This is where I know I fucked up. I don’t want to be in line for the throne. But I know for a fact that Mom still wants to marry Edgar.
“Now, I know it sounds crazy,” Edgar goes on (he is now standing, and gesticulating wildly, almost as if he is crazy), “but I have checked and double checked the laws, I have verified it with the council of high priests itself. If I can just prove that I have been maintaining spousal and child support for eighteen years—”
“You haven’t,” I say bluntly. “Someone is stealing it.”
“Yes! I know that. Pym confessed as much, just won’t tell us how much, or who’s the thief, that fucking cunt. It’s probably him. But something must have gotten through to the Rossachs, anything, there’s no way he could have just taken all of that money from under my nose—”
“Yes,” I cut in, “there is.”
He scowls. “And you know this…how…?”
“I’ve spoken to Imogen Rossach.” I haven’t recently, but I don’t need to. “She’s received nothing. Not even a letter.”
Edgar races across the room, stopping just short of literally lunging at me. Startled, I press against the back of my chair. “You spoke with her?!” he exclaims.
“I—I…yes, I did, but…”
“She’s alive? Is she well? And Elizabeth?”
“Um—yeah, yeah, they’re alive—”
“I need to see her. I need to see both of them.” He begins to pace the floor. “Send a summons—no, that’ll frighten them. And the others can’t find out. I’ll go to their house. Can I disguise it as something else? Maybe a charity trip, to—to bless one of the sad little churches they have out there in the slums. Yes, surely they have a dingy chapel in need of extra funding, or some starving orphans who need a priest to conjure a hot meal.”
“What makes you think they want to see you?” I snap. “After eighteen years of nothing?”
Immediately, I scold myself. Do NOT let your emotions get ahold of you. This very slip of the tongue is the reason that Thorunn is casually waiting just down the hall—in case I say something stupid, Edgar calls the guards, and Thorunn decides he is in the mood to break diplomacy and rescue me. Fortunately, Edgar seems just as upset as I am, so he barely notices.
“Gods. You’re right.” He pulls his hands down his face in exasperation. “And it wouldn’t matter. The guards all know to stop me. If I so much as think about leaving this palace, that giant prick Ezra knows all about it.”
Ezra? What does he have to do with anything?
“They’re watching me like hawks, you know.” Edgar paces another round, then pulls out one of the empty chairs on the long end of the table and sinks down into it, a few feet from me. “They know what’s got me so upset. I only lose myself about this one thing, and it makes it so obvious. But I can’t wait any longer, Miss Odric, I need to do something about it. And I…”
He trails off. A strange vacancy passes through his eyes, like he has left his body for somewhere very far away.
“Your Highness?” I ask. When he doesn’t respond, I start to wave my hand across his face.
Suddenly, he bolts to his feet. I reel back.
“Agh—your Highness!” I cry out.
Edgar is no longer listening to me. He strides right past me, to the exit, and out into the hallway. I follow him, more out of confusion than actually intending to stop him, because this is the exact same unstoppable force that bashed down Mr. Pym’s solid oak door with a paperweight and a file cart.
“Your Highness! Where on earth are you going?” I call.
“Does it even fucking matter anymore?!” he snaps back. “Everyone will know, anyway! Who gives a shit! Not me— not me!”
He is heading for his office. Before I chase after him, I whirl over my shoulder to look down the hall. A dark shape leans against a stone pillar, and although I cannot make out facial features, I know it is Thorunn observing the encounter. Similarly, the two guards outside of Edgar’s dining room are staring at us in utter bewilderment. One of them is Matthias, who usually watches Edgar’s office during the day. I motion for Matthias to follow and the other guard to stay behind.
Just as I had feared, Edgar is going for the window. And to my utter dismay, he already has the window open and the rope secured around the leg of his heavy mahogany desk. A strong wind blasts through the room. The first snow of winter is here. But it does not deter Edgar away from the edge.
“Your Highness, stop!” Matthias yells.
“No!” Edgar retorts. “I am going to see my princess. And none of you fuckers can stop me!”
I race to the windowsill just a second after he vanishes over it. Sleet slaps my face, and a cold hand grips my heart. This is not snow. It is half-rain that freezes whatever it touches, and has already covered the sill in a slick layer of ice. And when I look over the edge, my father is climbing down the side of the palace, five stories above the ground, with nothing more than a rope in his hand to guide him.
Somehow, I must see the danger before it happens. I begin reaching for Edgar even before his foot rests upon a shining stone lintel. He loses purchase. He slips, and I grasp his wrist in both hands.
At once, I realize my mistake, as gravity threatens to pull me with Edgar—a merciless five stories’ fall.
But I do not move. A strong pair of arms has wrapped about my waist, grounding me.
Thorunn.
Oh, my dear, how am I ever going to repay you for this?
Thorunn, Matthias, and I help Edgar back inside the office. By now, all sorts of a ruckus has been raised, as the second guard ran to fetch help. A doctor is called. More guards pour in. One of them takes my statement while a nurse examines me for injury. My forearms are a little bruised from where they bashed against the windowsill, but I am otherwise unharmed. Edgar, too, is slightly bruised and battered, but is mostly just in shock. He barely even resists this time when we firmly close and lock the office window.
The clerk plays many roles in a royal’s life. Notary, information broker, and archivist are our official roles. The unofficial roles include (but are not limited to) personal assistant, nurse, counselor, and general-purpose babysitter. On my second day working as Edgar’s clerk, I find myself filling all of those unofficial roles. Royal incidents are best handled on a need-to-know basis only. I remind the witnesses not to speak of this unless spoken to by their supervising authority. I collect the statements that are taken by the palace guards, bring them to the records office for copying and filing, and return to direct traffic around the scene of the accident. I assign an additional rotation of guards to stand watch inside Edgar’s bedroom, which I know he will not like, but is a temporary measure to ensure his safety. I instruct Matthias to go home to his family and thank him for his help; he has done enough today and deserves a break. Finally I address the attending doctor. She has concluded that the prince is fine, besides being in shock, and needs to rest for the night.
“I believe he was drinking again,” she tells me. “Based on his…recent history, it may be time to wean him off of the habit.”
I nod and thank her, as if accepting this diagnosis. Except that I know it is not true. I watched Edgar throughout the dinner, and he had nothing more than a glass of white wine. No, his illness is much more severe than a little drinking problem, and far more dangerous. It is lovesickness, plain and simple. I can only hope that tonight’s incident is a wake-up call for my father.
After one final check that everything in the situation is under control, I finally step out of Prince Edgar’s chambers at around midnight. The immediate chaos, statement collecting, and full doctor’s examination lasted nearly five hours. I still have my own report to type, though I took enough handwritten notes that I can probably leave it until the morning. Despite the late hour, Thorunn is still waiting for me. It is not wise for us to linger together after dark. But I have not yet thanked him for his help. And to be honest, there is nothing that I would like more than to fall asleep in his fur cloak again.
We make our way to his guest room with the greatest care. While a guard is walking past, we stop outside of his door. I feign as if I am saying goodnight to Thorunn and start to walk away. As soon as the guard is out of sight, I duck into the shadows of a carved marble statue to hide. A moment later, right on cue, the next guard passes through. When the coast is clear a second time, I dart out to Thorunn’s door again, and I make it inside without notice.
I am getting good at this stealth thing. On the other hand, Thorunn and I are getting worse at holding back. Much worse. As soon as the door closes, I cup his face in both hands and kiss him deeply. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, then my back, and then lower. Eventually he just hoists me up by the waist, a perfect compromise, since he does not need to bend so far down and I do not need to strain so far up. Except this introduces a new problem; that is, that my legs are around his hips, that our chests are pressed flush together, and that I am blissfully helpless to stop him from carrying me to the bed and crawling over me.
Plausible deniability , I think to myself. How could I stop him? He lifted me clean off of the ground. Though there is nothing deniable when I tug my skirts higher and guide his hand to my thigh. So I am, admittedly, also at fault.
It is only with the greatest of valor that Thorunn finally pulls away with a gasp. “Eloise,” he breathes, then buries his face in my shoulder. “Gods, you can’t do this to me. I would ruin you.”
And I would let you, I almost say, but I know that as soon as it passes my lips, neither of us will be able to stop ourselves. It is not as if I place any particular value on my maidenhood. The church may preach hellfire and brimstone upon the promiscuous woman, but I could not care any less for the myth of purity; nor would Thorunn, whose native religion does not teach such things. Yet certain irreparable changes come over both the man and the woman when they are joined in one flesh—changes of thought and behavior that the whole world can see. Not to mention the danger of a child. Though Mom never ceased to assure me that my birth was a miracle, she thoroughly warned me of the risks if I behaved as she did.
Her advice would caution me to take my cue and pull away from Thorunn until we both cool off again. I draw a compromise. I sit up, guide Thorunn onto his back, and tuck my skirts modestly beneath me. Then I lay beside him. “How about this?” I ask. “Better?”
We can still easily kiss, and try it a couple times. “Better,” he agrees, and we test out even more kisses. Just to be sure.
It would be so easy, even effortless, for him to simply roll over and pin me to the bed again—and I know he is thinking it, as the red flush in his cheeks is migrating all the way to his ears—but he remains a gentleman and stays put. After all, he has plenty of other things to occupy his fancy. He likes to pick the bobby pins from my bun until my hair spills down in a dark curtain around us, free to slowly comb his fingers through. He notices that I love to have my shoulders rubbed, so he spends some time kneading the stubborn knots from the base of my neck. And lastly, we become preoccupied with comparing the shapes of our hands, testing different configurations of holding each other’s, mostly determining if we prefer our fingers interlaced or not. Interlaced is nice. Though his hands are so large compared to my spindly ones that it is not comfortable in the long-term, so as sleep begins to beckon us, I rest my curled hand inside his palm and just let him hold it.
I have not gotten around to formally thanking him for saving my life, or the life of Prince Edgar. Surely, there will be some sort of formal royal honor bestowed in the morning, or maybe Monday, because it has been such a long weekend already and I have a good feeling that Edgar will not want to work tomorrow. But between me and Thorunn…I am starting to lose track of how many times he has saved me, or helped me, or otherwise sacrificed on my behalf.
And with each passing moment in his arms, I am falling in love with him. That was never the plan. Just a few short days ago, I thought of Thorunn as a tool; that was all he was supposed to be. A blade with which to defend myself. But more and more, I am looking at this blade and pondering on its details, its smallest nicks and dents, its components and construction, and wondering: what forged it? Thorunn’s end in my last life was no happier than my own. An honorable warrior, proudly representing the country and culture he loves—reduced to a common butcher, blindly serving the orders of a foreign court. What cruel forces could shape him into such a twisted form?
To fall in love, I always believed, is a liability. And I still firmly believe that. My once-simple plan, to save the lives of myself and Mom, has outgrown itself. It has evolved into a more complex form, with more vulnerabilities and chances for disaster, as it has doubled in breadth. My plan is no longer to save only me and Mom. Now it includes Edgar, for Mom; and Thorunn, for myself.
MEMORANDUM
RE: Regression Recovery Strategy
DATE: Monday, November 23, 489 AR
Regression Returns Strategy, and its subsequent revisions, tabled until further notice.
The primary goal of this new strategy is to secure my own and my mother’s safety by recovering the gifts previously promised to us by Prince Edgar. This includes all financial support and gifts of personal property (clothes, art, household items, food, etc.) that were intercepted and withheld from us. The recovery will undoubtedly entail a long and arduous investigation, possibly an interrogation of Mr. Pym.
The secondary goal of this strategy is to resolve the relationship between my parents. While I am concerned for Edgar’s mental health, I have absolutely no doubt as to what Mom would want. Her love for him is unconditional. That being said, I intend to talk to her during the holidays. Perhaps, if Edgar is in a more stable state of mind, I can convince him to write a letter and deliver it by hand. It goes without saying that we cannot trust the mailroom girls to deliver his letters. To relieve suspicion that we are onto them, I intend on occasionally feeding them fake letters for them to shred.
As a private, tertiary goal of the strategy, I still intend to investigate Edgar’s financials carefully, including his personal investments. I need to know if he has enough wealth to stop Mom and I from leaving Saol Eile. Even if Mom and Edgar miraculously reunite, I cannot guarantee her safety within Saol Eile during the coming civil war. What good is a title of princess if her sister- and brothers-in-law are dropping left and right to suspicious deaths? This, I suspect, is where I will have to cash in my biggest favor yet from dear Thorunn. If the political situation escalates in Saol Eile, to the point where Mom and I are in danger by staying, I will ask Thorunn to marry me. Then we, along with Mom, will escape to the North and wait out the war.
I do not like this turn of events. I do not want to get to know my father, and I do not want to stick my nose in his messy family business. Had I known this would occur, I would be tempted to revert all of these strategies to their base form, the plain and simple (1) make money (2) leave Saol Eile and (3) forget any of it happened whatsoever.
Before he was taken away, Mr. Pym warned me of the dangers of royalty, and it appears that he was right. Royalty is a trap, promising a slow, agonizing trap within its gilded jaws. And I, the fool, intend to walk right into it.