Chapter 4,
in which Rhema steps on the Prince's foot



     A whirlwind of exhibits and shows filled what was left of Rhema's week. The city itself was a land of wonders, bricks, and crowds. Its people were like any other people individually, but when gathered together they became a new entity – a temperamental giant of energy and invention. The family called on old friends and went to the theater and the symphony. They attended a demonstration of a thing called Théâtre Optique, at which a drawing of a man and woman dancing moved and spun on a screen as if they were alive! They also saw a magician, who made a woman disappear into nothing and brought her back again. Being in the city was like disappearing into nothing. In the country, there were so few people that anything anyone did could be the subject of scrutiny. In the city, Rhema could disappear, one cell of the giant, becoming part of something more than herself.
      By the end of the week, Rhema’s taste for the new and exciting dulled to a longing for the familiar and quiet. The old castle wall, which was so crumbled that it had been closed to guests for years, was the best place in Iderburg to go when one wanted to be alone. Under the pretense of taking a walk along the hedge path, she snuck into the lower entrance of the northwest tower and wound her way upwards. The wind whistled in the cracks and crevices of abandoned stone halls. Sometimes she passed small bronze plaques -- plaques that nobody read in places where nobody went -- marking historic events that nobody remembered. They were engraved with words such as “In this place, the Verni Treaty was signed – A.D. 1542” or “This marks the original location of the first throne room of Iderburg Castle – EST. A.D. 1378.” She pressed her hand against the stone, transporting herself hundreds of years to a time when this wall was the only thing separating the castle’s occupants from a barbaric wilderness. If she pressed her ear against it, she could almost hear the battle cry of the barbarians.
      She followed a set of narrow, twisting stairs to the top of the watchtower. She was half stunned to find a man in a waistcoat with a rifle, rather than a knight with chain mail and a sword, greeting her at its apex. Watchmen were a tradition of the castle towers, likely to stand even longer than the wall itself.
     “Goodday, m’lady,” the northwest watchman said. He tipped his hat toward her, momentarily revealing the small balding spot on the top of his head. By his expression, he had no idea who she was, but he could tell that she must be someone important.
     “Good day to you, sir,” she answered, turning awkwardly toward the arch leading to the west walk.
     “I don’t recommend the west tower, miss. It’s not safe. Whole wall’s collapsed beyond it.”
     “Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”
      Rhema trod over the wide allure toward the west tower, running her fingers over the rough, cracked stone. When she reached the tower, she peered inside it. The watchman had not exaggerated. It no longer had any roof nor wall on its southwest side. Half the floor had caved in, giving a clear view into the little, weather-beaten room underneath. This flaw had always been obvious from below, but Rhema did not fathom the utter ruin of it until she looked at it from above.
      At this point, it suddenly occurred to Rhema that she was sixty feet in the air and alone.
     What sort of incompetent watchman would let me do this? She could not see him anymore. He remained, as ever, at his station in his tower. She ventured a foot inside the half-room and found a place to lean that had once either been a window or a battlement.
      From that vantage point, she could see the outer lawn of the castle below. The moat looked like a line on a map, separating the majestic world of nobility from the common world – the one in which everybody else lived. The world of Jonathan and the Cartwellers. The world of Becky Felix.
     What must it be like to live in one of those rows of red roofed houses? The hush of the wind blowing through the talls of trees did not give any answer that Rhema could understand. For a moment, she no longer cared about Jonathan. Her itch to return to the Cottage was a wisp of a memory. She wanted nothing more than to be exactly where she was, not wanting for any companion, except perhaps Tom. For the duck, she imagined, understood her better than any human ever would.
      A hawk soared above her head, as free in flight as ducks were sitting in water. “What is your name?” she whispered. The hawk did not tell her. Not yet.
      Footsteps.
      Rhema turned rapidly. Her balance wobbled. A hand clamped down on her forearm so hard that it hurt. Fighting the fall and the hand simultaneously, she erred on the side of the hand. It jerked her away from the ledge.
      If this was not surprise enough, attached to the hand was a man all in black, from his shined black shoes to his pressed black overcoat. His green sash and over-used gray cap that she had seen once before identified him as Prince Bastion.
      Rhema’s eyes dropped immediately to her feet. “Your Highness!” were the only words she could force out of her mouth. She performed a cautious curtsey, careful of her footing.
     “You should be careful, Lady,” he said, letting go of her as quickly as he had caught her. A shadow obscured half of the prince’s face.
     “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. By your leave, I will be on my way.”
     “There is no need to shorten your leisure on my account. I am only passing myself,” he said. It occurred to Rhema as she rubbed her swiftly-bruising forearm that this was said only from a host’s courtesy and that he most likely had come to be alone, much like she did. It also occurred to Rhema that there was nowhere to ‘pass’ and a rather sizable drop was only a few feet away from where they both were now standing. She inched toward the frame of the tower arch, which happened to also be toward the prince.
     “We did not expect you to return so soon, Your Highness. I hear that the funeral was beautiful.” The words escaped Rhema before she was able to retrieve them. “I am sorry. I only meant—“
     “The funeral went as well as a funeral can,” he said.
      Rhema nodded and waited for him to give her permission to go.
     “Are you enjoying your stay?” he said.
     “Very much.”
     “You will be sorry then to go?”
     “Not at all, sir. As wonderful as Iderburg is, there is no place that can be so dear to me as my home, humble though it may be in comparison to yours.”
      He nodded. His presence made her feel so common that she could have sworn she was physically shrinking.
     “You are Rhema de Frees, I recall,” said the prince.
     “Yes, Your Highness.”
      His eyes flickered their focus, eventually settling on the floor, or lack thereof, above his feet.
     “If it helps, sir, most remember me as the girl who fell into the moat,” Rhema offered. She hoped this confession might abate what must have been his embarrassment for not knowing her.
     “Ah, yes. I remember that.” The wrinkling of his brow softened, and a shadow of a smile came over him. “I hope you were not attempting to repeat the circumstances.”
     “Do I look like a fool?”
      His eyebrows lifted as if considering the question.
      Rhema could have bitten off her own tongue for how terribly it betrayed her!
     “Forgive me, Your Highness. By your leave, Your Highness.” She curtseyed quickly.
     “You may go, Baroness,” said the prince, returning her curtsey with a nod.
      He gave way so she could walk past. She did not dare to look back until she had rounded the corner of the southwest tower. There she paused to steal a sight of the prince through the frame of a crack in the wall. He took up her post looking out onto the city, perhaps attempting to fathom her rudeness. That conversation had been more words than she had ever in her life spoken to Prince Bastion, and her mind began devising to whom she should brag about the meeting first. She imagined putting up a small bronze plaque in the place, engraved with the words, “In this place, Rhema de Frees, Baroness of Sever, had words with the crown prince of Gallia. - A.D. 1888.” 

      Dinner that night was quiet. The prince did not eat much. Whenever Rhema accidentally caught his eye, he seemed more put upon by worry than grief. His eyes locked down on the table in front of him, something heavy crowding out his attention.
     A prince is a curious creature. Rhema decided to make him her object of study for the rest of the evening. Certainly he did not live like an average man, but, when it came to it, he was just a man. They could dress him in satin, but he had the same imperfections as anyone else. He still sometimes missed his food with his fork or dropped crumbs on the tablecloth. He still had redness and wrinkles around his sleep-deprived eyes and subtle imperfections in his skin. Jonathan is handsomer than this man, thought Rhema, and certainly a better companion. What could anyone do with a prince? She had never heard him laugh. Then again, she had also never been in a situation where he would have laughed, so she could not fairly imagine that he never did. What sort of things did a prince find funny?
      After dinner, the party retired to one of the many parlors. The king hosted no plays nor magicians, so the guests divided naturally. King Harold engaged in a heated discussion with some Freesian dukes as Bastion endured a row of well-wishers. Among these were the VanGall twins, who had finally managed to get their invitations. Their squeaky voices interjected sympathies whenever the conversation would allow. The De Frees family gave their formal condolences then retreated to their own corner.
     “Papa, why do we always sit so far removed from the other nobles? Could we not join their conversation?” asked Rhema.
     “This is neither the time nor the place to explain, my dear, but our family is not generally liked in certain circles, particularly by the Freesians. It would be improper to address one of them before they address us.”
      This was not the first time she had heard this from her father. The explanation remained as unsatisfactory as it had always been.
     “We allow ourselves to be accessible to the Cartwellers, and they have no blood ties to us at all. We are of the king’s own family. Why should the he be less gracious?”
     “You are absolutely right, dear sister,” said Charlie Overton, suddenly emboldened. “I think I will speak to him.” He stood up and walked over to the circle of men around the king.
     “No, Charlie!” Charis tried to whisper. He was already gone, his hopeful disposition taking the place of his better judgment.
     “First Papa has us banished from Freesia, and now my Mr. Overton will have me shunned from the court all together!” Charis said. The seriousness of her tone was lost on Rhema, who desperately wanted to see what would happen if someone like Charlie talked to the king.
      He worked his way to the outer ring of the group. The dukes gave him skeptical airs. The king had not yet noted his presence. Before Charlie could interrupt his conversation, King Harold shouted, “A song! We must have a song!”
      Charlie, spooked by the outburst, sidled back into his wife’s arms.
     “Do you play, Baroness de Frees?” The king said in Rhema’s direction from across the room. For a moment, Rhema waited for this ‘Baroness de Frees’ person to speak up. The king’s object of gaze cut through and collected the gazes of the others in the room. Heat filled her face.
     “Not well, Your Majesty,” she answered. Her eyes fell on the pattern in the carpet.
     “Well then...” The king’s mustache twitched momentarily as his gaze shifted. “Jouez-vous, Duchesse Devon?” he asked Duchess Annette, who had reappeared in Iderburg on precisely the same day as the prince.
     “Je serai honorée, votre Majesté,” said Annette in her usual bird-like voice. She looked radiant in her new gown. Black sleeves accented the whiteness of her delicate hands and the lightness of her expertly-styled hair. Her fingers blended with the piano keys as they danced out a slow, elegant song.
     “She is a talent, is she not, Bastion?” King Harold said. The prince nodded. “Come, you must give us your voice to match this beautiful melody. It will lighten your heart.”
     “I am not inclined to sing today,” said Bastion, giving more attention to his glass of wine than to Annette.
      Harold grunted. He went to the piano and announced, “You are right! We will never forget our sorrows with songs such as this. A dance is what this party requires. Annette, une danse!”
      Annette’s lips tightened and her neck stiffened, but she struck up a dance tune.
     “Now for a partner,” said the king, feigning to skim the room. “Ah, the lovely Lady de Frees. If her husband will indulge me for this first dance, I would be obliged.”
      Rhema’s parents looked at each other in surprise, but, of course, obliged the king’s request. He took Rhema’s mother by the hand to the center of the room.
     “But now, my Bastion must have a partner. What a pity Annette is occupied. You have two lovely daughters, do you not, Lady de Frees? Our former baroness is spoken for, I see, but Bastion, do you see the new Baroness of Sever? Do I not detect something of our Annabelle in her cheeks? Ask the girl to dance. She will be going home tomorrow.” Anytime the king spoke of the late-Princess Annabelle, she was referred to as ‘our Annabelle,’ as if she had been his own daughter rather than a long dead great-aunt.
      Rhema wanted to disappear through the wall. For a minute, she tried to achieve this feat by pressing herself against it. Alas, bustles were not made for wall-flowers. The textured bottom half of her dress made it no easy accomplishment to lean against anything. Prince Bastion came toward her.
     “Baroness de Frees,” he said, extending a hand. As his father had not given him a choice, so the prince did not offer her one either. He led her to the center of the room.
      I am dizzy. My stomach hurts. My fingers are cold. Can he tell my fingers are cold?
      Rhema placed her hand on the prince’s shoulder, and his found its way around the back of her waist. His foot led; hers struggled to follow. He slowed his pace and widened his steps, making it nearly impossible for her to be left behind. The others joined in dancing after the king and prince were well in step with their partners.
      As they danced, the prince seemed as though he wanted to say something but could not find the words. The hearth fire warmed the room with tones of flickering orange. Rhema spun around, the intoxicating potpourri of flowers and candles filling her dizzy senses. She imagined herself like the woman in the drawing at the Théâtre Optique she had seen earlier that week – a mirror reflection doomed to spin the same circle over and over forever. What was she doing? Where were her feet? Was it better to look or not look at the prince? Rhema stumbled gracelessly, but the prince caught her, gently this time. He unknowingly nudged the bruised portion of her forearm. She winced. His eyebrows furrowed.
      The next thing she knew, she was in a chair, and there was no longer any music.
     “Will you be all right, Miss de Frees?” asked the prince.
     “Yes. I am fine. I just—“ Rhema said. For some reason, all that she could think about was the pleasant scent of his dinner jacket. “Oh my, is everybody looking at me?”
      Point of fact, everybody was looking at the prince, who knelt rather closely beside her.
     “I am all right. It was only a stumble,” Rhema reasserted, for the prince seemed rather concerned over nothing. His hand was on the place where her shoulder met her neck, and his eyes – how insensible his eyes! – sparked with something like fear and something like determination. Blue or green perhaps. She still couldn’t bring herself to look directly at the eyes of a prince.
      Suddenly, he let her go and left. As he was walking away, Rhema couldn’t help but notice the line of the prince’s back. It was exquisite.
     “That is enough entertainment for the evening,” stammered Harold. “You are all dismissed.” Then Harold followed after his son.
      Rhema buried her face in her hands. The guests chattered their confusion as valets opened doors for them to leave at their leisure. Annette’s speedy French dominated the room, demanding the meaning of what had just occurred. The Overtons were by Rhema’s side instantly, but Rhema’s parents stood apart and whispered to each other secretly.
     “What happened Rhema?” asked Charis.
      Rhema, teary eyed and pale faced, said, “I think I stepped on Prince Bastion’s foot.”
      They laughed.