I think I’m safe to go in here. It looks like an art gallery. Lots of paintings. Men that look like the prince himself, sometimes posing with women and families. In the older, faded portraits with cracked paint, they wear suits of armor, the same ones from the other room. In newer ones they wear uniforms.
I walk to the end and find the prince in a painting that looks so new, I’m surprised it’s not still wet. He stands on his own, looking younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen…next to his identical twin.
That can’t be right.
They’re exactly the same. The artist captures it so well, it’s like a photograph. The only difference I can see is a slight scar on one twin’s cheek. The prince doesn’t have it. It must mark his brother.
Where the hell is his brother? I’ve never even heard of him having one.
There’s another painting.
A tall, slender girl, of an age with the prince when the other painting was done, in a dress not unlike the ones in my wardrobe. Honey-blonde hair tumbles loose down her back, and she smiles warmly.
There’s only one painting of a woman alone in this room. This one.
Why?
I stand there contemplating that for a while, a thought nagging at the back of my mind while refusing to take shape.
Then I hear a commotion outside.
Running through the corridors, I follow the noise, lifting my skirts so I don’t catch them under my toes. I run faster, until I’m starting to puff for breath, following the sounds.
Somehow I manage to find a staircase that takes me out into the courtyard. I stop dead in my tracks.
The prince is in his armor, but it’s dented and torn up, the enamel scratched in long, jagged lines across the chest, the big shoulders dented in, and he’s limping, the armor quivering and seizing up as it moves. He lurches forward and stops.
The whole thing unfolds open. The helmet lifts up, the chest plate splits along a seam I couldn’t even see, and the arms just…fall off. The prince struggles out of it, falling to the dirt almost at my feet, panting on all fours. He slowly stands up, swiping at blood from a split lip.
The look he gives me freezes the blood in my veins. I feel like a rabbit staring down a hungry fox, hoping if I stay stone still he’ll pass me by and not eat me up.
“Get it inside,” he roars in Kosztylan, his voice so loud it shocks me out of my stupefied stillness.
“Oh my God, what happened to you?”
“It’s nothing.”
As two men struggle to lift one of the armor’s arms onto a steel cart, I lean over and my eyes go wide.
“Are those bullet holes?”
“Not bullets. Twenty-millimeter shells.”
I turn back to him, staring.
“Are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”
He touches his forehead and his fingers come away red. He rubs them together and flicks them contemptuously.
“It’s nothing, I’m not injured. Just a scratch.”
Before I even think I rush over to him, grab his chin in my hands, and turn his head to look for myself. I can feel everyone in the courtyard sucking in a silent breath, waiting.
He isn’t wearing one of those uniforms, I realize. He must have to wear some kind of special suit inside that armor. It’s like a wetsuit, only thinner, and it clings to every sweeping line of his body. I can see veins through it, even. He’s even more ripped than I realized, solid muscle from head to toe. He smells like sweat and leather and blood.
He pushes me back, gently, and swipes at his mouth with his hand, leaving a red streak on the sleeve of his bodysuit.
“Go back to your room. Dinner is at seven. It’s five thirty.”
“What happened to you?”
“That is not your concern.”
“Are you alright?”
He sounds almost confused that I would ask. “I am fine. Do as you are told. Now.”
I flinch and, almost without thinking, bolt from the courtyard. Somehow I find the way back to the right corridor and follow it around to my room, head inside, and almost collapse onto the bench at the foot of the bed, my heart pounding a fluttery rhythm in my chest.
It hits me hard when I realize, yeah, I’m worried about him. Last night on the goat trail, it was like he didn’t even notice that those resistance men were shooting at him. No, shooting him, they were hitting the armor, I remember it. What were those big marks on the chest and arms of the armor?
Matters of state? Matters of state? He could have been killed!
I sit back and stare at nothing.
What the hell do you care, Penny? You just want to go home.
Questions swirl around in my mind, like leaves caught in a dust devil. I lean over my knees and hold my head in my hands. Who was that girl? What’s up with those books? They looked like… I don’t want to say what they looked like.
I…need to change. I need to shower first, I feel sweaty and grubby. I make it a quick one and peer out from the bathroom to make sure the prince didn’t decide to just barge into my room again. After I dry off I clothe myself, and not in the cream-colored dress, but a powder-blue one that laces up the sides.
I look as stupid in this princess dress and matching slippers as I did the other one. I don’t know why I picked this one. It has a plunging neckline and the sleeves are low on my shoulders. I do almost like the way it looks, though. It suits my frame, I guess. My mom always told me I should show off my shoulders, don’t ask me why.
I pace around the room, going in circles until it feels like I must have worn holes in the soles of my slippers. I almost jump when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in?”
The prince opens the door and takes a single step inside, then stops, openly staring at me. I feel a flush creeping up my neck and realize I’m blushing.
Oh for God’s sake, Penny.
It hits me hard when I realize that I’m actually, straight-up relieved to see him.
A deep breath and then I walk up to him.
“You’re not hurt?”
“Why do you care?”
The coldness in his voice stings me a little.
“You may not be my favorite person, but you’re still a person. I wouldn’t wish any harm on you.”
He blinks a few times. “That was rude of me. Forgive me.”
He offers his arm and I take it.
“I want you to speak with the cooks.”
“Why?”
“I want them to prepare something you’d like. I didn’t want to presume. Some sort of American cuisine. Forgive me, but I thought it would be somewhat patronizing to have them make cheeseburgers.”
“I could go for a cheeseburger,” I admit. “A double. No, a triple. With Velveeta, ketchup, and mayonnaise, fries on the side, and a large chocolate milkshake. A real glutton monster burger that I couldn’t even finish.”
“Is our food so bad?”
“No, I like the food here. I just miss my home.”
We walk in silence for a while as he contemplates my answer.
For some reason we’re going to eat in a different room than breakfast. I guess that makes sense. He could probably eat in a different room every day of the year and not run out of new places.
I gasp when we walk inside.
“This is the great hall,” he says, a touch of pride in his voice, like a few grains of salt on chocolate.
Great hall is an understatement. The vaulted ceiling is fifty feet up, and it’s wider from one side to the other. Huge hearths, tall enough to walk into upright, line the walls, though they’re not lit. At the far end is a dais with a throne behind a huge table, but there’s a smaller one in the open middle of the room, sized for two.
I move to pull out my own damn chair, but again the prince beats me to it, and pushes it in for me as well.
When he sits he looks tired, and stares at the table for a moment.
“I want to ask you something.”
He looks up and nods ever so slightly.
&nb
sp; “I was in the library.”
“I see.”
I shift in my seat. “The books on the top shelf. Way up at the top of the tower. What are they bound in?”
“Why do you ask?”
I swallow, hard.
“They look like they’re bound in skin. People skin. I mean human skin.”
“They are.”
My stomach drops and I grab the arms of my chair. Oh my God. He’s going to turn me into a book.
Very funny. That’s about the most ironic way for an English teacher to die.
“When the crown prince of Kosztyla dies, his deeds are recorded in a book, which is in turn bound in his own skin. The practice is called anthropodermic bibliopegy.”
I relax. A little. Not much.
“Are you going to kill me and turn me into a book?”
“Not unless you ask nicely.”
I swallow, hard. “I have to tell you something.”
“Go on.”
“That is incredibly fucking creepy.”
He looks at me blankly for a second, as if he’s trying to parse what the word fucking means in that context, and then bursts out laughing. Real laughing that echoes through the hall. I just sit there wide eyed.
“You think it’s creepy? I have to look at that shelf knowing one day I’ll be added to the collection.”
“It’s just weird. Do you think you can, like, not do that?”
I laugh. Nervously. I sort of force it.
“I know it seems strange to you. At times it seems strange to me. My ancestors were odd men. My father once told me…” He trails off.
“Told you what?”
“He told me my forebears didn’t build a castle to keep the world out. They built it to keep us in.”
I shift in my seat.
Dinner!
It’s fowl, whatever it is. I think it’s goose. It’s not chicken or turkey. Maybe duck. There’s a thick slab on my plate with some kind of plum relish, I think? It tastes like prune juice, but sweeter. Also a little pile of pearl onions, carrots, and peas, which I kind of push around the plate. There are hot crusty rolls and butter, too, and a bowl of barley in cream sauce with chopped up broccoli.
The prince is quiet while we eat.
“What happened to you this afternoon?” I finally ask.
“I was dealing with the resistance,” he says, twisting the word into a curse.
“You looked really torn up when you got back. Or your armor did.”
“This is not a suitable dinner topic. You are a teacher?”
“I am. I was. I don’t know.”
“Please don’t start berating me.”
“I won’t. I’m tired of it. For now, anyway. Yeah, I went to school to teach. I majored in history and after that I was working on a certification and a master’s so I could teach, but I quit to come out here and work with the church teaching English in Solkovia.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to get away from home.”
“You were trying to sell it to me earlier.”
“I thought you didn’t want to fight about whose country is better.”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “True, I have had enough of fighting for one day. Why did you want to leave?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Is it because of the man you were to marry?”
I bite my lip, not wanting to slip any information about that subject at all, and yet I say, “Yes, that’s why.”
“Did he reject you?”
“No.”
“Then you, him.”
“No.”
“I see.”
“You really don’t. What about you? I saw a painting when I was walking the castle. Was she important to you?”
He bites his lip. It’s a weirdly cute gesture.
“Yes, she was.”
“Was.”
“Was,” he agrees.
“The final kind of was.”
He nods. “That kind, yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died. Most people do. As yours did.”
I flinch. “I don’t like talking about that. It hurt me a lot.”
“Enough to flee your democratic paradise and run halfway around the world. I can only imagine. Did it ease your pain? Fleeing?”
I stare at my plate. I don’t feel especially hungry.
“No. It didn’t make it hurt any less, but I could forget about it. The missionary work is very demanding. Long hours, not a lot of down time, and there were always people around.”
“I will make you another deal.”
“What’s that?”
“If you tell me about yours, I will tell you about mine.”
He has that unreadable expression again, like a statue. I can’t meet his gaze, and my eyes fall away.
I sigh and stare down at my lap.
“We met in my junior year. Third year of schooling. We knew each other briefly in high school, flirted a bit, nothing came of it. We started dating in college. It was serious. Very serious.”
“Tell me about when he proposed to you.”
I blink a few times, trying to stop the burning in my eyes.
“We didn’t have a lot of money and our parents didn’t really support us getting together. My parents are hippies.”
“What?”
“Liberals?”
“I understand. Go on.”
I roll my shoulders and suddenly feel very exposed by this damn dress. Why did I pick this one?
“Anyway my mother didn’t think I should get married at all.”
“Why is that?”
I shrug again. “I’d have to give up my last name. Well, I mean, I wouldn’t, there’s no rule that says I have to, lots of people don’t. It’s just the principle of the thing, I guess. I thought it was really hypocritical since she’s married and she seems happy enough with my dad. I think.”
“You do not know?”
“They’re not super affectionate with each other. I don’t know. They’re weird. I’ve never seen them kiss. Sometimes I think I was an accident and my dad stays on to take care of me. Or did. They’re still together. I don’t know. It was just a loveless marriage, he doesn’t care.”
“He has a sense of honor, at least.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to be alone. Anyway, in America it’s kind of expected that the bride’s parents pay for the wedding.”
“A dowry?”
“Dude, it’s not a dowry. It’s just a dumb tradition.”
“Did you just call me ‘dude’?”
“Yes, dude. My prince.”
He laughs again, softly. “I can genuinely say I’ve never met anyone like you.”
I go quiet for a minute. Goddamn him to hell, I’m blushing.
“They wouldn’t pay for it and neither of us could afford it. We finally decided we’d elope. Sort of. We announced it. So it wasn’t really eloping. My brother liked my fiancé, though. He was my best friend, my brother.”
The prince tenses. “Was?”
“Let me finish. Please. He… He and my fiancé went out, they called it a bachelor party but it was just the two of them. It was December and it had been raining and the rain froze. Black ice on the road and they didn’t see it. The car…”
My hands are shaking like leaves. I clench them into fists and it makes it worse. Trying to finish my sentence is like trying to pull loose a fishhook that’s caught in my throat. I can’t do it. I can feel my throat closing.
“Persephone…”
“My name is Penny. I hate that stupid name. It’s my fault. They’re dead because of me. Don’t you understand? I ruined everyone’s lives. My parents, my brother’s. I’m cursed. Look what happened to Melissa, and she just shared a tent with me. That woman in the camp even got shot because I was there.”
“That is not true.”
“I don’t want to hear it. I’ve talked to therapists and priests, it doesn’t help. No amount of talking or
counseling is going to bring them back.”
“You want them back.”
“Of course I do! Every miserable day of my miserable life. I just want to curl up into a ball and disappear.”
The prince stands up and walks to my end of the table. He offers me a handkerchief.
“Dry your tears.”
I didn’t even realize I was crying. I snatch it from him and wipe at my cheeks, trying to stifle my sobs.
“I told you mine. Now tell me yours.”
“No.”
I look up, scowling.
“You have enough pain of your own. You don’t need to keep mine, as well.”
“We had a deal. That’s not fair.”
“What is fair?”
I’m not sure if he’s asking me to explain the concept, or asking me if anything is really fair.
I can’t answer either question anyway.
“You didn’t eat much of your dinner.”
“I’m not hungry. I’ve been well fed, thank you. You’re a generous host, no matter what else you are.”
“That is a high compliment. I thank you.”
He offers me a hand.
“What do you want now?”
He frowns slightly.
“Always right to the quick with you. I want you to walk and talk with me. No more, no less. Then you have freedom of the castle again, but I’d ask you to return to your rooms before eleven.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
I take his hand. It’s warm, and very strong. I lean on it as I stand, still shaking a bit. He releases mine and I walk with my hands folded in front of me.
He takes a more direct route to the armory.
“I though you didn’t want me in here,” I say as we step inside.
“You speak with a certain familiarity. You’ve been here before.”
“I was exploring. The doors were open.”
He sighs. “You are an unruly child. I wanted to bring you here myself.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “What is this stuff?”
“Armor,” he says, gesturing toward the display cases. “The oldest belonged to my ancestor, the first to cement our family’s rule over these lands. Lacquered steel.”
I walk beside him, really looking at the armor this time. Each set is more intricate than the last, until we reach one that’s breathtakingly beautiful. The surface has been carefully shaped and beaten to the contours of the coat of arms across the chest, and the helmet is equally elaborate. It gleams like it’s brand new.
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