Chapter 6
The months slid by in a rhythm so steady it almost felt like music.
My days were filled with tutoring the younger students when I wasn’t traveling with the foreign delegations.
With my own earnings, I bought a horse, a sleek black mare that I named Storm, for the way she moved like a shadow chased by lightning.
No matter how busy the day, I made time for her. I rode her until the cold air burned my lungs, brushed the dust from her coat until my hands smelled faintly of hay and leather, and whispered nonsense to her in the quiet of the stables as if she understood.
Curtis and I spent almost as much time together outside our lessons as in them.
Some days we raced across the grounds until the horses foamed at the mouth.
Other days we practiced archery, or wandered on long walks around the castle gardens, talking about everything from mischief we’d caused as children to the most ridiculous hypotheticals about political strife between the various kingdoms.
We were partners in mischief too, sometimes playing practical jokes on the castle staff, but usually only on Hubert.
His stuffy, pompous ways were tolerated by all—being the heir to the throne came with certain privileges—but everyone liked to see him riled up when Curtis poked fun at him.
Curtis had a particular knack for knowing how to irritate Hubert best.
At night, my father’s stories filled the air before bed.
His voice carried the power of a bard, wrapping us in worlds that shimmered just beyond the firelight.
Most children outgrow bedtime stories; my family never did.
Father could spin a tale so vividly that I found myself gripping the quilt, living the hero or heroine’s peril right alongside them.
He was the best storyteller I knew and could make each tale come alive so that I felt as if I was living the story as it unfolded.
He would impersonate voices with impressive accuracy, create a whole world with his words, and would hold us all spellbound as he spoke, often for more than an hour at a time.
If he hadn’t become a court linguist, he would have made a wonderful bard.
As an apprentice linguist, I often traveled to Avivia with Father and also sometimes with Hubert.
Those trips were exercises in endurance.
Hubert rarely spoke, and only after long deliberation, his posture as rigid as if carved from stone.
He insisted on staying at the finest inns and interacting with commoners only when protocol demanded.
I watched him and Princess Aria together, wondering if there would be the sparks of a betrothed pair, but there were none.
They tolerated each other out of obligation to their nations, nothing more.
Formal negotiations involving Hubert were rarely productive. Hubert was always convinced that his way was the only right way and would never bargain or deviate in the slightest from his proposal. It was frustrating for the foreign delegates and embarrassing for our own.
After one particularly difficult set of meetings, the Islandrian Council of elders suggested that further negotiations could be carried out by Curtis instead of Hubert, as Hubert was needed at home.
Secretly, I felt like they had invented reasons to keep Hubert away from the negotiating table and was thrilled at the prospect of having Curtis along instead.
The difference between the two brothers was night and day.
Curtis’s first journey to Avivia was a whirlwind of swift, fair negotiations, punctuated by jokes that had even the stoniest diplomats cracking smiles.
Instead of staying at remote and upscale inns, Curtis would stop at small villages and mingle with the commoners, insisting on purchasing meals from the humblest of homes and trinkets from every tiny shop.
By the end of our stay, most village members had at least one silver coin, and would bow us out of town, waving scarves and calling out “Long live Prince Curtis!”
Back at the castle, I found myself looking forward more and more to each subsequent ball.
Comfort always drew the most admirers, Mother and Father danced as though they shared a single heartbeat, and Curtis would spin me across the floor until we were breathless or sneak away with me to slide down the banisters in the entrance hall.
One afternoon, Curtis and I were racing across the far fields, the wind whipping my hair from beneath my riding cap as we tried to leap our horses over hedges and narrow streams. As we reached the outer stone wall, the furthest point from the castle while still remaining on the grounds, we reined in our steeds.
Curtis’s stallion had beaten my mare. Again.
I wasn’t surprised—his horse had a pedigree just as long as Curtis did.
We dismounted, and I fed Storm a few sugar cubes from my skirt pocket.
“Good job, girl! We will get them next time.” I rubbed her nose and patted her neck.
She and Pooter began grazing while Curtis and I plopped down on the grass.
Pooter’s real name was actually Xanatas the Twelfth, named after a famed ancestor’s horse, and the name had been passed down through the generations.
Curtis had declared to me that Xanatas the Twelfth was a dreadful name for any horse, let alone his horse, and had rechristened him Pooter because of his frequent flatulence.
You would think that hundreds of years of trying to achieve the ideal horse would have resulted in one with fewer episodes of passing gas, but it was not to be.
In public however, Curtis would revert to the pedigreed name.
Queen Evelyn had nearly fainted when Curtis once let slip what he had dubbed his horse.
“Your birthday is next week,” I told Curtis, making sure to sit far away from Pooter and his dangerous hindquarters. “What do you want?”
Curtis shrugged. “I don’t need anything.
Mother and Pops always give me some boring, ceremonial gift with some history attached.
You know, the sword of my great-great-great-great grandfather who fought during the Second Avivian Rebellion, or a ring that my great-great-great-great-great uncle wore during his coronation. ”
“Oh, come on,” I wheedled. “With all those boring presents, you must have something that you want.”
Curtis shook his head. “What would I ask for?” he asked. “I have everything I need and many more things I don’t need or really even want.”
It was true. As prince, he lacked nothing. But I wasn’t going to give up that easily. “Well, sixteen’s a big birthday. I want to get you something. Or I could make you something!”
His brow lifted in mock alarm. “Oh, no. You’re not planning to cook again, are you? That wouldn’t be much of a gift.”
“Hey, you be nice!” I swatted his shoulder.
The previous year, I had managed to convince the pastry chef to allow me into the kitchen to make Curtis a birthday cake.
The result had been disastrous—a soupy concoction that refused to bake correctly and tasted terrible.
The kitchen staff still teased me about it.
Curtis’s mouth quirked into a smile. “I will only be nice if you promise to never cook for me again. I would have to get a new taste tester after every meal if you were the chef.”
“I don’t remember your culinary skills being anything to brag about,” I shot back.
“It seems like you burned, what was it again? Water?” Father had told a story recently about one of the hunting trips that the men in the castle had gone on, during which time Curtis had been in charge of boiling water but forgotten about it and boiled away all the water and burned the pot.
Curtis put his hands up, admitting defeat. “I guess it is a good thing I am a prince and have people to cook for me, or I would shrivel up and die of starvation.”
Undeterred, I went back to our original topic. “You still haven’t said what you want for your birthday. A fine look it would be for your best friend to not give you anything for the big sixteen!”
“Why is sixteen such a big number to celebrate?” he asked curiously.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seems like it.” That wasn’t entirely true. I had been looking forward to my sixteenth birthday because Father said his daughters couldn’t be courted until age sixteen, but I didn’t want to tell Curtis that part. People already mistook us for a couple often enough.
“Okay then,” he said casually, and flipped the bill of my riding cap down. I righted it and pushed him again, but before he fell, he grabbed my wrist and I was half pulled over him as he rolled onto the grass. I snatched my wrist back, suddenly shy about how close we were.
“If you are going to fight me, m’lady, I would suggest you improve your wrestling skills!” Curtis laughed at me.
“Well, as a gentleman, perhaps you should seek to protect a lady instead of wrestle her,” I teased back, laying on my side in the grass and propping up my head. I knew I had no wrestling abilities; it was a skill never taught to women.
Curtis, still laying down, placed his hands under his head and looked over at me. “You started it. I just finished it.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but couldn’t think of a single come-back, so closed my mouth.
Normally there were no awkward silences between Curtis and me.
We could remain in thought, side by side, for hours without feeling the need to say anything.
Though admittedly, Curtis was rarely quiet.
But this silence felt different. My heart began to beat faster and butterflies fluttered in my stomach.
Curtis turned toward me, his gaze catching on a loose strand of my hair. He brushed it between his fingers, almost clumsily. “I like your hair,” he said, rather awkwardly for him.
Heat rose in my cheeks. “Thanks. I… like yours too.” I replied timidly, feeling foolish at such childish language and wondering what else to say.
I looked down at the grass and pulled up a few blades, letting them loose into the breeze. Curtis let my hair drop and pulled up some grass blades as well. His hands looked so much larger than mine. I reached over and traced the veins on the back of his hand.
In a normal circumstance, Curtis would have made a joke at this point.
But he didn’t. He let me touch him then turned his hand and entwined our fingers.
It felt like such an intimate gesture. I glanced up at his face.
He was looking at me, but not in the eyes.
His gaze had drifted down to fix on my mouth.
If my heart was racing before, it was nothing compared to what it was doing now.
I felt like it was about to beat out of my chest as I felt each heartbeat pound in my ears, drowning out the sound of the rustling trees and chirping meadow larks.
Curtis scooted over in the grass, closer to me.
He leaned in, still looking at my lips. The rush of emotions that flooded me bordered on frightening.
I hadn’t prepared for this. I hadn’t anticipated this. I didn’t feel ready. I sat up sharply, letting our hands come apart. “It is getting late!” I said, much too loudly. “We better get back.” I stood and began walking toward Storm. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Curtis’s disappointed face.
We mounted and rode back without a word.
I kept glancing sideways at him, wondering if I should explain, wondering if I even understood what I was feeling.
Should I explain that I just didn’t think about Curtis as anything more than a friend?
That wasn’t entirely true. There had certainly been wandering daydreams during dull history lessons when my imagination ran loose, picturing him rescuing me from some calamity and me showering him with affection afterward.
Silly, girlish fantasies, I had always scolded myself afterward.
Should I say that it wasn’t a lack of interest, but just that I personally wasn’t ready?
Perhaps I should blame my parents and say they didn’t want me being courted until I was sixteen, though that was only a few months away for me.
Perhaps I was ready, but just nervous. What would a relationship with Curtis look like?
After all, he was a prince. There had to be extra obligations tied into being with him that there wouldn’t be with another man.
I stole a glance at Curtis. He looked uncharacteristically serious, staring straight ahead and determinedly not looking at me.
The sight was disconcerting. Curtis was always so bubbly and full of life, and now he was sulky and moody.
By the time we reached the courtyard, the distance between us felt far greater than the space on horseback.
At the stables, Curtis dismounted quickly and tossed the reins at a stable boy. He strode out quickly without a single word to anyone.
The stable boy looked shocked by this sullen, uncharacteristic departure. “What is wrong with him?” he asked me, looking after Curtis.
I forced a smile. “I don’t know.” But the truth was, I thought I did.