Further on, I pass by horse stables, a wishing well, and a carriage house. Shortly after crossing an olive grove, I come upon a small, shingled structure with several boarded up windows and a thatched roof. Maybe this is the place Marcella means.
The door is unlocked. I venture inside cautiously. My mouth drops. It’s not a shed. It’s a museum!
There are paintings everywhere. Landscapes, still-lifes, portraits, and more. Hanging on the walls. Stacked in corners. Standing on easels. If I had to guess, two hundred paintings, at least.
The paintings are astounding. You don't have to be an art scholar to appreciate them. Each one is a masterpiece.
The artist has managed to breathe life into all his subjects with his masterful strokes and a subtle but beautiful use of light. I pause to admire a garden scene--a luminous patch of white lilies. The droplets of dew on the outstretched petals are so well done they seem touchable, practically real. Wait! They are real! What I mean is that I remember seeing this very patch of flowers in Gallant’s late wife’s garden.
Obviously, the artist must be someone in the service of The Prince. I recognize a portrait of his white stallion that’s so full of action the horse is practically leaping off the canvas. There’s another equally splendid portrait of The Prince himself. His blue eyes stand out, glistening with a vibrancy that’s missing now.
Rummaging through the stacked canvasses on the floor, I discover a charming portrait of a beautiful, brown-eyed infant with gilded curls. It’s unmistakably Calla. The artist has admirably succeeded in capturing her magic, even at this tender age.
In the far corner of the room, I come across what must be a large canvas propped on an easel. It’s hidden from view by a sheet of thick damask. Curious to see what lies beneath, I carefully edge down the fabric.
“STOP!”
I freeze, then wheel around. Gallant! His eyes are narrow; his lips tight.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I’m searching for one of Marcella’s earrings.” I act calm but inside my heart is racing. “I thought it might be here.” My question is: What is he doing here?
“This is my studio,” Gallant says solemnly.
The Prince painted all these works of art? I’m in awe. I had no idea he was so talented.
“I’m sorry to be intruding on your space and time,” I say humbly.
The Prince apologizes for his outburst. “Please continue your search. I only came by because one of the guards reported hearing a strange noise in here last night.”
“I’ll leave. I don’t want to distract you from painting.” He must be working on the covered canvas.
“I no longer paint,” he says wistfully.
He goes on to tell me that after the death of his wife, he could not bring himself to pick up a paintbrush. The world lost all its color. Everything seemed so futile.
The sadness in his voice moves me deeply. He lost both his true love and passion.
The Prince’s eyes grow distant. “After she died, I could no longer find the true meaning of beauty in the world.”
The true meaning of beauty. Shrink’s haunting words echo in my head. So, Gallant knows the answer. Or at least, once he did. Now, is he searching for it like me?
I yearn to ask him, but the words stay trapped in my throat. I pivot toward the door.
The Prince places his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. “Jane, please stay.”
To my delight, his mood brightens, and he gives me a whirlwind tour of his studio. He springs to life as he talks about the inspiration behind each painting. Never having seen him so animated and passionate, I find myself engrossed in his every word. Stimulated. Sharing my reactions and interpretations. Asking him questions. Challenging him. Challenging myself.
“You’re a master,” I say, meaning it. “Your paintings belong in a museum for the world to behold, not hidden from the human eye.”
Finally, we come to the covered painting. “What’s under there?” I ask with curiosity.
The Prince takes a deep breath, then sweeps off the damask cloth. Before me stands a large canvas. It’s obviously a work in progress. A portrait of woman picking flowers, still at the outline stage.
Gallant’s eyes, glimmering just moments ago, are laced with melancholy. He turns away from the canvas and remains silent.
“My last painting,” he says at last. “A portrait of my wife. I was going to surprise her with it on her twenty-first birthday. But she died before I could complete it. I have not been able to paint since then.”
So, grief shut him down. Is that what love does?
“My Lord, you should finish the painting. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to Calla.” I stare at the unfinished portrait. “And you owe it to her.”
With a sigh, Gallant carefully re-covers the painting and changes the subject.
“Forgive me. What did you say you were doing here?” he asks as if we’ve just met up.
I tell him again about Marcella’s missing earring. Uh oh. I was supposed to keep this under wraps. Oh well. Whatever the consequences, I can’t undo what’s been done.
“I am sure it is not here,” says Gallant. “My studio is off limits to everyone, including Calla.
“Then I’d better get going.” Truthfully, I don’t want to leave him.
A mutual loss for words forces us to lower our eyes.
“Look!” We say it simultaneously. As if we had timed it.
There it is on the ground…Marcella’s emerald earring. Right under the easel holding the unfinished portrait of Gallant’s wife.
We squat down together. Meeting face to face, we’re very close--our eyes just a palm’s width apart. His warm, sweet breath blows on my face. My cheeks grow flush, and I’m getting tingly hot all over. My heart thuds so loudly I can hear it.
The Prince studies my face. I gaze at my reflection in his piercing blue eyes. What does he see in me?
With his long, skilled fingers, he delicately traces my features. It’s as if he’s drawing me. My skin prickles from his touch, but I don’t dare blink an eye.
His mouth curls into a smile that renders me breathless. “You are meant to be painted.”
I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not even my “magic” mirror.
We each reach for the sparkling earring. Our fingers touch; a spark flies between us, and then we quickly pull apart. I let Gallant pick it up. As he hands me the jewel, our fingers interlock. This time he doesn’t pull away.
“I’ve got to go,” I stammer, struggling to my feet before my knees give in.
“Jane, please do not leave yet,” he says, tightening his grip.
“Marcella will have my head if I don’t get back,” I force myself to say.
As I finally manage to pull away, a rustling sound distracts me. It’s coming from outside. Has someone been watching us?
I hurry to the door. Clutching Marcella’s earring, I sprint back to the castle and wonder-- how did it end up where it did?
CHAPTER 29
ME
Those are the two colossal gilded letters carved into the daunting gate outside The King’s palace. Can you imagine--ME!--how more egocentric can you get? Well, I suppose if it were my palace, I wouldn’t exactly inscribe “YOU” on the front gates. My house is your house. Now, there’s a concept.
“Papa! We’re here!” squeals Calla with excitement.
“Jane, calm her down,” snaps Marcella as she fiddles with her emerald earrings.
She never even thanked me for finding the missing one. The ungrateful skank! I hope Calla chews her ear off. It would serve her right. She went off the deep end when Gallant asked me to come along--especially since it was going to be her first time meeting his parents, recently back from their six month diplomatic trip abroad. Finally, she backed off when he told her it was more of a babysitting gig. I could occupy Calla while they enjoyed an “adult evening” with The King and The Queen.
&nb
sp; The paved road leading into the King’s palace goes on for miles. Seated opposite Gallant, I stare at his handsome face. He looks tense. Almost withdrawn. He catches my eyes on him, and suddenly I feel embarrassed, like I’ve been trespassing on his private space. I quickly turn my head and peer out the window.
The palace comes into view and gets my mind off Gallant. It is a castle of monumental proportions--much grander than mine--with countless towers, turrets, and spires. Lit by the full golden moon, it resembles a gigantic, gilded jewel box.
A drawbridge leads to a stone gatehouse, where two armed guards greet us. They’re delighted to see The Prince and Calla. I get the feeling they are like family though they’re only hired help. Our carriage lets us off in front of the palace, where we’re met by a fleet of welcoming valets.
Inside, the palace is equally grand. It’s filled with fresco-painted walls, richly embroidered draperies, and sumptuously upholstered furnishings. Gilded touches are everywhere, including a massive candle-lit chandelier that hangs from the high vaulted ceiling. I bet it’s made of real gold.
An elderly, barrel-sized man, holding a golden staff, descends an elaborately carved gilded staircase. He is, undoubtedly, The King. He has the same sharp blue eyes as Gallant and, beneath his neatly trimmed beard, the same square jaw. And once upon a time, I bet he sported the same lean, athletic body.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” shouts Calla. Her face lights up as she runs over to him.
“Bambina!” beams The King, lifting her high in the air.
Bambina? How odd to hear that word again after so many years. Could he possibly be the man who gave me a gold coin on that fateful day? Even if he were, he’d never remember. I’ll never forget.
“Hello, father,” says The Prince, his voice cold and distant. He’s clearly on edge tonight. What’s eating him?
“Son, introduce your guests to me says,” says The King.
Marcella tugs at her clingy green gown, then puffs her chest. “My love, what are you waiting for?” She elbows Gallant, jolting him out of his other worldliness.
The PIW cringes when he turns to me. “Jane, this is my father, King Midas.”
King Midas!? The Prince’s father is King Midas!? The ruler of the Midas Empire. The me behind the ME. The man with the golden touch, who owns just about everything in Lalaland, including my castle! My house is your house, I scream silently.
Every muscle in my body clenches as my mind transforms into a raging inferno with Midas trapped inside. I force myself to curtsey as I mentally char the bastard to a crisp. Nice to meet you, Mide-ass! Now, give me back my castle!
“I’ve heard so much about you,” says The King.
You won’t live long enough to find out more. I exert so much control to keep my mouth clamped--and my hands to myself--my neck may snap.
Marcella shoots The Prince a dirty look. “What about me?”
Hastily, Gallant introduces Marcella to his father, not mentioning she’s his fiancée.
“Enchantée, Your Majesty.” The PIW’s cannonballs shoot out of her deeply décolleté gown as she curtsies.
“The Prince didn’t tell me that you’re so svelte,” she says in the most sickening kiss-up voice I’ve ever heard.
“Oh, Marcella,” chuckles the hefty King, his eyes glued to her chest. “You know exactly what to say to make my day.”
And what to do. She loads her ammunition back into her gown.
A horrifying thought flies into my head. Holy crap! This slut will one day own my castle if I don’t get it back. Burning bile rushes to the back of my throat.
While Gallant remains silent and detached from the conversation, Calla jumps right into it, unaware of the turbulent emotions raging inside me. “Grandpa, Jane’s made a yummy pie with apples we picked at that spooky castle.”
“Ah, my new property,” says The Kings.
My old property, I seethe.
The bastard claps his thieving hands. “Splendid. I can’t wait to eat it!”
Dragonballs! Another missed opportunity. Had I known I was going to meet the property thief, I would have figured out a way to poison his slice of pie. One bite and he would have been history.
Marcella plumps up her breasts, then clears her throat with an attention-getting cough. “Your Majesty, I’ve also brought you a yummy dessert. Homemade vanilla cupcakes.”
Homemade cupcakes? You had me order them from Sparkles, you lying witch!
Marcella shoots me a nasty keep-your-mouth-shut look.
“I can’t wait to bite into one,” says The King, his eyes exactly where the skank wants them to be.
“Trust me, Your Majesty, after you eat one of my cupcakes, you’ll never want to eat that apple pie.”
Flaunting her boulder-size engagement ring, The PIW slaps me with a smirk. As much as I want to kill Midas, I want to kill her more. Much, much more.
***
“Grandpa, where’s Grammy?” asks Calla as we gather in the great room for pre-dinner cocktails.
“You know, Grammy,” chortles The King. “She can never make up her mind what shoes to wear.”
At that very moment, a buxom woman, with skunk-white hair and a scarlet satin gown, makes a grand entrance. “Hello, everyone,” she says in a thundering voice.
“Grammy!” Calla races over to hug her.
Wait! I know this woman. She’s the one Marcella battled at The Glass Slipper! For those glittery ruby slippers! She’s The Prince’s mother!? The wife of King Midas. Marcella’s future mother-in-law?
Marcella also recognizes her. Her body lurches forward, and her eyes almost pop out of their sockets. She seriously may have a seizure.
“This is my beautiful wife, The Queen of Hearts,” says King Midas affectionately.
Marcella practically tumbles out of her chair to curtsey.
To my astonishment, The Queen doesn’t recognize Marcella, who has her hair, blonder than ever, pulled back in a regal chignon. Maybe she’s blind as a bat or suffering from some extreme form of dementia. Whatever it is, she’s as gracious as can be. Relieved, Marcella plasters a sickening smile on her face and puts on her enchantée-I-speak-French act.
“Your Majesty, your shoes are so très faboo! You must tell me where you bought them.”
I want to vomit. Oh God. Can this night get any worse?
***
The banquet table in the grand dining hall is ornately set for eight. A huge vase of exquisite heart-shaped red roses graces the table. On the wall facing me is a striking, life-size portrait of The Queen. I recognize the artist’s hand instantly. Gallant. He has transformed his matronly mother into an immortal beauty--albeit, with a few nips and tucks.
We take our seats, but two chairs remain empty.
“Where is Cinderella and that other son of ours?” roars The Queen.
Prince Charming is Gallant’s brother? What other family surprises do I have in store?
“Dear, you know that Cinderella. She is always late,” replies The King.
The Queen pounds a fist on the table like a gavel. Everything shakes, including me.
“I’m going to sign that girl up for a time management class once and for all,” she says though clenched teeth. “In any event, we’re not waiting for them. I’m famished. Let’s eat!”
She still looks and sounds so familiar to me. But my mind is too jammed with Midas madness to figure out how I know her. I stop dwelling on it when an army of servants brings an elaborate meal to the table.
Wine begins to flows as The King and Queen pass an assortment of delectable tarts, purées, and breads. Being in the same room as Midas has killed my appetite. I feel sick. All I manage is some wine. I’m not alone. Gallant, seated across from me, isn’t eating either.
“We are vegetarians,” says The King, helping himself to a generous portion of everything. “Although sometimes I could die for a good leg of lamb.”
I make a mental note: Be sure to bring an entire lamb the next time you see the property thief. That is
, if there’s a next time.
The Queen, draining her second goblet of wine, loosens up. “Dear, what have you done to your hair?” she asks Gallant, noticing for the first time that he’s wearing it loose, instead of in its usual ponytail. “I rather like it.”
Actually, I do too, my mood lifting just a little from the wine.
Gallant speaks for the first time since we’ve sat down. “Thank you, Mother. It is quite liberating.”
“Well, I think it makes you look like a girl!” grumbles The King.
Let me at him.
The Queen turns her attention to the skank. “Marcella, do you like croquet?”
“Mais oui. It’s one of my favorite dishes,” she mutters, stuffing her face.
Calla’s about to burst out in laughter but claps a hand to her mouth just in time. Despite myself, I want to laugh too.
“And how are the arrangements for the ball coming along?” continues The Queen after another gulp of wine.
Her Royal Skankiness barely looks up from her plate as she wolfs down her meal like a starved stray. I guess she forgot her “diet” potion.
“Oh, Jane’s handling all the details. She can tell you better than I,” she says, helping herself to another whopping serving of everything.
The Queen looks my way.
“Great,” I say. Great? The ball is only a week away, and there’s so much to do…flower arrangements, finalizing the menu, selecting the music…and let’s not forget squeezing Marcella into her ball gown. And squeezing the life out of Midas.
“Excellent!” says The King. “I’m expecting this to be our biggest-ever Faraway fundraiser.
Faraway? What does this ball have to do with Faraway? I thought it was to celebrate Gallant’s engagement to Marcella.
Then it hits me. Of course, Gallant’s going to announce their engagement to his parents tonight. I gulp. That’s what’s been on his mind.
“Father, Mother, I have an important announcement to make.”
And here it comes.
Marcella’s eyes light up like lanterns. She lurches so far forward her that her cannonballs graze the gravy on her plate. It’s her big moment. By tomorrow, her official engagement to The Prince will be headline news in the Fairytale Tattler. Everyone will know.
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