Chapter Four Eugene
Four
Eugene
The next afternoon finds Eugene back at the bow with Rapunzel, but this time in foggier weather and fussier clothes.
He isn’t sure if the mist they’ve sailed into is part of Astera’s defenses, or just convenient; periodically, he sees the shadows of greater ships in the gray, but they vanish whenever a strange horn sounds from Councilor Teophine’s caravel.
He is sure he’d rather be back in his pajamas.
Rapunzel’s parents have made sure he’s properly outfitted for this trip, but the formal suit is meant for summer, and the breezy fabric isn’t quite staving off the clammy mist. Rapunzel’s not faring much better in a gauzy lavender gown and shawl; even Pascal has opted to stay in her cabin for warmth.
“So,” Eugene says lightly, slinging an arm over her shoulders, “how do you want to play this? I can be your handsome and debonair consort, your handsome and thick-skulled admirer, your handsome and suspicious manservant…The handsome part is nonnegotiable, but everything else is on the table. Personally, I’m a sucker for an upstairs-downstairs romance. ”
Rapunzel mulls it over. “Just…be yourself for now. I want to go in open-minded.”
“Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. Got it. Any other requests?”
“One absolutely critical thing.” Rapunzel raises her hands palms out and hooks her thumbs together. “I need you to keep an eye out for white seashells connected at the middle like this. They almost look like butterflies.”
“For…souvenirs?” he falters.
“For paint. The powdered shell makes an iridescent white pigment that mixes better than chalk powder, has higher opacity than zinc white, and doesn’t slowly poison you like lead white.”
“White paint is poisonous?”
“Lead paint,” Rapunzel says cheerfully. “Any color, it’ll all kill you.”
After a beat, Eugene says with perplexed affection, “You frighten me.”
“The shells could suffice as something of a code phrase,” a dry voice croaks from behind them.
“Minister Cressien!” Rapunzel manages to convert her startled jump into an awkward turn. “Good—good afternoon!”
He inclines his head. He stands polished and immaculate in black brocade decorated with a badge of the royal golden sun emblem, hands clasped behind his back.
If Eugene didn’t know better, he never would have guessed Cressien had spent the first two days at sea violently ill, and the last subjecting them to three days’ worth of protocol lectures crammed into one.
(Though every so often, he’d pause in the middle of a diatribe, calmly excuse himself from the room, and proceed to be violently ill in the bucket outside.)
“Your Highness,” Cressien says smoothly. “Before Councilor Teophine joins us, we would benefit from designating a code phrase to indicate to one another that we wish to converse privately. I believe bringing up your interest in these white seashells will suffice.”
“That works for me,” Eugene says, already compiling ways to shoehorn it into a conversation.
Rapunzel fiddles with the fringe on her shawl. “Me too,” she says with a touch of reluctance, “as long as we do find the shells at some point.” Cressien blinks slowly at her, almost catlike, and she adds, “It’s iridescent pigment.”
“I see,” Cressien says with a notable deficit of conviction. “Councilor Teophine will be boarding soon, Your Highness. You will not have an opportunity to put on shoes once she arrives.”
Eugene stifles a laugh at Rapunzel’s near sulk; clearly she was hoping the minister wouldn’t notice. She comes perilously close to stomping down to her cabin, and when she returns in slippers, he’s pretty sure he catches a mutter of “don’t know why everyone’s so obsessed with shoes, anyway.”
“Perfect timing,” he tells her. The mist is thinning, and the luminescent sails of Councilor Teophine’s caravel are peeking over the portside railing.
Councilor Teophine herself climbs aboard shortly after.
Extremely valuable-looking crystals still dangle in her silver hair, but she’s in fluttering seafoam-blue silk today, and amusement tinges her smile as she bows.
“Good afternoon, Your Highness. Do you find this weather cold? Kourenne summer is somewhat warmer than ours.”
Rapunzel’s face is blank. “Kourenne?”
“The Asteran name for our kingdom, Your Highness,” Cressien says in a we-already-went-over-this tone. (Eugene must have zoned out during that part of the lecture, given the sheer number of Tales of Flynnigan Rider subplots taking on an entirely new nuance.)
Rapunzel’s laugh sounds forced. “Oh, right! I’m sure it’ll be warmer in the sun. Is Astera always this foggy?”
“It comes and goes,” Councilor Teophine says with the same catlike calm as Cressien. “Minister Cressien. Your reputation precedes you. And you, young man, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
Eugene sweeps a gallant bow. “Eugene Fitzherbert, your ladyship. I’m the princess’s companion.”
Either sunlight’s bouncing off the waves strangely, or a hint of a shadow just darted across Councilor Teophine’s face.
Then it vanishes, if it was ever there at all. “I see. Lovely to make your acquaintance.”
Eugene isn’t sure what to make of that. Disapproval would seem fitting—after all, there’s a conspicuous absence of “lord” or “baron” or “duke” before his name—but he’d almost swear that for a moment, he saw a flicker of…recognition.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Rapunzel’s fingers pluck at her collarbone, Eugene assumes for a strand of hair that isn’t there. “Are you the councilor of the north or the south?”
Teophine’s eyebrows lift. “I wasn’t aware Your Highness knew of the Cardinal Council.”
“Nor was I,” Cressien says warily.
“Is that what it’s called?” Rapunzel’s hand relocates to rub the back of her neck. “I just read an account from a visitor who heard of the eastern and western councilors.”
Teophine’s eyes crease at the corners. “I am the Councilor of the South and Master of Voices, Your Highness. The Administration of the South manages diplomacy and cultural matters. You will meet the remaining four councilors at the palace shortly, after my ship guides yours to the dock to be received by Princess Verette.”
That strange, low horn bellows from the caravel again—somehow, the sleek boat has already reclaimed its place ahead of their ship. The horn sounds twice more as the fog continues to clear.
Then—
The ship breaks into the sunlight, and Astera sprawls before them.
To the starboard, Eugene sees a narrow curl of land he takes to be Merchant’s Crescent.
It’s cluttered with rooftops and docks, great trade ships moored on the south side, and squat barges either tied up on the north shore or ferrying their cargo across the bay to the main island.
Another islet looms off the port side, its distant cliffs rising sternly above the waves.
But dead ahead swells the mainland, glittering like a dragon’s hoard.
Beyond the teeming harbor, sharp-angled rooftops and spires jab into the air over walls of pale stone and vivid painted plaster, the severe lines echoed by black fir treetops or softened by spills of ivy and billowing deciduous boughs.
The city itself might as well be a heap of pearls cupped in hills like a titan’s green hands, but a diamond of a palace sits at the island’s peak, its white walls almost shimmering in the daylight, capped by spindly rooftops of gold and patinated bronze.
Three great towers stand guard just downhill from it, and a fourth spears the palace’s heart, all crowned with a windmill’s slow-turning sails.
Each arm is as long as the royal galleon, and wrought in crystal and iron instead of canvas and lattice.
Rapunzel is already pointing to the titanic structures.
“Sunmills,” Councilor Teophine supplies nonchalantly, as if that speaks for itself. “I believe they’ll be part of your tour tomorrow, Your Highness.”
Eugene leans over the railing, squinting. The Tales of Flynnigan Rider mentioned sunmills, but in the same nondescript everyone-knows-this way you’d mention a wagon. “What do they do? Specifically, that windmills don’t?”
“You will find many books on their construction and uses in the royal library,” Councilor Teophine says, giving him a sidelong look. “Perhaps you might visit it while Her Highness is engaged in affairs of state.”
“Is Eugene not allowed to participate in those?” Rapunzel asks. Minister Cressien can’t quite hide a wince.
Councilor Teophine pauses and finally says, “It will likely depend.”
When their ship docks, the Asteran princess is waiting, just as Councilor Teophine promised.
The pier bustles with crew and dignitaries alike, people of every size, shade, and gender, though one thing stands out to Eugene: every single head is gray.
Some have pale silver locks, like Teophine, and some have dark slate braids, and hair of nearly every value in between can be found onshore, but he doesn’t see a single redhead, brunette, or blond.
Princess Verette, in fact, is the closest to having a hue in her hair.
Her loose curls are strange, almost like mother-of-pearl, seemingly lavender from one angle, periwinkle from another, near white in direct sunlight.
A circlet of crystals wreathes her head, and her brown eyes appear hard in a pale round face made paler by the deep indigo brocade of her gown.
If Eugene had to guess, he’d say she’s about eighteen, like Rapunzel.
Unlike Verette, though, Rapunzel has a look of barely suppressed panic on her face that says she’s forgotten Cressien’s lecture on protocol for this moment. Instead, she just blurts out, “Hi, I’m Rapunzel!”
Verette bows, then touches her fingertips to her mouth, her heart, and her forehead. “Greetings to you, Princess Rapunzel. I am Verette, Crown Princess of Astera. Welcome.”