Chapter 5 The Stroke of Midnight #2
“Why don’t you believe in them?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that I didn’t,” she whispered.
“Mm,” he answered, eyes running over her face and back to her lips.
There was a tension inside her body that had never existed before.
It was intoxicating and terrible all at once.
Like the slightest movement would fracture it into a thousand pieces.
He shifted his body, effectively pinning her against the wall.
His tall body towered over her in a way that made her feel small, but somehow powerful.
Just as she thought she might eviscerate beneath his gaze, he leaned into her. Her back gave way, and she lost her balance as a door opened behind her, but before she could attempt to right herself, his hand was on her lower back, holding her steady.
His grin was made of mischievous intent as he said, “The library is through here.”
The perfumed air was addling her mind. She was forgetting who she was. Lucinda Blackthorn, orphan. An orphan who had no business swooning over a prince. Even if he wasn’t exactly what she had expected. Though she didn’t have the time or energy to devote to understanding the why of it.
Giving him her best attempt at a glare just to establish that she was not falling for his act, she turned and immediately stopped.
One step, and she was paralyzed. Books. Thousands of books.
Her steps were not her own, guiding her closer to the trove of treasure that had opened before her.
A million stories lived in this domed room that held leather-bound pages from floor to ceiling.
Spinning with her head tilted back, she took in all of them. When her head was dizzy from it all, she found herself drawn to a glass case at the center of the room. Rows and rows of different trinkets were locked away. Necklaces, vases, watches, and a spoon. The oddest array of items.
“They are meant to be from the age of magic. Some argue there are traces of it on them.” His voice reminded her that she was not alone.
In fact, the door was shut, and though the room was big with two fireplaces carved into the wall and desks, chairs, and couches littered throughout, she was very aware of the solitude she had found herself in amidst a ball.
If Brielle were there, she would have made a comment about how only Luci was capable of being alone at a grand event meant for socialization.
A pang inside her chest was all the reminder she needed of how she missed her.
Only a few hours apart, but that was more than enough to know a piece of her was missing.
Somehow, she needed to find her way back to Lady Margaret and back to the carriage. Luci had been seen, and that had to be enough for Lord Treveon, even though it never would be. At least she had fulfilled her duty to Brielle.
“You are upset,” he said, coming up beside her, the warmth of him more than it should have been.
It would have been nice if she had taken time to have a glass of champagne so that she could blame how she was feeling on it.
Instead, she was heartbreakingly sober and well aware it was her own weakness.
Luci would’ve liked to believe she was immune to charming princes, but apparently that was too much to hope for.
“What is magical about a spoon?” she asked, clearing her throat.
His head cocked to the side as if deciding whether to let the evasion slide. A breath of tension left her chest when his gaze finally fell from her and to the spoon in question. It was made of silver and had not a speck of dust on it, which said these items were well cared for.
“It was said to have been enchanted during the time of The Beauty and the Beast,” he said.
“So it was your great, great, great, great ancestor’s spoon,” she said with a small smile.
To her surprise, he didn’t take offense, but huffed out a small laugh.
“Apparently,” he said, “It supposedly makes anything you eat taste like chocolate.”
“Well, has anyone tested that theory?” she asked.
His smile slipped, and there was the ghost of something more that ran over his face. A trail she felt pulled to like a siren’s call.
“Magic is dangerous. The only time this case is ever opened is every three months for cleaning, but it is done carefully so no hand touches them,” he said, seriously.
Luci stared at him with narrowed eyes, trying to decipher him.
The way he said it all was with the conviction of someone who truly believed the words he was saying.
Yet he was a prince, schooled on how to present a convincing presence in all things, or maybe it was that he did believe.
Maybe he truly believed himself to be a descendant of Belle and her Beast.
“I would think a simple test would eliminate the debate that has been ongoing for hundreds of years that magic ever existed,” she said, calling his bluff.
He pressed his lips together, hiding his smile. “Would you like to be convinced?”
There was a heat to the question, and the tension that had been building found its way to her heart, which skipped a beat.
“I don’t know,” she said, honestly, because the way he was watching her made her forget her own name.
He leaned forward, and she found her body drawing towards him of its own accord. Like there was a string tying them together, pulling closer and closer. His eyes dropped to her lips, and light above, she parted them, needing to take in air.
A crash of papers and a loud screech had her jerking away, the spell broken.
Ten feet away, next to an oak desk, was an array of scattered papers, ink carefully scrawled over them, though the owner of the shriek that had made her bones jump was nowhere to be seen.
Just as she was about to open her mouth to speak, Prince Ira pressed a finger to his lips with a wink.
This was all such a terrible idea. It was hard to say what she expected to happen next, given the sheer unpredictability of the night, but the crown prince crouching on silent feet towards a vacant desk wasn’t on her list of possibilities.
As he reached the corner, he lunged to the other side, and a sharp yelp rang through the library.
“I hate when you do that!” a disgruntled voice said.
As if nothing untoward had happened, Prince Ira leaned against a long column with his arms crossed and a wide grin.
“You are supposed to be in bed.” The prince said, humor bouncing off each word.
“And you,” said a brown-haired boy as he emerged from beneath the desk, “aren’t supposed to bring strange women in here!”
Maximilian Vencia. The youngest Vencia prince was seven years old. The sigh of relief that broke from her chest was born of near-death experiences.
“I don’t see any strange women here, do you?” Prince Ira asked her.
Luci nearly choked on the leather-bound air of the room, but managed to take a step toward the young prince, bowing her head.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prince Maximillian,” she said.
“Ew.” he wrinkled his nose. “Call me, Max.”
“Max, this is Lady Brielle Treveon.” Prince Ira explained, still radiating amusement. “And why precisely are you in the library when you should be sleeping?”
For reasons she couldn’t begin to process, the name of her best friend stung against his lips. There was a voice inside Luci that screamed to tell him the truth, which she quickly stomped down. The sooner she found her way to the carriage, the better.
Max straightened his white shirt with all the dignity of a king and gestured to the floor where the abandoned pages lay scattered over the light blue carpet with lilies.
“I was trying to write when I heard you barge in here,” he said accusingly.
A small snort left Prince Ira as he knelt and began compiling the pages. When he was through, he handed them to Max, who muttered what might have been a thank you. It was hard to tell next to the frown that was pulling at his lips.
“My apologies. How are the stories going?” Prince Ira asked.
Righteous indignation radiated from the young prince as he clutched the papers to his chest.
“They aren’t stories,” he said, eyes glaring at Luci. “They are history.”
This might have been the strangest night of Luci’s life. First, she was sent to a ball wearing the finest clothes she had ever worn, danced with the crown prince, and now she was being put on trial by the youngest Vencia. She wasn’t even sure what she was supposedly accused of.
“Max gets a little offended when people doubt the existence of magic,” Prince Ira said with a fond smile.
Oh. Realization dawned on her that he would have heard their conversation. In that case, she was very deserving of his glare. It was probably in her best interest to beg forgiveness, but the best she could do was offer some common ground.
“My best friend loves all of it. She tells me all the time, magic is still everywhere, and fairy godmothers watch and help when you need it most,” she said.
Max rolled his eyes. “They do not. All the-.”
“All right, little brother.” Prince Ira said, gently pushing him to the exit. “Go to bed before someone else finds you.”
“Why? No one comes in here except you,” he challenged.
“Yes, well, I’ll come read what you wrote tomorrow morning and bring you some scones-”
“The raspberry kind!” Max said.
“Deal.”
He shot one more skeptical look over his shoulder at Luci and whispered something that made Prince Ira laugh, a deep baritone that brushed against her skin just right.
As soon as the little prince was through the library doors and she was alone with the older one, she realized she needed to leave.
There were too many feelings crowding her mind and her body. It was overwhelming and disarming.
“He’s writing down our history as he prefers it. Max is,” he ran his hand through his hair while he searched for the words, “He’s a really special kid. Some people just see his quirks and dismiss him, but at seven years old, he’s smarter than most of the people my father takes advice from.”