for so long; it was blissful beyond belief to feel anything at all ... and even better to feel so admired.

  Without his support, her hands were free to tremble once again. She grabbed a handful of skirts and curtseyed, noticing how clean and unworn his shoes were. He probably had a new pair for each day of the year.

  Even as he bowed, those intense eyes never left her; she could feel the heat of them. It would take her a few seconds to rise, and then those bright and shining shoes would be on their way to some other corner of the room, dancing on some other part of the floor, brushing against some other skirts, setting some other woman’s blood boiling for entirely different reasons. He had promised her other dances, yes, but Sunday could guess the weight of a wayward prince’s promise. There was no sense getting her hopes up only to have them dashed again. The only intentions she trusted were her own. At the moment, even those were suspect.

  He did not leave. They both just stood there in the middle of the floor, memorizing each other. The musicians awkwardly tuned their instruments. Sunday stared back into those dark eyes, braver now, looking for answers to questions she had no right to ask. She could not quit the dance floor until he escorted her off, but he made no move to do so. A new song began, and a few brave dancers took up the rhythm. The prince remained exactly as he was. Had he taken ill? Again?

  “Do you want to know why I danced with you?” he asked into the music.

  “Why?”

  He leaned into her, and her heart raced. He did not touch her again, but she could feel his breath stirring the soft hairs beside her ear. He smelled of fire and ash, wood smoke and secrets. Sunday remained still, her hands clenched in her skirts. The room blurred. There was no crowd, no music, no castle, no ceiling of candlelit stars, no time. There was only his voice. “I want to be one of your stories.”

  Sunday lost her grip on the perfect magical control she’d been maintaining for the last two days. A seam beneath her arm gave a little, and the curls went limp in her hair. A silver ribbon slipped from Wednesday’s ministrations and fluttered to the floor between them.

  Her eyes were not the only ones that followed the prince as he knelt to retrieve the ribbon. Instead of returning it to her he let it lie, a limp river of sparkling moonlight across his palm. “Stepping away from here will be like going into battle.”

  Sunday stayed focused on the ribbon. He hadn’t really danced with her. He wasn’t really saying these things. He would return her ribbon, and she would vanish back to her worn linens and quiet tower and slightly less-than-normal reality.

  “It is customary for a soldier to accept a lady’s favor before going into battle. Would you do me the honor?”

  He was joking. He had to be joking. This was some mischievous scheme to make a mockery of her and her family, but for the life of her, Sunday couldn’t figure it out. She should refuse. She should turn away and leave. But he had been nothing but kind to her. He had made her welcome and made her smile. He had made her forget, for one unforgettable dance, about the pain and the numbness that awaited her outside these walls. She liked him. The only person she could hate for that was herself.

  “That’s an awfully long pause,” he whispered. “Please say something.”

  “Yes.”

  It was more of a breath than an answer, but it was all she could manage of either. She lifted the ribbon from his hand without touching his skin and tied it around his left arm, near the shoulder. Her fingers were too clumsy to fashion a bow, so she tied a simple knot and pulled it tight, letting the ends of the ribbon trail down past his elbow. Sunday knew what it meant. Every woman who held this arm tonight would remember that shed been there first.

  This time she did step away. She stared at the hem of her silver gown, which matched the favor he now brandished. She did not want to look into the crowd and discover how many enemies she had just made. Sunday experienced a dreadful moment of inadequacy.

  A slender man appeared at Rumbold’s side, with blood-violet eyes and hair as black as night. “May I present my cousin Velius Morana, Duke of Cauchemar. He will escort you back to your f
amily.” Sunday curtseyed again; she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her much longer. “Look after her,” the prince said to Velius.

  “My pleasure,Your Highness.” Velius took her arm and led her off the dance floor, back to her stern mother, her princess sister, and the throng of strangers hovering around them who suddenly wanted to know everything about her. She hesitated. The duke placed his body between her and the rainbow of onlookers.

  “Perhaps you would prefer another dance?” He bowed. “Please allow me to oblige.”

  The words came out in a rush of relief. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Velius spun her away from the crowd and swept her up in a flawless minuet. It was similar enough to a harvest festival dance that she learned the steps quickly. The unfamiliar melody mirrored her sadness and loneliness. She wanted so badly to be loved by someone worthy, someone who cherished her, someone like the frog she’d met in the woods one sunny afternoon. With or without him, she belonged in that glade by the well, not all tarted up and sharing whispers with a boy dressed as the man who was supposed to be her enemy.

  Sunday was suddenly too aware of the heat of the duke’s hand beneath her own, the pressure at the waist of her elegant gown—but it was not her gown, never hers, and the skin beneath its layers was not her skin as she fled her body. She closed down before she lost control, blocked out her surroundings and remembered her magic. She concentrated on the steps of the dance, the ribbons left in her hair, her breathing, the ersatz night sky. Sunday focused on a flame in a far-off candleholder. No one would notice one candle's absence. If she could just think hard enough, center herself ... The flame disappeared.

  Counter to the dance, the duke lifted her in his arms and spun her around. “Stop it,” he said.

  “What?” Caught off-guard, Sunday gave no thought to titles or propriety.

  “The magic,” he said. “You don’t want to attract attention to yourself.”

  Oh, really? “Thanks to the prince, I’ve already attracted more attention than I ever wanted. I just needed to—”

  “You need to relax and enjoy the dance.”

  Enjoy the dance. Dressed like this? In a sea of elegant strangers? In a castle that defied description? Surrounded by all those eyes and whispers and...? Fool. What did he know of her mind? Easier said than done.

  He laughed as if she’d spoken the words aloud. “Just because the most powerful fairy at this fete is currently indisposed does not mean she welcomes any and all strange new powers that traipse through her doors.”

  “My powers are no competition for anyone.”

  “Not yet,” said Velius, “and there are indeed enough haefairies present in this crowd to mask your tiny indiscretions. But, Miss Woodcutter, you are a seventh daughter, are you not?”

  “Seventh of seventh,” muttered Sunday.

  The duke rolled his eyes. “Gods’ mercy. The first thing they should have taught you, little star, is not to go marking a stronger fairy’s territory unless you mean business. There is no fairy stronger than our dear Sorrow. So unless you plan to serve her every ounce of your magic for breakfast...”

  “Sorrow is here?” Sunday whispered.

  “Not presently, no. But she is in this castle and still powerful enough to notice when a star winks out of the decorations.”

  “All these people make me nervous.”

  “You are more like him than you know.” Before Sunday could ask whom, for he could never mean the prince, Velius motioned to the candle she had extinguished. It guttered and then burst into flame once again. “If she should ask, I’ll tell her I was showing off to impress some sweet young thing.”

  It might have been true—he certainly seemed to have the hair and eyes and power to match. “And there are other ... what did you call them?”

  “Haefairies,” said Velius. “A common term for those of us with some significant amount of fey blood in our veins. Come now, you didn’t think you were special, did you?”

  “I...” Sunday hadn’t expected this evening to come with another lesson.

  “Close your eyes,” said Velius. Sunday did as she was told. The warmth radiating from Velius’s hands was like sunshine on her cold bones, working its way through her muscles and setting her at ease. Had she thought the music sad? It thrummed joyously inside her now; her feet skipped gaily across the ground as if she were floating on air.

  “You are young and beautiful,” Velius whispered in her ear. “You have a smile as bright as the sun, a heart as big as the moon, and a destiny so great that you may never understand its importance. There is a storm coming, one like this world has never seen before, and you and Rumbold scamper before it as it nips your heels. But you are not alone.”

  The words sounded like a spell, and Sunday’s eyes snapped back open. The crowd was gone. Her brow furrowed. Had he somehow sped up time? Had he put her in some sort of trance? Had her sisters left without her? She quickly scanned the room. It would be just like her mother to abandon her, so caught up in her own...

  No, her sisters were all there, as was her mother, still at the far edge of the room where Sunday had left them, chatting as if nothing had happened. In fact, as Sunday looked closer, none of the people in the room acted differently. Which was odd, as some held detailed conversations with thin air, and a few on the floor danced alone. A small, dark woman in a green dress held her arms up before her and stared longingly into the eyes of no one. But that couldn’t be.

  Now that over half the room had vanished, Sunday had a clear view to the archway where Rumbold stood, bowing dutifully to a gaunt man in a gray uniform. Behind the general, a shorter man in a bright turban waited his turn to greet the prince. A shame, thought Sunday, that of all the people Velius had spirited away, he had not managed to eliminate the ones who currently added the most complications to her life. The few people who ... who Sunday knew had fey blood. Rumbold’s mother had been fey.

  “Catching on now?”

  “All of us?” Sunday said in awe. “All of us are haefairies?”

  “We are all made of stars,” said Velius. “Not just you, little one.”

  “Won’t someone notice?”

  “Worry not; it will fade in a moment. No, sorry,” he corrected himself. “I should say it will reappear in a moment.”

  “The prince is looking at us,” said Sunday. Her cheeks grew warm again. “I think he knows.”

  “The prince is looking at you, little star,” said Velius. “You’ve caught his fancy, and I’ve captured his prize.”

  “You have a silver tongue,Your Grace.” She would not look at the prince; there was more there than her heart was prepared to handle. But she was a silly girl and too full of curiosity to resist the temptation. Their eyes locked again across the room, and Sunday felt a click in the back of her mind.

  The dance came to an end, and the duke bowed. Sunday rose from her curtsey and found herself once again surrounded by her mother and sisters. The bustling ballroom had set itself to rights, all attendees visible and accounted for.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. It’s been...”

  But Velius was not looking at her.

  Wednesday held Monday’s elbow, and they whispered like small girls sharing secrets. Sunday was unsure which sister held Velius so transfixed. Wednesday noticed his stare and stopped her conversation.

  “This can’t be,” said the duke.

  Wednesday placed herself between the duke and her family and bowed her head. “Wednesday Woodcutter,” she introduced herself.

  “Velius Cauchemar.” The duke bowed automatically but never let Wednesday out of his sight. He seemed on the verge of saying something else, and Wednesday waited politely. Was he smitten? Would he attempt to out-poet the mistress of verse? Sunday imagined all the various ways this scene might succeed, or crumble into a flaming disaster. What she did not imagine were the words he finally did say.

  “You are not safe here.”

  Wednesday had the briefest moment to furrow her brow before Velius w
as brushed aside by none other than the king himself. He was a vision of broad-shouldered handsomeness, oozing with charm.

  Something other than humility made Sunday back away from him. She supposed his features were similar to Rumbold’s if she looked long enough, but she didn’t want to. There was something wrong about him, something unnatural, something inside him that didn’t belong.

  The crowd around them dropped into low curtseys and bows—some patrons even prostrated themselves on the floor—but Wednesday stood tall. Velius kept his head bowed, his mouth drawn in a tight line.

  “Your beauty enchanted me from across the room,” said the king, “and I found myself helpless against it. I am under your spell, fair maiden.” He took Wednesday’s hand in his own, kissed it gently, and led her away for his first dance of the evening.

  Wednesday said nothing.

  12. Beautiful Stranger

  “LOOK!”

  Gasp.

  “Over there.”

  “Oh, my goodness!”

  “Who is she?”

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  Sigh.

  It was the first time that night the full attention of the assembly was not upon him, and so Rumbold saw what everyone else saw. He noticed when the next woman in line did not extend her hand in greeting. The prince looked past her powdered yellow curls, plump shoulder, and equally plump bosom, following her gaze to the opposite side of the ballroom, just to the right of the main stair, in the direction that Velius and Sunday had gone after the last dance. The chatter lowered to whispers, and a sea of eyes turned to ogle the events.

  Only two people in the castle would have commanded such attention, and to the best of his knowledge, his godmother still rested in her chambers.

  The dancers scattered like autumn leaves on the polished floor, and the king swaggered through them, his boots rapping a confident Me, Me, Me, Me as he crossed the room. Everything about him gleamed: his hair, his boots, his hose, the stitching on his coat. His perfect form caught eyes, but his face held them. For the first time in as long as anyone could remember, the king was not brooding or scowling or looking ready to eat someone alive. No, he seemed ... giddy. Enchanted. Energized. The company stared, many open-mouthed. Rumbold forced his own mouth to stay closed. He wished, too, that his father had ever glanced in his direction without disdain or duty.