by Vicky Savage
“I’ll try,” I mutter, feeling clumsy and dumb just being in her presence.
“Please sit down.” She gestures to the chairs and we all take seats. “I trust you are feeling better after your ordeal,” she says to me. “I’m certain it could not have been pleasant for you.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Is your family well? I haven’t seen your father or Prince Andrew for quite some time.”
“Drew is the same,” I tell her. “I hope to see father soon myself.”
“Excellent. Please give him my best.”
I nod.
“May I offer you some tea or other refreshment?”
I glance at Ralston. He’s waiting for me to answer. “Uh, no, thank you,” I say.
“Very well, shall we get down to business? I have the pieces Queen Eleanor commissioned. I think you will be very pleased with them.” She tugs on a tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling. Seconds later three men enter the room carrying carved wooden boxes. They place the boxes on the table in front of us. On a signal from Lady Lorelei, they simultaneously lift the lids, revealing three jewel-encrusted silver chalices.
“The chalices bear the names and birthdates of each of King Philippe’s three sons,” she says, pointing to an inscription on the base of the first chalice, “Gilbert Auguste, Ne 25 Mai, MCMLXXV. He is the crown prince, first born, and heir to the throne. These are for his brothers Jean Louis and Damien René.”
“They’re beautiful,” I say, gawking at the gleaming pieces. “I’m sure Mother will love them.”
“May I?” Ralston asks, reaching for the first chalice.
“Of course. Please have a closer look.”
Ralston removes the chalice from its satin lined box. He examines it closely, holding it up to the light, revolving it in his hands. “Exquisite. I believe I recognize your hand in some of the more elaborate workmanship, Lorelei.” She smiles modestly.
“Queen Eleanor will surely be delighted. If you will have them wrapped we will take them with us,” he says.
“Certainly.” She nods to her men. They remove the boxes from the table and disappear through the door.
Lady Lorelei settles back in her chair. “I have something for you,” she says to me.
“For me?” I look at Ralston, confused. He shrugs.
She pulls a dark blue velvet pouch from a drawer in the table and hands it to me. “It is from our raven-haired friend. He was wearing it the night we assisted him. He asked me to give it to you as a token of his gratitude.”
My heartbeat quickens. Blackthorn has left something for me? Inside the pouch is a long, elaborately woven silver chain with an intricately carved wolf-head pendant.
“He gave you this? For me?” I ask.
“Yes. He said it had a special significance for him. He wanted you to have it. Shall I put it on for you?” She comes around the table, and I place it in her hand.
“The workmanship is exceptional,” she says. “It must be very old. The chain and pendant are undoubtedly Cherokee. I polished it for you, and repaired the clasp. I think it must have been through a lot.” Her laughter is light and melodic.
She slips the necklace over my head, centering the delicate wolf-head on my tunic. “Charming,” she says smiling.
“I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Are you sure this is for me?”
“Of course, Princess. It was a most compassionate and courageous thing you did for our young friend.”
My cheeks flush red. Mostly because I don’t feel courageous at all. I feel like the scared, homesick kid I really am.
SEVENTEEN
Ralston says I have Dome Fever—not unusual for someone not accustomed to being so confined. I’ve been in Domerica for over two weeks now. I still get daily updates on IUGA’s efforts to coordinate my return home, but it’s always a different version of “we’re working on it.” I admit I’ve been moping around since Mother and Drew left for Dome Noir three days ago.
The Coalition meeting is supposed to last for several days, and I’m annoyed that I couldn’t tag along and check out Dome Noir myself. I’ve heard it’s a lot different from Domerica—kind of dark and edgy. It’s called Dome Noir because the gases in the dome shell are darker silver, nearly black. Ralston says the queen and the crown princess are never allowed to travel together outside the country. So I’m stuck here on my own.
As a remedy for my malaise, Ralston has planned a little picnic for us to a nearby lake for art lessons. I swear to him that I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, but he insists that a princess should know how to paint and he describes the lake as a “painter’s paradise.” He sends me to my room to change while he arranges for a picnic basket and art supplies to be loaded into an open-air carriage. The picnic part sounds fun at least.
I throw open the doors to the princess’ well-stocked closet to choose an outfit (one of my favorite daily activities). I’m tired of wearing riding clothes every day, so I decide that a dress would be the perfect choice for a picnic. The princess has so many cool dresses it’s hard to settle on one. I finally pick out a sweet, spring green, sleeveless number that just brushes the tops of my knees. The style is simple, but the silk is gorgeous. I wear my hair loose with a woven headband of pink and green ribbons.
When Ralston comes to fetch me, his eyes grow wide. “You can’t go out like that, Jade,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s an underdress—like a slip. Haven’t you noticed that ladies do not wear sleeveless or short dresses during the day? It is considered immodest.”
I frown. I guess I hadn’t noticed, but now that I think about it, I haven’t really seen any mini-dresses in the palace.
“Well hell, a little help would be nice,” I say. “How am I supposed to know what passes for appropriate fashion in this backward little snow globe?”
He steps past me into my room. “Let’s have a look in your closet, shall we? And watch your language, Princess.”
Ralston examines the contents of my closet. “I think you understand the pants. Tops should have sleeves and should not show your midriff.” He picks up a camisole. “Though women may wear this as a top in Connecticut, this is not a top in Domerica, it is underwear.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“These are your day dresses, he says, waving his arm at one rack. Notice they are ankle length or longer, with some sort of sleeve. They normally have buttons or ties, lace or cuffs, or some kind of trim, and possibly a pattern in the fabric.” He points out several examples. “As you know, an evening event is the exception. Then you may throw out all the rules. Elegance is the only imperative, and you’ve done well with that, so far.”
I smile at the compliment.
He pulls out a dusky pink, U-neck dress made of lightweight fargen wool and embroidered with small flowers. “This would be an appropriate dress for our excursion today.” It’s ankle length with long, belled sleeves. Kind of retro 70s, vintage hippie, but I like it.
“Underneath, you should wear a swimsuit. The lake will be perfect for swimming this afternoon. You might enjoy a dip.” He opens several drawers in the lingerie chest. “Ah, here we are.” He pulls out what looks like a white workout tank top and a pair of matching stretchy shorts. “This is a swimsuit,” he declares.
I squint at the suit, and then at him. “Are you sure? That doesn’t look like a swimsuit to me. It looks more like a yoga outfit or something.”
“Trust me Jade, this is considered risqué in Domerica. Just wear it. No one is going to see you anyway. I’ll wait for you in the carriage. And don’t take all day, we’re losing the light.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll be right there.”
When I reach the carriage, I find Ralston waiting for me—alone. Somehow he managed to convince our guards that we don’t need an escort today. He sent them into town on an errand. I’m sure they’ll be spitting mad when they get back to the palace and find us gone, but it’s liberating to be rid of ou
r constant, noisy companions.
Ralston didn’t exaggerate about the lake. It’s idyllic. Wildflowers are strewn across the broad meadow leading down to the silvery-blue water. A small waterfall is visible on the far side of the lake, where fifty-foot spruces form a border along the bank. We set up our outdoor classroom beneath a welcoming, ancient oak.
Ralston props a fresh canvas on the easel, and begins my lesson with a flourish. He deftly demonstrates various methods for making globs of oil paint look like flowers and trees. I’m fascinated by his movements as the canvas comes to life with each brush stroke. He does a good job of making it look easy.
Then it’s my turn. I select a brush and attempt to imitate Ralston’s flamboyant strokes. The result is beyond dismal. My painting looks like someone sneezed tossed salad all over the canvas. Ralston patiently makes suggestions for ways in which I might improve my technique, but after a whole slew of failed attempts, and several spoiled canvases, even he is forced to admit defeat. He mercifully suggests we break for lunch.
We spread a blanket under the tree and open the basket to see what goodies Cook has prepared for us. I’m happy to find baked chicken instead of Weigel or some other local delicacy. Crusty rolls, sharp cheddar cheese, and juicy pommeras round out the menu. Two jars of sweet peach juice are included for drinks, and two thick wedges of blueberry pie for dessert.
“Ralston, how did Mother and Drew travel to Dome Noir if the atmosphere outside is deadly?” I ask, enjoying the delicious and slightly messy cuisine.
“They wear protective clothing when they’re exposed to the open air, but for the most part they stay inside enclosed vehicles. Motorized conveyances take them to the harbor, and high-speed hydrofoils transport them across the ocean. The hydrofoils are quite amazing. They travel at speeds similar to that of a jet plane.”
“We have some high-speed ferries like that back in Connecticut,” I say. “What’s this Coalition meeting all about anyway?”
A look of unease flashes across his face. “I do not know, my dear. It could be anything really, especially now that this world has veered from its predicted course. I am certain we shall find out upon your mother’s return.”
He gathers up the remains of our lunch. “Now, are you ready to get back to our lessons? Your first foray into oils was rather disheartening, I must say. Perhaps watercolors are a better medium for you.”
“No more painting, pleeeease,” I beg.
He shoots me an exasperated look.
“Ralston, teach me to sword fight.”
“What? No! It’s too dangerous.”
“But I’m supposed to be a sword-meister, right? So I at least need to learn the basics. What if I’m ever called upon to use my skills? I’ll be exposed as a fake…if not maimed or killed.”
“I seriously doubt that you’ll be challenged to a sword fight in Domerica, Jaden. Not to mention that you are normally surrounded by a number of armed guards even if you were.”
“Come on Rals. It’ll be fun. We don’t even have to use real swords. Just show me the down and dirty.”
He tries to purse his mouth, but the corners turn up into an almost-smile, and I know I’ve won. “All right,” he says. “You finish cleaning up lunch, while I find something we can use for swords.”
He stalks into the trees and is back a few minutes later with some sturdy branches he has stripped and cut to roughly the size of a sword. “These are lighter than real swords. But, they’ll do for practice.” He tosses one to me. We stand facing each other under the tree.
“Your footwork is as important as your swordplay,” he says. “We’ll start with that first. You seem light on your feet, so just watch and follow.”
What Ralston lacks as an art teacher, he makes up for as a fencing instructor. He’s graceful and athletic, and surprisingly strong for his size.
I’m not too bad with my stance and footwork. My Tae Kwon Do experience helps me with balance and speed. When it comes to my grip, though, Ralston says I’m a hopeless case. No matter how many times he demonstrates the proper grip, I can’t get the hang of it. After a while he just shrugs and says maybe I’ve invented my own style.
It doesn’t take long for me to become completely absorbed in the lesson. I love the new challenge, physically and mentally. After two hours of intensive swordplay, I’m totally whipped and soaked in sweat. My arms and shoulders ache.
“I need to rest,” I say, plopping on the grass.
“Too much for you? Taking on the old Swordmaster?” Ralston’s still fired-up from the sparring and kind of full of himself.
I have to smile. “Yeah, Rals, you kicked my butt.”
“Why don’t you take a swim, while I pack up the art supplies? You’ve done remarkably well for a novice—much better than your abysmal showing as an artist.”
“Hey, you got to play to your strengths, right?” I laugh. “A swim sounds great, but I’ll help you pack up first.”
“No. You go on. There’s not much to do here, and I’m not even winded,” he boasts, folding up the easel.
I drag my tired bones to the edge of the lake. The sparkling water looks cool and inviting. I peel off my dress, hang it on a tree branch, and dive in. It’s heaven.
I swim out to the little waterfall. The chilly curtain of water cascades across my head and shoulders, refreshing my aching muscles. Hoisting myself up on a rock beside the falls, I let the dome-filtered sunlight warm my skin. I wonder what Mom and Drew are doing right now in that mysterious place called Dome Noir. I hope they’ll be home soon. Maybe if I practice enough, I can challenge Drew to a sword fight. I’d love to see his face if I beat him.
I close my eyes and my thoughts drift idly to the place where they hang out a lot these days—to that incredible face, jet black hair and sexy smile. I flex the fingers of my right hand recalling the electrical charge when Blackthorn’s lips met my skin. A flicker of bittersweet pain passes through my heart again, remembering his face as he left that night.
I dive back into the water to clear my head. I swim underneath the falls and discover a small, protected alcove carved out of the rock on the other side. It shelters a tranquil little pool with a sandy bottom. Silver-green light filters through the veil of water, dancing and sparkling across the pool. The sounds of the cascading falls are peaceful and soothing, and I wonder how many people know of this tiny hidden haven.
As I explore the little grotto further, I realize that if I position myself to one side of the waterfall, I can see the entire lake without being seen myself. I scan the shoreline looking for Ralston and our picnic tree. When my eyes find him, I’m startled to see that he’s talking to someone. It looks like… but, no, it can’t be. Ryder Blackthorn!
My heart skips a couple of beats and a wave of hot emotion surges through me. What is he doing here? I’m ecstatic and frightened at the same time. He shouldn’t be here. He’s a wanted outlaw with a hefty bounty on his head. How can he be so reckless? I dive under the falls, quickly swimming for shore.
EIGHTEEN
I see Ralston hand Blackthorn some towels, which he carries down to the water’s edge. By the time I reach him, I’m hopping mad and sopping wet.
“What in the hell are you doing here, Blackthorn? Didn’t we just move heaven and earth to help you escape Domerica? Why don’t you just ride straight over to the palace and turn yourself in?”
He half-smiles, “Nice to see you too, Princess.”
“Oh really? Are you completely out of your mind or do you just have a death wish?”
“I need to speak with you.” He hands me a towel.
“So you just trot on over here to see me despite the fact that there’s a huge reward on your head, the Royal Patrols have been doubled, and everybody and his brother are looking for you.”
He steps closer to me, so I have to look up at him. His expression is amused and his manner relaxed. “Please calm yourself, Princess. Put on some clothes, then we shall speak.”
I look down at myself and rea
lize that the oversized Domerican swimsuit I’m wearing, while modest by anyone’s standards when dry, is something else altogether when wet. The dripping fabric clings to every embarrassing curve of my body—like I just entered a wet T-shirt contest. A small “Oh” escapes my lips and my face burns scarlet. I quickly wrap the towel around myself.
“I need a few minutes to wash up,” he says, pulling off his armor. “It’s been a long ride.”
Hurrying to the tree where I left my dress, I dry off and quickly put it back on. I run my fingers through my wet hair pulling futilely at the mass of tangles. I soon give up, however, and twist the whole snarled mess into a knot at the base of my neck.