The ambassador went on, but it all sounded like rushing water in Roanna’s ears.
Where was Ben?
He stood near the windows, laughing with Merry, whose long blond hair reached nearly to her backside. Roanna was hit with the longing to let her hair grow even more.
“Princess?” Roland’s voice held a desperate edge.
She’d missed half of his speech. “Forgive me, Roland.”
He beamed at her use of his name.
“I’m so overwhelmed by your devotion. You will allow me time to consider your offer, I hope.”
He nodded quickly, reminding Roanna of a lost puppy. “As long as you need, Princess. I have spoken to your parents, and they are most happy with the prospect.”
So they did know.
“Now we must only await permission from my brother.”
She smiled. “And my answer, of course.”
“Of course.”
Ben still stood near the window with Merry and her father. He caught her looking and smiled, but she turned away. What would Roland think of her making eyes at Ben only moments after he proposed marriage?
“I’m afraid I must ask your forgiveness yet again.” She stood. “I have much for which to think and pray. I will see you tomorrow.”
He stood. “I understand. Rest well, Princess.”
She smiled one last time and hurried from the room. How quickly life changed! One week ago, she was as happy and carefree as ever. Then an entourage from Dawson’s Edge arrived and her entire life’s course was altered.
It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to marry—she did. In fact, she had always planned to marry. But maybe she’d held out hope for a romantic match. Being swept off her feet by a handsome prince from across the ocean. Someone who wouldn’t make her long for her friendship with Ben.
The hallways were empty save a few servants scurrying about.
Roanna bypassed the staircase to her room and made her way to the chapel instead. The family attended evening prayers together on any regular night. However, when company visited the palace, things were thrown into disarray. She had to pray alone as she found time.
Candles took the place of electric lighting in the chapel. Thick carpet quieted her footfall, and dark wood panels lined the walls. Pews covered in dark red velvet offered seating, and at the front was a prayer altar.
Roanna knelt at it, though she had no idea what to pray about. Marrying Roland? Peace for her kingdom? Love instead of repulsion when she looked at the ambassador? Bravery instead of fear when she considered moving to Dawson’s Edge?
A hot tear slid down her cheek.
I want to marry Ben.
She sucked in a shuddering breath. She hadn’t intended to pray that. Surely, such a request wasn’t considered a legitimate prayer. It had probably bounced right off the ceiling and returned to haunt her forever.
She took a deep breath. She needed a real prayer this time.
I ask for wisdom to make good choices.
Yes, that was much better. A peace settled over her. Wisdom was good. One needed wisdom when choosing a marriage partner.
The door to the chapel creaked open, but Roanna didn’t open her eyes. It could be another member of the family or any one of their guests. Even the servants were permitted to use the chapel, though they rarely came in when the royals were present.
Try as she might, no further prayers came. Roanna stood and turned to go, but Ben knelt at the altar a few feet away. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. He had obviously seen her but had not interrupted. She would not interrupt him, either. But should she wait?
Before she could decide, he looked up. He smiled, stood, and then closed the distance between them. After his clothes had been soiled in the vegetable disaster at supper, he had changed into a fine, brown, linen suit with a white ruffled shirt underneath. The collar was unbuttoned, and now he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“You ran away.” He left the statement open, waiting for her reply.
Roanna swallowed her nerves. Yes, she had run away. How much should she tell him? What was proper?
It only took a moment to decide. This was Ben, her very best friend.
“Ambassador Dawson has asked Father and Mother for permission to marry me. They have consented, and he has sent for permission from Dawson’s Edge.”
The words hung in the air between them.
His jaw flexed, and after a moment, he spoke. “So, it’s not final yet?”
“No.” It came out as a squeak. “It’s not final.”
He looked away a moment, and when he turned back to her his face had relaxed. The ornery smile was back. “Do you want to see the dungeon now?”
6
Roanna peeked from the chapel into the halls. “It’s empty. The fastest way to get to the dungeon is through the servants’ halls,” she said.
Ben chuckled. “I remember.”
They sneaked into the hall and hurried to the door to the servants’ hallway underneath the stairwell. The dungeon was at the back of the palace, under the kitchens.
The door to the hallway was unlocked, and they slipped inside.
This part of the palace was different from the rest. Gone were the delicate paintings and fancy tapestries. In their places were beige walls, beige tiled floors, and beige lights that buzzed with cheap wiring.
In spite of the coloring, the halls were full of life. Farther down came the clatter of kitchen work and servants bustling about. A stairway to their left led into the depths of the earth.
Ben nodded toward it, and she followed him. The air turned cooler as they went the two levels below. Along with the cooler air was dimmer light. The fixtures were placed farther apart, and the air tasted stale. When had the electricity been added?
“What are we to do in the dungeon?” She shivered.
Ben slipped out of his suit coat and draped it over her arms.
“Thanks.” She slid her arms inside the sleeves. They swallowed her whole, but the silk inlay was still warm, and Ben’s woodsy-scented cologne wrapped around her.
He studied her for a moment then gave a typical Benjamin grin. “I hope that old man at least told you how beautiful you look tonight before confessing his undying affection.”
He’d used the same type of words a hundred times before, but tonight it felt different. Tonight, she’d been proposed to by a man she did not love but would probably accept. Tonight, her fate seemed sealed—they would never be together, and their friendship was almost at an end.
She ignored his question. “Again I ask, what are we doing in the dungeon?”
“I read something.” He started down the dim hallway, leading her toward the dungeon.
“You read something?” She hurried to keep up, the hem of her gown dragging the floor and her feet aching. She should have changed shoes first. Blasted fashion.
“Yes. I read something. You are aware of reading instruments called books, are you not?” He winked.
She rolled her eyes. “Ha-ha. Yes, I am aware.”
“Just checking.” His teasing expression faded away, and he slowed his step. “I found an old book in Father’s library at Lox. It was a handwritten history. Or rather, a first-person account.”
Roanna frowned. “A handwritten account of something that happened here? In the dungeon of Chester’s Wake?”
Mischief danced across his face. Or maybe it was the shadows. “According to the account, a doctor was kept prisoner here. A doctor from Dawson’s Edge.”
She didn’t have to hide her sigh in front of Ben. “Call me dense, but so what?”
“When is your birthday?”
“December thirteenth, three hundred ninety-one post wars.”
“That was the night the doctor was arrested.”
Roanna stopped him with a hand on his arm. “What are you saying?” Confusion swirled inside her.
“I don’t even know, except don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence?”
Strange, indeed. Almost
impossibly so. “Why was a Dawsonian doctor present when I was born?”
“Exactly what I thought we could find out. They must keep records down here somewhere.”
She nodded, and they resumed their walk. Ben’s hand brushed against hers, and tingles raced up her arm. Should she pull it away?
But Ben made the decision for her. “There.” He pointed, moving his hand. “It’s just around the corner.”
In spite of having only been there once, Roanna remembered the dungeon well. She stopped him again. “What if the guard won’t let us pass?”
“He likely won’t care as long as there are no prisoners. Are you keeping anyone right now?”
“How would I know?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “You are the princess. You ought to know what goes on in your own palace.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “And I suppose you know every prisoner who comes in and out of Lox?”
The mischief faded from his eyes. Slowly, he nodded. “I am Prince Benjamin Bellevue, the future king of Lox. So, yes, I know every prisoner who comes in and out, because it is my duty to know.”
First hurt and then shame and embarrassment spread through her. Was he chiding her? Making fun of her? “Well pardon me, Prince Benjamin Bellevue of Lox. It is unlikely I will ever be queen over anything. Unless, of course, King Dawson and his first two brothers happen to die all at once.”
Tears burned her eyes for the second time that night. Why would he say such a thing?
He kept silent, so she chanced a look at him. His jaw muscles flexed once again. They were doing that a lot today. Had she angered him?
“This was a mistake.” She turned back toward the stairwell. It had been foolish to sneak off with him. Irresponsible to spend so much time with him when she could never keep him. She was making issues out of nothing and causing tension for no reason.
“Roanna, don’t go.” He took her hand. “I didn’t mean it to boast. Surely, you know me well enough to know that.”
She did know him so well. But still she couldn’t meet his eye. “Then why did you say it?”
He growled and let go of her hand. He ran his fingers through his dark blond hair. “I’m sorry. It was stupid.”
“What was stupid?” She needed him to explain. What would make him give her a speech like that?
He shook his head, and two pink spots colored his cheeks. She had never seen him so flustered. Was Benjamin of Lox embarrassed?
“Ben, what is it?”
His gaze met hers at last, and she saw pain there. “I wanted you to remember who I am. I wanted you to…” He paused, studying her face then turning away. “Never mind. Like I said, it was stupid.”
Heat spread through her. What did he mean? They stood in awkward silence a moment more.
“If you want to go back, I’ll take you.” His voice was hoarse.
Was going back what she wanted? No. She wanted to spend as much time with Ben as she could before they were forced apart. She pointed ahead. “Let’s see what’s in the dungeon.”
7
After the tension with Ben, Roanna composed herself. She had to be poised enough to pull off the act of authoritative royal in front of the jailor. The time to consider Ben’s words would come later.
They turned the corner, and a guard met them at the entrance to the dungeon. He was tall—taller than Ben, even—with broad shoulders and an electricity stick strapped to his belt. He bowed slightly. “Your Highnesses. How can I assist you?”
“We came to see the dungeon.” Roanna kept her shoulders straight, her chin high. If she acted as if she belonged, he might actually believe her.
“Of course, Princess Roanna.” He unlocked the door and held it for them but frowned slightly. “The cells are on the left, and the offices are on the right. Knock three times when you’re ready to exit.”
Roanna could hardly believe it worked. They entered the dungeon, and the smell hit her immediately. It wasn’t as strong as she remembered, but the scent of rotten fruit hung in the air. As Ben had predicted, the cells were empty. She nodded to the offices on the right. “Over there.”
They walked to the offices, and Ben turned the knob.
“I haven’t been here in ten years,” she said, memories of those days swirling around her.
Ben smiled, probably remembering the same scenes. “Come on. Let’s find what we came to see.”
They moved into the office. A desk sat in the center, and the walls were lined with filing cabinets. “How do you think they’re filed?” she asked. “Alphabetically? Chronologically?”
He shrugged. “You start at that end, I’ll start at this end.”
It was as good a plan as any. She moved to the first cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. “So, what kind of account was this book you found?”
“It was a memoir.” Ben slammed the first drawer and opened the next. “A Loxian, a friend of both our fathers. I think he was some sort of mentor of theirs. Anyway, he was visiting Chester’s Wake on the night of your birth. He only made a small entry about the event with the doctor, but seeing your birthdate was enough to catch my attention.”
Interesting. She opened her third drawer and kept scanning. “What made you read that book in the first place?”
His fingers paused their searching. He didn’t look up. “Mother has me reading a lot these days. She calls it preparation.”
Preparation to be king.
“Oh. Of course.”
They resumed their search. Roanna gave up on the first cabinet and moved on to the next. She opened the drawer and gasped. “I found the right drawer! Year three hundred ninety-one P.W.”
Ben moved to her side, and together they moved to the desk. She sat in the chair, and Ben sat on the desk. One by one they picked through the files dated for the year of her birth. “Did this memoir give a name for the doctor?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
The files were listed by last and then first name, followed by the date of imprisonment and the length of sentence. It made for tedious searching. Roanna kept alert for her birthdate, but she passed file after file of dead ends.
“I wonder why these files aren’t kept digitally,” she mumbled. Most citizens across the kingdom had no access to higher technology, but at the palace Father usually afforded the best in technological advances. His interest ebbed and flowed, but he could usually be goaded into buying the latest inventions if for no other reason than to keep up with Lox.
Ben’s kingdom never lagged. Their technology might even rival that of the scientists across the ocean. And then there was Dawson’s Edge, the exception of their three neighboring kingdoms. They weren’t nearly as interested in keeping up.
“You could discuss the filing system with Gregory,” Ben suggested.
“Gregory?”
Ben looked down at her from his spot on the desk and shrugged. “He is the future king of Chester’s Wake. I assume he is undergoing the same type of training as I am. That includes pet projects.”
His words made sense, but she shook her head. “And what would I tell Gregory I was doing to learn the filing system of the dungeon?”
Ben’s eyebrows shot up. Then he smiled. “Excellent point.”
She returned to scanning the pages, and her breath caught. “Ben! Here’s one.” She moved to his side at the desk so they could look at the file together. Roanna’s heart thundered. But what was she nervous about? So what if a Dawsonian doctor was present at her birth? What bearing did that have on anything?
“This man was imprisoned on the night of my birth.”
“What was his charge?”
Using her finger, she scanned the page. “Upsetting the queen.”
They read silently for a moment, looking for more information. The man’s name was Dr. Richard Presnell of Dawson’s Edge. He was later found to have attended the birth of Queen Katherine Dawson’s stillborn daughter not two weeks prior to Roanna’s birth. He was in his sixties and well respected before this poi
nt, as he often travelled between kingdoms.
Roanna didn’t understand. “Why would he be imprisoned for upsetting the queen? Is it really so fair to jail him when Mother was in the throes of labor? It seems any woman would be easily upset.”
Ben pointed to a line near the top. “He was held for nearly a month. It had to have been something significant.” They flipped through the other pages, but most were various forms repeating the same information.
On the last page were a few handwritten notes. Ben scanned them quickly, then pointed. “There.”
She read the words and chills broke out across her skin in spite of the warmth of Ben’s coat.
“The prisoner was out of control, continuously shouting, ‘You must cut her hair! Keep it short!’” She looked to Ben, seeking some type of reason in the madness.
His gaze moved to her hair, and he slowly touched a single curl near her temple. “The doctor upset her, but she listened to him.” Ben knew of the rule about her hair—she had complained of it enough over the years. It was known widely that citizens of Dawson’s Edge were superstitious and backward. Why had Mother trusted the doctor’s warnings?
Roanna reached up and slowly unpinned her hair. It fell in awkward waves around her shoulders. Ben watched her, eyes widened. Finally, he said, “You’re growing it out?”
“Mother doesn’t know.”
His eyes softened, and he gave her a small smile. “I like it.”
They stared at each other for long moments, but the question remained. Why had Mother listened to the Dawsonian doctor?
8
Ben untucked his shirt and shoved the file behind his back. “Is it covered?” He turned his back to her.
“Yes, but why? What will you do with that?” Stealing from the dungeon seemed a strange thing to do.
“Don’t you want to know more about this man? His words have dictated your life for the last eighteen years.”
“Dictated is a strong word, don’t you think? It’s only hair.” And hair went along with the world of fashion, in which she had little interest. But Ben was right. There was something strange about the entire thing.
The Rejected Princess Page 3