by K. M. Shea
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Frog Prince
Timeless Fairy Tales Book 9
K. M. Shea
FROG PRINCE
Copyright © 2017 by K. M. Shea
Cover design by Myrrhlynn
Edited by Jeri Larsen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any number whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historic events is entirely coincidental.
www.kmshea.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. The Prince and the Maid
2. The Arrogant Frog
3. The Escort-Bait
4. The Summit
5. An Act?
6. New Fears
7. Precautionary Measures
8. Romantic Realizations
9. Shadows and Spiders
10. A Task for Love
11. A Lesson in History
Epilogue
Afterword
Other books by K. M. Shea
About the Author
Chapter 1
The Prince and the Maid
Lucien wondered if it was possible to die of boredom. If it was, surely he had to be at least halfway there. He propped his feet up on a footstool and stared at the ceiling as his teacher droned on and on like a worried sheep.
“—after countering their forces in the magnificent battle for Glowma, Princess Rakel marched her troops north and re-captured Ostfold, the capital of Verglas,” Scholar Pierre spoke in a voice that sounded as dusty as one of the scrolls he was constantly pushing into Lucien’s face.
Lucien tapped his fingers on the armrests of his chair, then loudly yawned.
Scholar Pierre did not take the hint but droned on. “Though Princess Rakel proved to be the linchpin for Verglas’s war against the Chosen, it was well known that several military figures supported her. Verglas lore claims the existence of a General Halvor, but Loire has no such records. This might be in part because our country as we know it had not yet been formed.”
Irritation made a muscle in Lucien’s cheek twitch. Why doesn’t he stop? Haven’t I been obvious enough in my disinterest?
When Scholar Pierre paused for a moment to take a breath, Lucien was quick to interject. “Yes, that’s all very well, but you’ve been rambling on about history for the entire morning. Isn’t it time to stop?”
Scholar Pierre adjusted his spectacles with a thoughtful expression. He was younger than most of the teachers Lucien had been foisted upon during his endless years of lessons. Scholar Pierre's bland blonde hair was always uncombed, and his shirts were wrinkled, but the lines of his face were still soft.
He can't be older than Father—a rarity in a community that seems to most value whoever has the longest, whitest beard.
“We have closely studied history today, Your Highness, because it is a vital and important subject. It is one in which you must be well versed as a member of the royal family.”
Lucien smirked. “Then make Severin learn it. He's going to be my advisor on everything. As long as he knows it, we’ll be fine.” His brother—half-brother if one wanted to split hairs over it—would frown sharply at him for skipping his duties, but the truth was Lucien wouldn't ever do anything without Severin anyway, even when he was crowned king in the far-off years to come.
“Your brother already learned these lessons at age thirteen,” Scholar Pierre said.
Lucien dropped his smile and scowled. He didn't appreciate the reminder that his father forced him to keep up lessons and classes as an adult, while Severin had finished his classroom studies when he was barely more than a child. “But if one of us knows this information, that should be enough.”
“I'm afraid not, Your Highness. You are the future king. Even with Prince Severin at your side, you must still rule on your own knowledge.”
Lucien settled back into his plush chair, wriggling when a button dug into his back. “Then enlighten me. How does the mystical royalty of foreign countries affect my rule and reign?”
Scholar Pierre rubbed his chin and squinted at Lucien. “History repeats itself, endlessly,” he said. “The people and cultures change, but we are forever making the same mistakes. Countries overspend their budgets; wars come and go, and the people fear the future and incorrectly recall the past with more fondness than it deserves.”
Lucien rolled his eyes. Such a jolly fellow he is. “If history always repeats itself, why bother learning it? By the time you can tell it is repeating, it's already too late, and you are in the middle of it.”
“You must know history so you may change it,” Scholar Pierre said. His eyes were lit with an intense light as he held Lucien's gaze. “If you are in the middle of a massive repeat of historic events, knowledge of the past will provide clarity in a time when very little makes sense.”
Lucien stared at his shoes—irked to see that some of the decorative bows adorning them had become untied. “That sounds like something a historian would say in order to secure employment,” he muttered.
Scholar Pierre peered at his pocket watch. “If you are so opposed to history, we could switch to mathematics or economics.”
Lucien wanted to sneer, but he forced himself to keep his bored look in place.
While Severin had finished his formal schooling at such a young age, Lucien assumed he would need lessons for longer—he was a lazy heir apparent after all and had always been several months behind Severin, even though he was older. But Lucien had passed his twentieth birthday years ago, and he was still learning the same lessons he had been taught as a child—and all of this was under his father's orders.
If Father had his way, I would be taking lessons until the day I die—such moving confidence he has in me.
“If you look to the chalkboard, I believe today we should discuss balanced budgets,” Scholar Pierre said.
Lucien made a show of yawning again and fanning his face. “Sorry, old boy. I don't have it in me today. I think we’re done.”
Scholar Pierre glanced at his pocket watch again. “Your lessons aren't scheduled to end for half an hour.”
Yes, I am so inept I cannot be trusted to manage my own schedule. Lucien's smirk stayed indolent. “I say they're over now.”
Scholar Pierre bowed. “Very well, Your Highness. I will look forward to tomorrow's session.”
Lucien airily waved as he hopped out of his chair. He strode to the door and slipped out of the study and into the hallway as smoothly as he could. I need to get out of here. Too bad Severin and Elle are in Noyers, or I could beg off on a trip to Chanceux. His mind dwelled on his brother's pleasant chateau before his thoughts shifted to his brother and sister-in-law as he strode down the hall. I need to avoid Severin like the plague—he’s here to prepare for that wretched multi-country summit he’s holding at Chanceux. Seeing him will mean more responsibilities. But Father might leave me be if I were with Elle. I’ll have to barter with her to get her to agree to it, though, unless we go riding.
The little bit of tension that Lucien held in his shoulders eased. That’s it. I’ll call for H
enry to bring me my riding boots and coat, then I’ll go for a ride.
He whistled happily as he popped out of one wing of the palace and into a small garden that was enfolded within the palace walls. At the opposite end of the cottage-sized garden was a maid sweeping cobwebs off a doorframe. “You there, maid,” Lucien called.
The maid turned around then dipped a curtsey when she realized who addressed her, though her determined chin still jutted out. Severin would approve of her, though, for her uniform was pristine and not a hair fell out of her tight braid; the white ribbons of her apron didn’t even droop. He recognized her—Lucien took pains to recognize all servants by face after a witch had somehow snuck into the palace and cursed Severin years before—but in his mind he always referred to this one as Perfect Uniform.
“Yes, Your Highness?” Perfect Uniform asked.
“Go call my valet Henry and tell him I’m waiting for him…here.” Lucien looked around the small garden—which was really more of an inlet than an actual garden.
“Yes, Your Highness.” The maid bobbed another curtsey, stowed the broom she had been using to terrorize the spiders, then slipped into the castle.
“Tell him to bring my riding boots and coat. And my hat!” Lucien called out after her. When she was gone, he looked around the pleasant-ish inlet. “Yes, infinitely better than lessons.”
Ariane was concentrating so fully on carrying Prince Lucien's spotless riding boots—which she handled only because her hands were wrapped in her apron, lest she dare smudge them—that she almost rammed into Henry when he paused to adjust his grip on the prince's coat and ridiculous riding hat. Henry had to carry the hat far in front of him, or the colorful feathers that were secured to the brim would poke the valet in the eye.
Though the female dress had become perhaps a little simpler since Elle had entered the royal family, male fashion among nobles suffered no such introduction to tact as the nobles took their cues from Prince Lucien. Prince Lucien delighted in finery and frippery, a love that was apparently not shared by his valet based on the wrinkle of Henry's normally stone-faced brow.
I wonder how on earth he became a valet. Prince Severin's valet dresses far more similarly to Prince Lucien, whereas Henry seems to be more in Prince Severin's camp of dark, formal, and repetitious. She eyed the sword that tapped his left side with every step he took. Not to mention his propensity for being constantly armed.
Ariane realized her pinky had slipped out from behind her apron and carefully held the offending appendage away from the boots. If Lucien saw even one finger smudge on his boots, he would demand a servant clean every inch of them.
Never mind that he's going to walk out among the muck and get them filthy...
As if he could sense her disgust, Henry peered over his shoulder and glanced back at her.
Ariane kept her hazel green-brown eyes downcast and a slight smile on her lips, attempting to look as innocent as possible.
She must have passed muster, for Henry started walking again, though Ariane noted with a twitching eyebrow that he held Lucien's trim-embellished coat in such a way that it would crease oddly.
“Thank you for your assistance,” the valet murmured when they reached the tiny garden in which Ariane had left Prince Lucien.
“Of course.” Ariane bobbed a curtsy. (Her calf muscles had become infinitely stronger since becoming a maid at the palace, which required legs of steel between all the bobbing and curtsying.) She held out the boots, intending to pass them off, but Henry turned away from her and strolled up to Prince Lucien, who was sprawled across a stone bench, his long, lean body spilling over the end of it.
“Where are you injured, Your Highness?” Henry asked. He set the hat down on the bench when Prince Lucien popped upright.
“What are you talking about? I'm not injured.” The prince smoothed his glowing blonde hair. (Ariane would have approved of its neatness, if the hair didn’t grow from the head of the piggiest member of the Loire Royal family.)
Henry bowed his head. “Forgive me. I assumed it must have been an injury that kept you from returning to your quarters so you could properly change there, rather than requesting that your wardrobe be walked across the palace.”
Ariane eyed Henry with awe, impressed at his daring. The prince didn't seem to mind the slight chide, for all he did was roll his eyes and groan. “I'd get rid of you in a second if I could, Henry.”
“I am sure of it, Your Highness,” Henry said as he held out the coat.
Lucien took the offered clothing item and slid the eye-catching red coat on over his white shirt, grumbling as he tugged the lapels straight. For all his personality failings, he was the very image of a handsome prince: tall and lean with a nose so straight it practically begged to be punched and expressive blue eyes he used to his advantage as much as possible.
The prince was, in Ariane’s eyes, an irritant as he slobbed up his rooms frequently and was known to be something of an idiot. She didn’t relish the idea of holding Prince Lucien as her future king, but she knew it could be much worse—Lucien was merely an idiot, not a tyrant, after all.
Ariane almost sighed in relief when Henry took the boots from her and nodded in dismissal. She was used to being around royalty, for the royal family had a pack of servants hired to keep the palace spotless and held no hesitation in taking up residence in the room while a servant cleaned. She was, however, not use to being so close to royalty.
Unsurprisingly, I don’t really care for it—though that might be because it's Prince Lucien. Ariane made a beeline for her broom and reclaimed it as swiftly as possible. She opened the door, intending to work safely inside until the prince and his valet moved on. She slipped through and had almost swung the door shut when she heard a strange noise behind her, followed by the sound of two swords sliding out of their scabbards.
Ariane peeked through the small gap between the door and door frame, gasping when two figures dropped into the garden. The first was a female who wore a black cloak that swallowed her form and a black bandage that covered her eyes. Her companion was a tall, broad-shouldered male clothed in silk robes with a white mask that encased his face.
Henry and Lucien stood back to back, each facing an intruder.
The masked man stood relaxed, his arms hanging at his side, but the woman tilted her head. “Prince Lucien?”
The golden-haired prince eyed her over the edge of his sword. “What do you want?”
The woman opened her mouth, releasing an angry buzzing noise. Giant wasps the size of Ariane’s thumb descended on the garden.
Prince Lucien and Henry twisted together, their swords slicing through the insects, but the wasps kept coming, replacing every fallen bug with ten more.
This is magic—it must be! Ariane hadn’t seen many magic users—and she had met even fewer—but the size of the wasps and the way they flew around Prince Lucien and Henry, flying at them from their blind spots and aiming for their throats and eyes, made it obvious.
Ariane almost dropped her broom—intending to run and scream for help—but a sinking feeling curdled her stomach. They’ll be killed before I’ll find anyone!
The masked man stood with his back to her, and she noticed for the first time that his fingers were twitching.
Still torn between running for help and throwing open the door, Ariane looked for any sign of what his magic might be. Her worries were answered when Prince Lucien’s and Henry’s shadows peeled off the ground and stood. The shadows were more rounded and slower to move than their real-life counterparts, but Ariane was willing to bet their swords pierced flesh just as easily.
She opened her mouth to shout, when Henry swung around, sliding between Prince Lucien and the shadows in the nick of time. Hornets crawled across his back—stinging him through the cloth of his shirt and vest. Lucien bared his teeth and sprinted for the female mage, but every time he lunged towards her, the wasps created a solid wall in front of him as their brethren stabbed every uncovered bit of flesh on his perso
n.
I have to help! Ariane glanced at the male mage—who still stood directly in front of her door, his back to her. Her palms were sweaty with fear as she picked up her broom and slowly swung the door open. When she realized the buzz of the wasps covered all other noise—except for Prince Lucien’s and Henry’s growls—she took a few steps forward and adjusted her grip on her broom. I better make this count—or we’ll all die.
She licked her lips as she narrowed her gaze to the back of the mage’s neck, homing in on the small—very vulnerable—spot where his skull melded with his neck. As she pulled the broom back, she could hear her papa’s endlessly repeated advice.
“Hit ‘im fast, in a spot that will stop him long enough for you to get the upper hand. Go for maximum damage. Making a fair fight when you battle out of your league is a dead man’s sentiments.”
Henry growled when one of the shadows stabbed his left calf, and Prince Lucien’s throat was puffy from the venom of the wasps.
Ariane swallowed, then struck like a snake, hitting the male mage at the top of his spine and the base of his skull with the tip of her sturdy broom handle.
The mage toppled like an oak tree.
Ruthlessly, Ariane shifted her grip on the broom, then stood over the mage and slammed the end of it into the mage’s throat. He gurgled and didn’t breathe. The tarry shadows fell to the ground with a splat.
His fall caught the female mage’s attention, who looked away from Lucien and Henry and made a questioning garbled sound.
Lucien took the moment to duck around the wall of wasps, his expression lethal as he lunged forward and stabbed his sword at the bug mage. He landed a deep blow to her side, making her shriek.