His Blessing

My home office is not much yet, but it is secluded away from the parlor and has a door that closes behind us, which is all I need. Even though my desk is not yet set up, still enclosed inside a big yellow shipping crate, it is at a good height to lean against and fold my arms as I face my father alone. He looks around, bewildered, for a place to sit, but finding none, just stands awkwardly across the empty space from me.

“Eloise,” he begins, “I am sorry.”

“I don’t think you are,” I respond.

“I am. It was just a gamble, and it worked. Count Guildenstern is the weak link in that family—”

“You engaged my fiancé to Elizabeth! While she isn’t even here! ” I clench my fists by my sides. “I can’t even begin to describe how invasive, how violating that is. Thorunn and I have been happily enjoying our engagement for months, none the wiser, and suddenly the entire Royal Family and one of the greatest noble houses now thinks that it is a false front for a different engagement.”

“Yes, that is an apt summary.”

“What do I even do about this, Your Highness?” I laugh bitterly. “Stop holding my fiancé’s hand in public? Pretend like it’s just business? Can Thorunn and I even get married anymore? And what happens when he leaves for home? Do I have to go with him? Did you think about any of this?”

Edgar is beginning to sweat. He rubs his forehead awkwardly. “I—I didn’t—look. It’s not permanent. It’s not even a real engagement.”

“Yes, but the most powerful people in the country think it is.”

“It’s not as relevant as it sounds. Those people do not understand such abstract concepts as ‘fairness’ and ‘justice.’ They would never believe that the North is backing the Alamar Isles merely to fight the good fight. They need to believe something transactional took place.”

“Sounds relevant to me.”

“Once my marriage is reinstated, Imogen will have the power to sign an official treaty and trade agreement with the Northern tribes. Then there will be no need for a marriage. We will dissolve the engagement, and you and Thorunn can marry whenever you wish.”

“And when will that be?” I fold my arms again. “After the petition, you say? How long will that be? Months? Years?”

“I’m not trying to drag this out,” Edgar replies, his voice growing tense. “If you’re frustrated with the speed of this petition, take it up with the Queen.”

“I don’t care about the petition.”

“Then what is this about? Huh? What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know, Edgar. I don’t know.” My frustration mounting, I spin on my heel and walk towards the window. If I could, I would push it open to let in fresh air, but as the villa is situated near a public street, I am forced to keep the window closed. Damned confidentiality. “How about this: I want you to stop toying with people’s lives like paper dolls.”

He lets out a barking laugh. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Yes! That is exactly what you’re doing.” I inhale, compose what I am about to say, and then lay it all out on the table. “I can’t tell you what Elizabeth would say. But I know what she would feel. While she is ‘engaged,’ there is a chain around her neck. She can’t pursue love or adventure. She can’t plan to marry someone else. And while her mother’s petition is in limbo, she has to assume that the Royal Family can marry her off at their pleasure. Say, for instance, that the first part of your petition is denied—no money for Imogen, no marriage for you, no crown for Amira Al’Kilic—but the last part is affirmed. Suddenly Elizabeth is a grand duchess with no political power, no estate, and a highly lucrative engagement. The Royal Family won’t hesitate. They will sell her like cattle. They won’t even need to consult you, Edgar. All they need is the King’s blessing, and Elizabeth can be shipped off as a slave into a foreign land. Just like her mother.”

The pulsing headache behind my eyes reminds me of the hours I spent lying awake last night, crafting this speech in my head. But I am glad that I did, as now I am free to let my anger spill without revealing my full secret. Will things work out, eventually? Probably. I am Elizabeth, after all. But my anger supersedes the shallow facade of losing Thorunn to someone else. My anger is deeper, borne of fear. Fear of being tied to Thorunn. I love him because I chose him…but when the choice is ripped away from me, what will happen to the love?

“And me,” I continue, my voice weakening. “What happens to me? Am I just supposed to act like I don’t love Thorunn? That this is just business? Or what happens if our relationship runs its course, if we naturally fall out of love—are we still expected to kiss at the altar?”

“If you fall out of love?” Edgar echoes. “You’re so pessimistic about your own engagement that you’re making contingency plans?”

“I’m being realistic, Edgar.” I don’t care about honorifics anymore. My anger is not directed towards His Highness. My anger is directed towards my father. “I thought you, of all people, would agree that arranging a marriage is the fastest way to destroy it.”

Throwing his hands in the air, he whirls away from me. “Oh my gods! Holy shit! Are you dense? This isn’t a real arranged marriage!”

“Oh my gods, holy shit, are you deaf? Have you even been listening to me?” I shout back.

“Yes, in fact, I have!” Edgar is now, also, shouting. “You’re quite loud enough!”

“I’m loud because you’re not listening!”

“Not listening? Okay, try me, you’re upset because you think I’m forcing you to do something that I’m literally not—”

“It’s not about that! It’s not about that at all!”

“Then what the fuck is it about?!”

“It’s about you not thinking about your actions for even one! Fucking! Second!” I scream. “Because you don’t care! You think the world revolves around Prince Edgar, and that you can just do anything you want without consequences, because it’ll all work out in the end, right? Right? Wrong! It might work out for you. But it doesn’t work out for the people who fucking work for you. People like me. People whose relationships, whose lives, whose entire futures are destroyed by—by—by a spoiled princeling who would sell his daughter to get the last word!”

As soon as this leaves my mouth, terror clenches my chest. I have gone too far. None of this was rehearsed. And none of it was supposed to leave the dark, resentful corners of my heart. No one, not even the exhausted and jaded clerk who routinely makes dulled verbal jabs at the Prince, would ever dare to speak to him like that. I could be executed for less. At the very least, I should lose my job.

In my last life, the hardest thing for me to unlearn was a deeply-ingrained “flinch response.” Not a physical flinch, but an emotional one. Master Odric identified it quite early on in my apprenticeship. During or shortly after any unpleasant exchange—be it an argument with a client, a coworker, or Odric himself—I would be racked with guilt and grief to the point of tears. The root of this response was poverty. Having spent much of my childhood bouncing between jobs which paid pennies per day, I was entirely replaceable. Even the slightest insubordination was grounds for losing my job. Later in my life, as I grew confidence in my skills as a businesswoman and negotiator, I was able to mostly ignore the flinch response. But deep down, I would still fear that the smallest mistake would cost me my livelihood.

Now, the flinch response is back in full force. Once again, I am a nine-year-old newspaper seller, who complained that her feet hurt and was stripped of her job with no warning. A twelve-year-old scullery maid, who lied about taking stale bread from the trash and was boxed on the ears until they stung. A fourteen-year-old stockroom girl, who argued with a customer about prices and was sent home without pay. And just like then, my inability to hold my tongue is going to cost me my job.

All I know is that I can’t let Edgar see me cry. This is now the second time in under twenty-four hours that I have cried around him—maybe I am getting my monthly period. To hide it, I turn my back to him and cover my face.

I hear two soft steps, then the creaking of wood. When I peek over my shoulder, Edgar is leaning against the desk crate, hands in his pockets and gaze fixed on the floor.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right.”

I’m…right?

My shoulders relax, though my guard is still up. He could still turn and use the apology as a segue into firing me somehow, so I resolve not to speak. Not until I’m sure.

“You’re right,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. So whatever you do…just don’t tell Elizabeth.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s not…because I’ll fix it. I’ll go back and tell my family that there’s no engagement, I was mistaken, or some other explanation. I’m not sure yet. I’ll think of something.”

He rubs his eyes, then drags his hand down to his chin.

“But you’re right. I’m not even sure if Elizabeth is getting my letters. If she even knows I exist. I…I haven’t gotten anything back. If the first thing she learns about me is that I sold her off…I’d never forgive myself.”

I know damn well he hasn’t received a reply letter from Elizabeth. Because I haven’t written any. He has asked me to deliver one letter per week by international postage to Elizabeth’s next port of call. Each time, I pocket the money and use it to buy my coffee the next morning.

At first, I justified this as simply being “in character” for Elizabeth. If I was busy sailing the world, only to get a series of mysterious letters from someone claiming to be Prince Edgar Rosencrantz, I wouldn’t know what to write in response. I would likely hide the letters in my desk until I had a day off, and then when I could not sleep or was drunk enough to finally read them, I would scribble a few drafts before throwing them over the ship’s railing and into the sea. After the first couple of months, though, it stopped being about staying in character and more about simply not wanting to write back. Which…I suppose is also in character. At this point, fiction and reality are indistinguishable.

“She wouldn’t forgive you, either,” I say quietly.

All is silent. I lean against the other end of the crate.

“You know what’s funny?” Edgar asks.

“What?” I respond.

“This conversation. I actually wondered if I’d have it with her one day. Or one like it. Imogen tells me that Ellie’s sweet as honey, but she also tells me that she’s the spitting image of me…which means she’s a firecracker. And that she’d hold a grudge. I always knew she would hold a grudge…it’s what I would do, after all. So I always knew I’d have a conversation like this, that ended with her screaming at me that I never cared.”

For a minute, I don’t respond. Finally, I manage, “Well…sorry you had to have it with me, instead.”

A dry chuckle. “No, no, it’s…maybe I’ll think of it as a practice run. It’s not all bad, I don’t think. I never realized I’d feel this way.”

“What way?”

“Proud.”

My lips part, unbidden. Edgar tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and smiles.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “And I think I’d be proud of her, too. Because it means she’s strong. She’s perfectly cut out for this world. And she’s going to take it by storm.”

He invites me for a walk. He knows the neighborhood, and knows where it is nice to take a late afternoon stroll. For the next hour, we walk along a narrow bike path on the beachfront. We are quiet for most of it, but sometimes, he breaks the silence and asks me about myself. The asking is new. The questions are not. They are the same questions I have read obsessively when I cannot sleep or am too drunk to care anymore—the same questions contained in the dozens of unsent letters hidden in an unmarked manila envelope at the bottom of my steamer trunk. The questions he asked Elizabeth.

What do you do for fun?

What musicians do you like?

Can you tell me about your friends?

Do you prefer milk chocolate or dark chocolate?

Plays or opera?

Tea or coffee?

I answer honestly. (I like to read and go canoeing; I can’t think of any musician names but I enjoy a good oboe concerto; you’ve already met Pansy and Lucienne; dark chocolate; plays; both.) I don’t see any substantial reason to lie; and, after all, I doubt Elizabeth would dignify such questions with answers. Not after having let his letters pile up at the bottom of a trunk. I doubt “she” will ever write back.

But Edgar is here, at my side, and I can’t bring myself to stay silent. I want to tell him, and he wants to listen. I need not wax poetic about the symbolism. For the first time, I am taking a walk with my father. And for the first time, Edgar is taking a walk with his daughter.

EXHIBIT 102.

In support of his petition to His Majesty’s Court of Pleas, Petitioner EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ comes now and enters into evidence the following:

Photographic facsimile of a handwritten letter, written by Petitioner and addressed to Elizabeth Rosencrantz, entrusted to Mr. Peter J. Pym.

Petitioner requests that this Honorable Court take judicial notice of the following:

That Exhibit 102, like all other letters addressed to Elizabeth, was not entrusted to the Royal Mailroom. Petitioner ordered Pym to make a photographic copy of Exhibit 102, deliver Exhibit 102 by private certified courier, and to file both the copy and the certificate of delivery into Petitioner’s personal records. The copy was filed, but no certificate of delivery was ever found. Upon Petitioner’s knowledge and belief, Elizabeth never received Exhibit 102 nor any other letter written by Petitioner.

Dated this September 2, 478 A.R.

My Ellie,

Happy seventh birthday! Please find enclosed your annual present of one hundred obols. Don’t spend it all in one place, now. Your darling mother is prudent with her spending, I am told. I expect no less from you. In any case, you should not need to ration your birthday present in order to simply maintain your standard of living. Along with this letter, I am sending three deliveries: the first through Royal Mail, with a selection of fine young ladies’ dresses, jewelry, and accessories that Emerlane assures me will make you the talk of the town. The second, also through Royal Mail, includes stationery, pens, and other school supplies to serve you in your studies. The last delivery will arrive by Exchange Words, as usual, containing supplemental texts that will place you easily at the top of your class.

Speaking of studies, how is your first year at school? Pym has informed me that your mom chose a private religious academy for you to attend, closer to your home in the countryside. He has not heard much from her, though, and doesn’t know anything more.

What is the school called? Have you made friends? Who are your teachers? Hopefully, your private tutor prepared you well! I have no doubt that you will excel, wherever you end up. With your mother’s cunning and your father’s stubbornness, there is nothing you cannot accomplish.

Now that you are grown, I should include you in our family’s plans. My ultimate goal, dear Elizabeth, is to find some way to reunite our family. Thus, I am pleased to announce that as of one month ago, I have been anointed as a bishop of the Holy Church of Saol Eile. This is (as you undoubtedly will learn in your first-year religion courses!) no small feat, entailing four years of rigorous study in seminary, three years of missions and charitable work, and countless days of prayer and fasting under the watchful eye of the council of cardinals.

But it is done! With this position, I will have more leverage to influence policy decisions with respect to family life in our country. Additionally, I have convinced His Majesty to allow me to manage church affairs at the palace level. With my oldest siblings welcoming so many children in quick succession, and Ezra set to marry this November, my parents have too much on their plates to care about my comings-and-goings. If I am smart, Ellie, perhaps I may slip a new and advantageous law across the table when they are not looking (just as Queen Anne of Betony did in 189, when she legitimized her daughter through a proposed statute regulating the price of grain — as you hopefully recall from my last shipment of books!).

I jest. I must confess, Elizabeth, my new position asks too much of me for such silly heroics. The work is long and hard and dull. I regret that I may not be able to write as much, either to you or your mother, in the coming weeks and months. I am very busy. It drains me, such that I forget everything truly important to me. Sometimes I even forget to eat. By the time I am done with all of my work, it is often one or two in the morning, and my wrist spasms in pain at the thought of writing another word. So please — although I know I will not get a response — forgive me in advance.

Even now, as I write this, the sun peeks above the horizon. Do you see it too, Elizabeth? Do you get up at the crack of dawn, like your old man used to do when he was your age, and read by the soft morning sunlight? Or are you like your darling mother, sleeping soundly until you are gently shaken awake? Whichever is true, Ellie, it is my sincerest prayer that you take joy in this special day.

Happy, happy, happy birthday!

Ever truly yours,

Dad

Duly sworn and submitted to the Court of Royal Pleas, certified in authenticity and veracity by Royal Notary and Clerk of Records, MS. ELOISE ODRIC, in service of His Highness, PRINCE EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ.