by Erin Hayes
The Mahogany room, thus called, quite uninspiringly because it was entirely furnished in dark mahogany, had traditionally been reserved to foreign Kings and Queens. It was excessive in a very un-Woodlandian fashion: large, vast, sculpted, encrusted, trimmed with gold – everything other kingdoms admired. Minutious, delightfully delicate details.
Four hours later, Mason, Laurie and Blanche were cursing the damn visitor, as they polished, scrubbed, aired, treated the overly fussy room.
“Scheisse,” Mason cursed under his breath. “The time, Blanche.”
Oh, hell, the guy was right: in the distance, all the way from the village of Nordeen, they could hear the town clock ring three times. Quarter to. How had they missed the half an hour indicating that it was time for her to go get ready?
Blanche stared down to her dirty dress, and wrinkly hands, and grimaced. She was expected in fifteen minutes and there was no way – none whatsoever – that she could arrive both in an acceptable condition and on time.
Quickly, she ran through her options, and decided that her wonderful stepmother was probably more likely to frown at her tardiness than her appearance. She’d probably gloat at the state she was in.
That, or she’d take it as an insult; Ilda was many things, but no one who met her would ever consider her predictable. Those whose reactions could be anticipated were usually sound of mind.
“Compromise,” Laurie announced out loud. “I’ll fix the hair, you’ll wash your face – you’ll have to keep the dress, but go grab an apron before you make it to the gardens.”
Blanche smiled at her friend. The girl was shy as they come, yet faced with any kind of problem, she was always the first to open her mouth and come up with a game plan.
If the world had been different, Laurie would be adorned in the finest gear and roam the lands, when she wasn’t standing next to Blanche, giving her thoughts on any matter of importance. But when the chips had fallen, Laurie of the Swan Lake – daughter of one of the most respected noblemen of the Woodlands – had lied about her name and left her plush, comfortable life to stay with her, regardless of how bad things had become.
Blanche knew she hadn’t ever achieved anything that deserved such dedication; she only hoped she’d get the chance to try.
A Guest
Sandro awoke thinking of the girl, which meant that his morning wood was considerably more resilient than normal; there was no ignoring that bastard today – he had to take things into his own hands.
Another man might have considered it a banality, but if memory served, he hadn’t needed to attend to his needs for quite some time. Months, or was it years? Wracking his brains, he finally established that he in fact hadn’t wanked in four years, three months and a couple of weeks – since the last time he’d served in the armies. Why would he? There always was some sort of a female happy enough to offer her services.
Yet Sandro found that he had no inclination to hunt for a potential conquest and in fact, he quite enjoyed his indulgence. He closed his eyes and his mind did the rest.
The hair was long, wet and so dark. Dark as night. He wasn’t sure why that particular phrase entered his mind, but it seemed accurate; black hair was just black – and normally, it meant that it had been dyed, but the girl’s mane had seemed to be of various shades; some strands almost blue, others reflecting some shades of red in the evening light; it had layers, depth...
Fuck, was he actually thinking all of that about hair? And why was he breathing quite so hard, pumping his hand so fervently? It was hair, dammit. Why wasn’t he thinking of her boobs? Fascination with boobs, he could understand – particularly hers.
Yet his wayward mind ignored his admonishment and went on to visualize her eyes.
Brown eyes weren’t his thing – he preferred them blue – but if someone put a gun to his head right now and asked him to define perfection, he’d talk about those eyes, so full of secrets, implying sensuality…
Or he might perhaps mention her lips. Oh, her fucking lips.
By that point, he was thrusting his hips up, into his strokes, and groaning as his release took him over the edge.
It was only when he was done that he asked himself what the heck was wrong with him. The possibility of witchcraft and other kind of enchantment did cross his mind, but he was of fay descent – one particularly in touch with his nature. If there had been any magic going on, his defenses would have pushed it, or at least, he would at least have felt the intrusion.
No such thing. He just had a damn crush on a girl.
Fuck. Alessandro Primerius, first son of the King of Assholes, didn’t do the crush thing. People had a crush on him, dammit!
His morning was spent in a curious fashion: in his desire to avoid the Queen until such a time as when he absolutely needed to meet her, he went out to admire the gorgeous, wild, untamed woods at the foot of the palace, and there, he cursed himself for turning at the slightest noise, hoping to see his little wood nymph.
Dryad, he heard in his mind, quite clearly.
Dryad. Yes, that suited her – but that didn’t explain or mollify the fact that there was a fucking voice in his mind.
“I’m growing mad,” he said out loud, realizing that by talking to himself, he was just confirming it.
That, or you’re just a fay in an enchanted forest.
Not much of a fay, another voice chimed in.
Okay. Okay. Sandro took a deep breath, and exhaled. This wasn’t as bad as it sounded. He knew there was magic in the lands. Hell, he could summon lightening, for goodness’ sake. But he was fond of walking in the woods by himself, enjoying the quiet, peaceful environment, and wherever he’d been, across the entire planet, he hadn’t started hearing funny voices that seemed to come from the…
Jeez, this one isn’t that smart, is he? Enchanted forest. How many of those have you lingered in?
Give him a break, Grumpy. The man’s a foreigner. They don’t even believe in the tooth fairy where he’s from.
That’s it, Sandro had enough.
“There is no tooth fairy!” he yelled.
It just had to be said.
A cacophony of laughter erupted in response.
Poor philistine. I suppose he wouldn’t even recognize a gnome from a dwarf.
Sandro was ready to arrest, incarcerate and condemn himself to a lifetime in an institution with nice men wearing white by this point.
“What are you?”
There were too many old creatures in the world for him to hazard more than an educated guess. He would have said pixies, if they’d been kinder.
The laughter stopped, followed by a conspicuous silence.
Well, damn. That’s a first. Blanche never asked.
Blanche knows what we are: her friends. Of course a stranger would ask. The question is, what might we say?
The educated, and quite frankly, rather pompous voice somehow exerted a smile from him.
“How about the truth?” he asked. “You’ve most probably earned me a one way ticket to the royal institution, surely you owe me that much?”
We owe you nothing, a new voice replied, but if we are to answer, you’ll owe us. Deal, Sandro of Alenia?
Ah, so they were after royal favors – like everyone else would be now his title was common knowledge.
It didn’t matter: his curiosity was just too much to deny them. If whatever they requested was unreasonable, he’d just shrug it off and offer an alternative.
“Deal.”
Three second passed; then, they appeared before their eyes.
So he just had to hold his sides, bend forward and laugh his ass off until it hurt.
It had been her fault, admittedly: in her haste, she wasn’t really paying attention to where she was going when she turned into the hall from the last corridor, so the collision wasn’t surprising, but did it really have to be him?
He just made her feel, act, and look stupid, open mouth and all. She was pretty sure she also drooled a little, too.
“What are you doing here!” she whisper-yelled, before biting down her lip, recalling her place.
It wasn’t any of her business what anyone was doing here, if cleared by the guards and the chamberlains.
“Let me assure you I have been invited.”
He didn’t look like a thief or an intruder, in any case; in fact, if she hadn’t seen him in complete motorbike gear, a powerful engine between his legs just the day before, she would have taken him for a…
Oh hell. She took in the blue and silver coat, the sword at his sides. He was the Alenian ambassador. Being far too young and equally as gorgeous apparently hadn’t disqualified him for the distinguished position.
Blanche was momentarily distracted by the aforementioned gorgeousness. Seriously, from up-close, it was even more absurd, stormy grey eyes, dark, tousled hair, a ready smirk at the corner of his kissable lips...
Then reality hit her.
Fuckity fuck, would he consent to never, ever mention either of their meetings if she begged? She was totally above begging in any other circumstance, but come on. This was beg-worthy.
“Of course. Excuse my…” She wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. Temporary injection of stupid? Really, he ought to excuse it, as it was entirely his fault. She was quite certain she wasn’t the first woman he’d instantly rendered dimwitted.
“I’ll excuse just about anything, for the right cost,” he replied, his damn eyes dancing as his lips decided to be cruel and curl upward.
Suddenly, every romance she’d ever read made perfect sense; her pussy was throbbing, and throbbing hard.
But she was Blanche Wood, not one of Ilda’s pawns, and not the desperate commoner he quite obviously expected her to be.
“Nevermind, then. Don’t excuse it,” she replied, stepping aside to walk around him.
She was on her way, head held high, when a jolt of energy froze her in place.
Her eyes went downward, uncomprehending as they saw it was just a hand on her forearm, and not a device charged with a thousand volts.
“No so quick, little dryad,” he said, and it was the name that held her firmly where she was.
She’d been called that for a long, long time – but never by anyone she could see, touch or feel.
Who was he?
“I’m quite certain you can afford my forgiveness, it comes for a trifle. I’ll just have your name.”
Oh, that smile. That. Fucking. Smile.
Blanche swallowed painfully, and then, for the second time in as many days, she pulled back, turned around, and fled as fast as she could.
A Prospect
Politics were going to kill him. Others might fear opponents after his positions, but those weren’t his concerns; before anyone could ever manage to draw or poison his blood, it was the sheer boredom of it all that was going to take his life. Halfway through an afternoon of inane chit-chat, he was always ready to hang himself if only it would save him from those “you don’t say, Rufus, what a splendid hunt that was!”
Shoot. Me. Now.
While that could be arranged, it would somewhat inconvenient, as you owe us a favor, your princey mightiness.
His eyes snapped left, towards the stained glass windows behind which the weird world he’d just discovered laid, and he managed his first smile since the brown eyed beauty had left him confused, amused and somewhat enchanted.
Seeing her in what obviously was a servant’s outfit had been a shock; he didn’t have a thing against servants, and he respected women who worked in general, but well, he had no excuse, except for his snootiness: the girl had seemed like she was of his class. She held herself too well, just like Sylvia, and he hadn’t known anyone to do so unless they were educated that way. The art of etiquette was the lot of nobles and dancers – not parlor maids.
Her occupation had come as a surprise; but did it matter?
Yes, it does.
If he’d met her in this room, with the handful of coquettes and the dozens of long-nosed idiots he might have lost interest. Possibly. Maybe. Well, he would have desired her still, but the wayward thought now twirling in his mind wouldn’t have any cause to have flourished.
Instead of being a privileged woman of the ton, his dryad was a hard working woman; he’d seen the raw hands, the strong muscles under her warm, soft, delicate skin.
That wasn’t only fascinating; it was also dangerous.
If he was to be honest, the blame lay with Dane. Since his brother had actually decided to bite the bullet and take a wife as he ought to, Sandro had found himself considering what might induce him into matrimony.
He’d looked at little Ella Tremaine and yet again admitted how similar he was to his brother: he wanted to find someone just like her. A woman who would fit in his world, fully able to stand in a roomful of foolish nobles and hold her own, but at heart, someone with strength, who’d have the wherewithal to be an equal standing right next to him.
Many men liked their wives subdued, docile, subservient – he didn’t even comprehend the inclination. Sandro was first advisor to a King. His job was doing everything. A woman who sat idly at home while he worked his ass off would just piss him off, pretty as she might be.
That meant he’d had zero interest in the women of his class; he paid more mind to commoners – but until now, none had seriously crossed his mind as a prospect.
His smile broadened when he recalled the little dryad’s indignant expression at what he’d said; he hadn’t even thought that his words could be taken as suggestive, but when he’d seen her face, he realized just what she thought of debasing herself. Never in a million years would she do anything she deemed beneath her; not for him, not for anyone. He was also pretty sure she’d call him on his shit whenever he crossed a line.
Fuck.
It was foolishness to think of such things when all he had was two glimpses, a half-conversation, and not even a name… And let’s not forget that he was a proud, self-professed womanizer. But while all of that was fact, it didn’t change anything. The little dryad was the first woman he’d ever thought about keeping for himself, and damn if he wouldn’t at least try to see where it might lead.
“You seem distracted,” the Queen said, crossing her arms to make her amble assets stand higher yet.
Sandro wondered what was supposed to be appealing about strapping one’s breast up to one’s chin.
“You will excuse me, I have been travelling most of yesterday,” he replied, serving her the first excuse he could think up.
Queen Ilda had been standing quite close, but she took two steps towards him, and murmured in a tone she believed seductive:
“I hope you will join us tonight, though. We’ll be holding a private party, and I vouch you’ll find the entertainment quite invigorating.”
Great, an orgy. Sandro was proud of himself; he didn’t recoil, wretch, or even laugh to her face.
He considered his answer carefully. While sorry, I’ll be busy scrubbing myself to cleanse my soul from your proximity was entirely truthful, it may not have been received well.
He’d partaken in his fair share of “entertainments,” of course, but there was just something in him that recoiled at the very notion of bedding Queen Ilda. He couldn’t put his finger on it; it wasn’t just that he desired no one, save for his little dryad – the idea of sex with another woman, while underwhelming, was also conceivable. It just couldn’t be Ilda Wood.
“You will have to excuse me, your grace. I am rather tired.”
Tea that afternoon hadn’t been particularly painful, to her surprise; Ilda normally loved trampling on Blanche’s spirits, but for once, she’d been almost pleasant – more unusual yet, she’d seemed cheery, almost jubilant.
An optimistic woman would have enjoyed the respite; Blanche wondered what deviousness had put the glee in her stepmother’s eyes, and what it might cost her people.
Yet when her day finally came to a close, she came to her room, only to find a note pinned on it.
Da
mmit. The Queen had summoned her again, and in a quarter of an hour!
Blanche was dirtier than she had been six hours ago, there was grime under her nails and probably just about anywhere on her exposed skin, and her back ached like mad – but she was also hungry – starving, in fact.
One look in the mirror confirmed that she was a mess. Laurie’s skilled hands had twisted a braid that still held around her head, but her hair was visibly greasy. Nevermind, that would have to do. She hurried to the bathroom, and did her best to scrub the most visible stains, before shedding and discarding her brown dress in favor for one of her good ones.
Needless to say, Blanche didn’t get paid, and Ilda didn’t send her anything that might have befitted her actual rank, but every once in a while, as if by magic, some treats appeared in her room – books, decent clothes, bubble bath, candies.
Someday, if the gods were kind, she would be able to reward her people for their unfaltering loyalty.
Wearing one of her good dresses in front of Ilda was not a good idea, yet what could she do? Her working attire was in a dreadful shape, and to the Queen’s specifications, she only had one. Ilda loved to see her wear her clothes until they’d turned to rags; only then did she order that another one was made.
She probably relished in the idea of Blanche wearing wet cloth every winter morning, or some other purpose designed to pain, shame and otherwise trouble her; she’d given up tried to decipher any sort of reason behind her stepmother’s cruelty.
Blanche swore under her breath, choosing her only real option: keeping the damn rags on. She did her best to clean up, before running all the way to the Queen’s room.
Ilda received her alone, as was her way. She never showed her off to any of her acquaintances, a small grace Blanche didn’t quite understand. It was surprising that the Queen didn’t boast that she’d subdued the heir to the throne.
“Close the door, Blanche Neige, dear.”
She cringed; no one had ever called her that, save for the two women who’d born the name Wood and the crown perched over the Queen’s golden mane.