Protagonist Bound

by Geanna Culbertson

  Lunchtime?

  My stomach growled again and I decided that for now I would practice restraint for the sake of my hunger.

  “Fine,” I huffed as I walked past SJ and into the aisle. Then I glared at Daniel. “But smack me again and you’re gonna need a whole lot more than a row of chairs to ward off what you’ve got coming.”

  I ended up being wrong; we had chicken-fried-steak for lunch, not fish.

  Go figure.

  When mealtime was over, my classmates and I were escorted out to the cliffside for an outdoor lecture on Adelaide’s economic structure.

  It was a bit messed up that we didn’t get to go down to the actual beach, but the guards insisted that it was against Sea Silence Law policy for any unauthorized personnel or fishermen to be that close to the ocean.

  Which to me, of course, translated as a challenge to find a way to get down there later despite that.

  SJ hung out with me at the back of the group during this particular portion of our itinerary. It was unusual for her to sit so far away from an instructor. Just as it was unusual for Blue to be sitting toward the front with Jason and Daniel. The only classes she ever sat up front for were the fairytale history ones. Yet, there she was.

  I watched her pass a note to Jason, which he read quickly when our teacher wasn’t looking. He tried to suppress a laugh at whatever joke Blue had shared with him and then scribbled something back to her in return.

  SJ leaned close to my ear. “Crisa?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know I am not the type to pass judgment on others, but does Blue’s behavior strike you as odd?”

  I figured she must’ve been observing Blue too. Which was a bit of a relief to be frank, because I was beginning to wonder if maybe it was just me who was weirded out by how our friend had been acting.

  “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” I whispered back. “Nothing against Jason, but I thought she would loathe him now, or at the very least be distancing herself from him. The idea of prologue prophecies in general ticks her off. Now that she has a specific one of her own to hate, you’d think she’d be rebelling against it.”

  “I agree,” SJ stated slowly. “Jason is a wonderful boy, but knowing Blue, it is a wonder she has not broken his jaw with one of her right hooks by this point.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe your nagging has finally gotten through to her and she’s replacing her anger with kindness.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Not even a little. But it’s all I’ve got. Anyways, I would think you’d be proud of the way she’s handling the situation. Why do you seem just as worried as me?”

  “Crisa,” SJ muttered. “You, Blue, and I may disagree on a lot of things. But you have known me for many years and are well aware that, despite how it may appear, I too wish our lives were different. That we were not forced to live these . . . assigned roles.”

  I blinked like a startled deer caught in carriage headlights.

  I recalled SJ having expressed sentiments like this once or twice before. Even so, it was kind of easy to forget that she felt that way. She was such a natural princess. And she did such a good job of embracing her designated identity and what was expected of her that, to most people, it would’ve seemed like she loved every bit of it.

  Truth was though, if you got close enough, and paid enough attention, behind her gray eyes you could detect something quite contrary. You could sense the same sadness about our fates that I’d known my entire life. The difference was that she concealed how she felt about it nearly all of the time.

  I didn’t know if that was bravery, denial, or a bit of both. Either way, in rare moments like these it was nice to be reminded that—despite my extreme lacking in the princess department—my best friend and I still had more important things in common. And, bearing that in mind, I should have always been able to trust her . . .

  Mermaids Like Taffeta

  n behalf of all female-kind, I would like to say that a great majority of the most fabulous outfits in the world are super uncomfortable.

  At present, SJ, Blue, and I were on our way to attend Friday evening’s ball at Adelaide Castle. Ordinarily such occasions did not make me feel particularly excited. However, after a week of fishing talks and dreary guest lecturers that attempted to make up for their lack of charisma with ocean-themed business attire, I was ready for at least some kind of semi-stimulating activity.

  Moreover, since neither Blue nor I were given the chance to sneak away and get any combat practice in this week, sashaying about in our epically aquatic outfits was all the action we had to look forward to at the moment.

  Which brings us to our ensembles for this evening.

  The dresses that had been delivered to our suite earlier this afternoon were both gorgeous and sea-themed. They were also too tight around the waist, long enough to trip on, and itchy in places you didn’t want itched. But, in spite of their lack of comfort, the fact remained that they looked nothing short of spectacular.

  The gown SJ wore was crème-colored and had a seashell pattern sewn into the lace at the top of the corset and at the bottom of the skirt. It also had a layer of shimmering gold fabric underneath the lace, which made the whole thing glitter like it was made of pure stardust.

  Tonight my elegant friend had her hair in a bun, which allowed her to show off the dangling golden earrings she was wearing to perfectly accent the dress. And her graceful, matching crème-colored shoes—well, they almost made me rethink the boots I was wearing.

  Almost.

  Blue’s dress, meanwhile, was bright turquoise and strapless. It was lovely, but the real stunner was the hairstyle she was sporting. Earlier that day SJ had somehow convinced our rebellious friend to set her hair in curlers. How SJ had managed to accomplish this, I did not know. Blue once said she’d sooner rip out a raven’s uvula with her bare hands than go all “salon-girl.” Yet, there she was—her natural, dirty blonde waves transformed into such radiant curls that she would’ve given any princess a straight-up run for her money.

  Since we were on the subject, I did concede that my ensemble wasn’t half-bad either. The drop-waist, dark seaweed-green gown I had on was beautiful. Its bodice was soft and slimming. The single strap over my right shoulder had black jewels that matched the sparkles on the cuff bracelet clasped to my left wrist. And the flowing skirt cascaded around me with such grace that for a moment it made me question if the dress had been sent to the right girl. Of course, one look at the back of the dress and I knew that it could only be meant for me.

  Last week before we’d departed on our trip I had gone to the seamstresses back at Lady Agnue’s per usual and requested a dress with a zipper to prevent death via corset strangulation. Alas, I feared whatever comfort had been secured by this month’s alteration was counteracted by my dress’s fabric.

  The stylish gown’s remarkable skirt was constructed of several layers of bustled taffeta. As a result, it was extra huge and heavy and completely messed with my equilibrium. Adding to that lack of balance, I was already being a semi-good sport by wearing my fancy, high-heeled ankle boots for this evening’s festivities instead of my standard combat ones.

  That’s a major commitment on my part just so you know. I mean, taking on heels while handling ten tons of taffeta—can you say accident waiting to happen?

  As impressive as the dresses were, the ballroom where tonight’s main event was being held was even more magnificent than all of our outfits combined. Walking in with my friends twenty minutes later, its grandeur absolutely took my breath away.

  I had never seen so many candles in one place. They filled the room with a warm glow that made everything feel as if destiny, or true love—or better yet, fresh pastries—were in the making all around us.

  But even these innumerable burning lights could not compare to the ones right above our heads. With an entire ceiling constructed of glass, Adelaide Castle’s ballroom offered a crystal clear view of a thousand twinkling stars that gl
eamed in the night sky like silver confetti strewn across a deep navy tablecloth.

  For a moment—just a moment—I breathed in the intoxicating atmosphere.

  Countless Legacies at our schools had parents whose fairytales had begun in rooms just like this. Myself included.

  As ridiculous as such ideas were to me—love at first sight, wishing on stars, Prince Charming’s, and other such nonsense—I would admit that there was something in the air. Something that felt like . . . Oh, what was the right word?

  Magic?

  I paused and thought on the word.

  Hmm. Yes, magic.

  That was it.

  It felt like magic.

  So much so, in fact, that I started to wonder if maybe it wasn’t entirely our predecessors’ faults that they’d succumbed to stereotypes when trapped within the environment of a classic ball. The glowing energy in the room was clearly having a stronger effect on my classmates than if somebody had spiked the punch. Each one that entered seemed more entranced than the last.

  The setting was even making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And warm and fuzzy were so not two adjectives I used to describe myself. Like ever.

  But that’s what was happening. At least, that’s what I figured was happening given that I was getting a bit dizzy and my hands were becoming hotter the more I thought about the magical atmosphere of this place.

  Wait.

  Maybe it’s not the setting. My hands are actually really hot.

  I came out of my ballroom-induced trance in that instant when I realized my fingers felt like they were three thousand degrees. More disconcertingly still, when I turned my hands over, I discovered that my palms were actually pulsing red as if burning from within.

  Perhaps I would have (and should have) lingered on this peculiarity a bit longer, but Blue’s nudging me on the arm just then snapped me away from the subject.

  “Look’s like the she-lion’s cornered herself a lone gazelle over by the watering hole.”

  “What?” I stammered.

  “Duh, it’s a safari metaphor.” Blue shrugged. “Mauvrey’s cornering Marie over by the punch bowl.”

  I turned in the direction that Blue was indicating. Sure enough, my nemesis seemed to be closing in on Marie Sinclaire. It didn’t take me long to understand why. Marie was wearing the same purple dress as Mauvrey. Not exactly the same mind you, but similar enough to throw a self-absorbed, spoiled royal girl like Mauvrey into a tizzy.

  Unfortunately, our friend Marie appeared oblivious to this oncoming conflict and wandered out of the room without noticing that Mauvrey and her villainous posse were right behind her.

  No, gazelle. No!

  “I’ll be right back,” I said as I moved to exit the ballroom.

  “Crisa,” SJ interceded. “Maybe you should let this one go.”

  I stopped short. “Come again?”

  “Getting involved may not be the wisest thing for you to do here. I mean, do you truly want to get into it with Mauvrey right now? Lately, the two of you have been at each other’s throats more than usual. Perhaps it would be best if you just kept your distance from her for a while.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and pondered the idea. But then I shook my head—sure of what I was doing.

  “SJ, I can handle Mauvrey. I’m practically conditioned for it. But you know how some of the other princesses are. Marie, for example, is super sensitive. I’d rather it be me that absorbs whatever venom Mauvrey expels rather than someone like Marie, who she might actually hurt.”

  SJ and Blue looked at one another for a second—both of them clearly confused by my statement.

  “The things Mauvrey says don’t hurt you?” Blue asked, genuinely curious.

  I considered saying no at first, but then flashed back to Singing with Nature class a few weeks ago and remembered Mauvrey’s awful words:

  “I would just get used to being exactly what you are . . . no amount of Fairy Godmothers or magic is ever going to turn you into something else, Pumpkin.”

  The statement had rattled me. Moreover, it hadn’t been the first time. Mauvrey had been taking shots at my self-esteem for years. And had it not been for my sassy overconfidence and capacity to retaliate with effective zingers, I would’ve for sure had some kind of nervous breakdown by now.

  Even so, none of that seemed to matter at the moment. If anything it was all the more reason to go and help Marie.

  “Okay, yeah, the stuff Mauvrey dishes out may sting a bit,” I half-heartedly admitted to my friends. “She’s been out to get me for a long time, so I ought to know better than anyone. But that’s the point. If I can keep anybody else from feeling that way, even if it means putting myself in the line of fire, then I’ll do it. I may not be able to stop her from coming after me, but I sure as heck can stop her from going after someone else. And I think that means I have a responsibility to, right?”

  I paused and waited for SJ’s response. I assumed it would be some sort of lecture about my reckless, self-destructive tendencies, or how un-princess like my behavior was. Much to my surprise though, instead all she gave me was a small, sort of proud smile and a nod of approval.

  Huh. Alrighty then.

  “So do you want us to come with, Crisa? You know, help you out?” Blue asked as I turned to leave. “I’ve got a few throwing stars in my bra.”

  “Nah, I can handle this on my own,” I replied. Then I hesitated. “Wait, your dress is strapless, how did you . . . On second thought, never mind. I don’t wanna know.”

  “Oh, wait. I’ve got something else!” Blue said.

  “Blue,” I grunted under my breath. “I don’t want any weaponry from your bra.”

  My friend raised her eyebrows. “My dress has pockets too, Crisa.” Blue reached inside the folds of her turquoise gown and pulled out a ball of yarn—the enchanted one we’d been practicing with on the carriage ride over. “Remember, three squeezes turns it into rope. Then wrap one of the ends around your pinky finger and it will instantly become a ball of yarn in your hand again.”

  “I got it, I got it,” I assured her as I took the ball of yarn and shoved it inside my left boot. “Thanks, Blue.”

  “Be careful and hurry, Crisa,” SJ added. “Lady Agnue is not here yet and people are still arriving, so you remain permitted to enter and exit the ball freely. But it will not be long before the event officially begins and you know perfectly well that you do not want Lady Agnue to catch you wandering about without permission after that.”

  “Noted,” I said.

  And on that piece of advice—with yarn in my boot and feistiness brewing in my gut—I took a deep breath and marched across the ballroom toward the grand west doors.

  My hand was inches from their handles when I felt someone’s fingers graze my arm. Without logical reasoning, I cringed from the touch and pulled away. Although, when I turned around, I realized that my first instinct had been spot on.

  “Chance.”

  “Crisanta.”

  I didn’t know what was more irritating—the prince’s relentless pursuit of me, or his inability to look anything less than perfect.

  Shouldn’t there be some kind of cosmic rule that says if you’re that annoying you at least have to have a bad hair day every once in a while?

  I guess not. Because Chance Darling had been getting on my nerves something fierce as of late, yet in an all of our exchanges he’d never looked anything less than a ten.

  Make no mistake; verbally kicking him in the shin was as natural to me as it was vaguely enjoyable. Nevertheless, I would have been lying if I’d said that it was not slightly more difficult to do when the prince—dressed in his sleek tux—was so close to me. His eyes alone were a force to be reckoned with, especially in the entrancing glow of this ballroom.

  And I think he knew it, too.

  “Leaving so soon?” he asked as he leaned against the door, blocking my exit.

  “Getting some air,” I replied.

  “You shouldn’t wander t
he castle unescorted, Crisanta. Might I join you?”

  “If I wanted to warm up maybe,” I said. “Sadly, it’s already too toasty in here for my taste, so I don’t need any extra hot air following me around.”

  Chance crossed his arms. He looked more smug than insulted, which perturbed me. I tried to mirror his detached stance. Marie was in trouble and he was blocking my only exit. I needed to terminate this little convo swiftly and the only way to do that was to outmatch him. Verbally, that wouldn’t be hard. If shrewd eloquence was a weapon, I felt sure I could have bested any of the heroes and princes here.

  Regrettably, what Chance lacked in that department he more than made up for with his self-assured demeanor. Comparing his confidence with mine felt a lot like comparing a house made of bricks to a house made of sticks. Both looked theoretically sturdy from the outside, and could hold up equally well to certain conditions. However, while the former was unshakeable to all assaults, the latter was flawed. If someone found the right weak spot—the hidden, but ever present shortcomings in its design—a strategically placed huff and puff could very well blow it down.

  Chance stood up straight and stepped closer to me. “You know you’re only prolonging the inevitable,” he said.

  “Really?” I responded. “Because I think you’re only extending the uncomfortable. I don’t like you, Chance. Why do you insist on continuing to bother me? Haven’t you had enough?”

  He sauntered around my left side and leaned his face so close to mine that I felt his breath on my neck.

  “Would I be here if I had?”

  I turned my head to look him directly in the eyes. His princely charms were strong, but my conviction in this instance was ten times stronger. And I wanted him to know that beyond a shadow of doubt.

  While I may not have been as fearless as Blue, as flawless as SJ, or even as self-secure as Mauvrey, the part of my character that knew the difference between something I wanted and something I didn’t was as unyielding as steel.