The Princess

  The setting sun cast golden light through the tall windows of the prince’s private dining room. It bathed the polished wood of the floor and furnishings in sparkling yellow and orange hues. This included the woman seated at the ornate table in the center of the room, white-blond hair set ablaze in the sun’s gilded rays as she awaited her betrothed. She breathed a sigh of relief at her choice of dress, seeing the reds complimented by the hues of the sunset. The chamber mirrored the layout of her own quarters across the hall, though here the furnishings were darker with a tactful masculinity. She squirmed a little in her seat, the velvet cushion sticking to the tulle of her dress as the table was filled to overflowing with every assortment of food she could imagine.

  The woman, soon-to-be bride of Prince Beckett, second in line for the crown of Reagant City, sat rigidly for what seemed like ages, though was really only a quarter of an hour. She’d barely moved since she’d been guided here by one of the bustling servants swarming around the quarters like bees in a hive. The Prince’s seat at the head of the table remained empty while servants hurried to and fro, murmuring softly as they completed the final preparations for the meal. She kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, afraid to move without instruction, to draw attention to herself in any way that might be deemed improper.

  She’d been bedecked in an array of matching adornments drawn from drawers and chests she had never seen before today. Three fine gold chains rested at her collarbone, the longest bearing a small ruby that caught the fading light. Matching earrings weighed gently at her ears. Her pale hair had been pinned, twisted, and braided into an elaborate style she could never have achieved on her own, and her face had been painted and powdered until it no longer felt like her own. Six women had fussed over her for nearly two hours, and when they were finished, the reflection in the mirror had startled her. She had looked every inch a prince’s bride, precisely as intended. Still, the image had felt borrowed, as though she’d slipped into someone else’s life.

  The doors to the dining room opened just as the servants finished setting the food, and Prince Beckett strode in, relinquishing his jacket to an attendant without breaking his stride. The room stilled for a heartbeat as the servants bowed. She rose and curtsied as she had been taught, her movements careful and measured. When she straightened, she found the Prince’s gaze already fixed on her. He paid the servants no mind as they resumed their work, his attention never wavering as he crossed the room.

  She remained standing, offering a tentative smile she did not entirely feel. When he reached her, he took her hand and pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was gentle, practiced, and intimate in a way that made her pulse flutter despite herself. At his silent prompting, she sat once more, allowing him to guide her chair closer to the table. Heat crept into her cheeks, and she hoped it read as modesty rather than nerves.

  Once the Prince was seated, servants descended upon the table, filling their plates with an overwhelming array of food. There were richly braised meats, roasted vegetables, colorful beans, spiced mash, thick gravy, warm bread, and dishes she could not name. Goblets were filled with sweet mead, and a pitcher of water infused with floating fruit was set between them. Then, one by one, the servants withdrew, the doors closing softly behind them and leaving the room steeped in silence.

  Prince Beckett smiled across the table and inclined his head toward her plate as he lifted his utensils. “Shall we?” he said lightly.

  She nodded and followed his example, careful to mirror every movement. Sitting straight, she cut a small piece of meat and brought it to her mouth with deliberate precision. The burst of flavor overwhelmed her, but she mastered her reaction, lowering her gaze to her plate. The Prince ate with the same composed elegance she had been trained to emulate, and for a moment she watched him, searching his expression for some clue of what he expected from her. What sort of wife he had purchased.

  She turned back to her meal, resolving to taste everything but say little. She would answer when spoken to, defer when uncertain, and allow him to lead as she had been instructed. As she cut each careful bite, her thoughts raced ahead of her hands. This dinner, this man, this life. All of it was new, uncharted, and irrevocable. And as the quiet stretched between them, she wondered which version of herself, what bit of training, would be required to survive it.

  After several minutes, Prince Beckett set his utensils aside and leaned back in his chair, his attention settling fully on her. The shift was subtle, but she felt it immediately. Not wanting to err, she mirrored him, placing her own utensils neatly beside her plate before lifting her gaze. She offered a polite smile, measured, practiced, and carefully inviting.

  “My lady,” he began, his voice calm, “thank you for honoring me by sharing this first meal with me. I assume you understand what my choosing you today signifies.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she replied, her voice quiet but steady. “We are to be wed.”

  He inclined his head in agreement. “Yes. But not merely wed. You will be my chosen wife.” His eyes remained on her as he continued. “Do you know what distinguishes that role from being simply a wife?”

  “Yes, my prince,” she said after a breath. “I will stand beside you during official court functions. I will bear your children first, for a time, before you take other wives should you choose. And I will attend to you as you see fit.”

  “That is correct,” he said, though his expression suggested he was not finished. “But there is more. You will serve the people of this nation alongside me. Any children we have will stand in the line of succession after my brother’s heirs, and they may one day rule. You will oversee their upbringing and prepare them for that responsibility. You will learn what it means to belong to the ruling family of Carsil.”

  She nodded slowly, her expression solemn. None of this was new to her. It had been drilled into her since childhood, repeated until it lived in her bones. Still, hearing it spoken now, directed at her, felt different. He had chosen her. The weight of that settled heavily on her shoulders, and she resolved, silently, not to falter beneath it.

  “Good,” Prince Beckett said, exhaling as though reassured. “Very good. I’m pleased you understand how carefully I considered my decision today. Every woman presented was evaluated thoroughly. My father approves of both my choice and Tregan’s. He has already granted his blessing, and preparations are underway. The wedding will take place in a few days’ time, the day after my brother is wed. Until then, you will be fitted for your gown and instructed on the ceremony itself. You will prepare alongside my mother.”

  She nodded again, though that detail gave her pause. She knew of the Prince’s mother, knew she was not the King’s chosen wife, but one of lesser standing, rarely seen beyond the castle walls. Chosen wives served the people openly, marked by white robes when in the city, while lesser wives remained within the palace, their tan garments rendering them indistinct beside the King. Sons born to lesser wives did not typically stand in the line of succession, but necessity had altered tradition. The Queen had borne only three children, and only one son, Tregan. When that line proved too narrow, the King had turned to his other wives. After two more daughters, Beckett had finally been born, seven years after his brother.

  “My mother will instruct you in the fundamentals of our family and its expectations,” Beckett continued, resuming his meal. “Tregan’s chosen wife will follow his mother in much the same way, learning her duties until the Queen passes. At that point, she will assume the primary role, possibly even before Tregan ascends the throne if the Queen dies before the King. She will serve both as the seated Queen of Carsil and continue the duties to the people. Second and third wives do not rise to the position of first.”

  He ate again, and she followed, returning to her careful, deliberate bites. Silence settled between them, dense with unspoken thoughts. She was honored to a be a chosen bride to a prince of Carsil but she felt relieved she wouldn’t have the weight of Tregan’s wife on her shoulders.. She took a small sip of mead and nearly startled at its sweetness. Every flavor at the table felt decadent. It was so unlike the plain, meager meals she’d been served all her life alongside her sisters. She knew eating too much of the rich dinner would likely upset her stomach but it was hard to resist. She restrained herself with effort, tasting rather than indulging, though her gaze lingered too long on the untouched chocolate tart with delicate meringue wisps at the center of the table.

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  When she looked back up, she found the prince watching her.

  Her breath caught. Before she could compose herself, he stood and moved around the table, reaching for the tart. She stiffened, worried she had overstepped without realizing it. He cut a generous portion and placed it carefully on a gold plate before setting it in front of her, then served himself the same.

  “A fondness for chocolate?” he asked lightly, amusement bright in his eyes. “You have excellent taste. Please, enjoy.”

  She lifted her fork but hesitated, unsure how much would be acceptable. Her uncertainty must have shown.

  “Indulge,” he said, already halfway through his slice. “I insist.”

  Relief loosened something tight in her chest. Color warmed her cheeks as she smiled, this time unguarded, and took a proper bite. She paused, savoring the richness, the delicate spice, the smoothness that melted across her tongue. She swallowed slowly, wanting the moment to last.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” she answered, softly.

  His expression shifted then, the smile fading as he pushed his plate aside. He removed his napkin and regarded her with a seriousness that made her straighten instinctively.

  “When we are alone,” he said, “you may call me Beck. Titles are for the court.”

  She hesitated. Everything she had been taught resisted the suggestion. But obedience, to her husband above all else, had been taught just as firmly. After a moment, she nodded.

  He relaxed slightly and turned toward her. “Please tell me. What should I call you?”

  This, at least, she had anticipated. “Whatever you wish,” she replied, lifting her chin, meeting his gaze despite her nerves.

  He studied her openly, and she felt herself growing acutely aware of every detail, the warmth of his attention, the unfamiliar ease of his posture. When he spoke again, it was quieter.

  “Did you have a name before coming here?”

  She swallowed, not expecting him not to know women came unnamed. “Sometimes ‘girl.’ Sometimes my identification number: XR7054.” She paused. “A few of the others called me Xer. From the letters.”

  “Xer,” he repeated, frowning slightly. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  He considered her for a long moment. “What about Xena?”

  She nodded at once. Acceptance felt safer than hesitation. “As you wish… my Beck.” Her cheeks heated further at her near slip. She had almost said my lord again but changed to Beck at the last second, remembering his request.

  He laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I may regret asking you to drop the formalities,” he said, smiling. “I like the sound of that ‘my’ far too much.”

  He added, gently, “Xena.”

  She smiled again, careful but sincere. “I’m glad it pleases you, my Beck.”

  –????????–

  Prince Beck had escorted her back across the hall to her quarters shortly after their conversation, making sure she had her fill of the tart before guiding her from the table. The servants waited in his receiving room, opening the doors for them, then again for Xena’s own. Once inside, he lingered, and she curtsied, her hands trembling slightly as she murmured thanks for the evening meal. He said nothing, only gave a small, unreadable smile. Relief washed over her—he had been kind all evening, far gentler than she had feared.

  Then, hesitating for a moment, he closed the distance between them. He took her hand, drawing her closer, and she allowed it, breath catching as she froze in place. His other hand settled lightly on her waist, guiding her body against his before he leaned down and pressed a firm, controlled kiss to her cheek, just beside her lips. She dared not breathe, standing perfectly still, overwhelmed by a mixture of surprise and something almost like reassurance. When he finally pulled back, his mischievous smile returned, and he strode from the room, closing the doors quietly behind him.

  Xena stepped into her bedchamber and closed the door to the receiving hall. She sank onto the bed, lying on her back as a giddy, almost disbelieving smile spread across her face. Relief, warmth, and a strange sort of happiness mingled in her chest. She hadn’t known what to expect of him, but his gentleness, the careful way he had treated her, it made her feel, dare she admit it, safe. At least for the moment. Her mind replayed his kiss to her cheek, the firmness of his hand at her waist, and she couldn’t stop smiling.

  Her reverie ended abruptly when the doors to the bedchamber opened again, and Remy entered, clutching a large, fluffy white towel.

  “I heard Prince Beckett has officially named you,” she said, moving toward the bed. “It’s nice to meet you, My Lady Xena.”

  Xena sat up, wincing slightly at the tight corset, and gave a hesitant nod. Remy took her arm firmly and guided her to her feet, steering her toward the open doors.

  “It’s time for a bath,” Remy said briskly, almost dragging her. “Night has nearly fallen, but your duties are not done. Your first meeting with Prince Beckett’s mother, Princess Ryna, will be tonight. She’ll be here shortly.”

  Xena’s stomach tightened at the thought, but she allowed herself a flicker of calm. If Prince Beck had treated her with patience and respect, perhaps his mother would, too. Clinging to that hope, she hurried into the bathing room. Remy stripped away the layers of her dress, one by one. It was a laborious task given the tight, restrictive garments Xena wore. The bath had been drawn, scented oils wafting from the warm water with hints of rose and citrus.

  Once she was fully undressed, Xena stepped into the bath, letting the heat envelop her. Remy scrubbed her hair and back with practiced efficiency, instructing her not to touch her own arms or legs. Xena had wanted to resist, to assert herself, but she found herself melting into the routine, comforted, if only slightly, by the familiarity of care. When Remy deemed her clean, Xena stepped out, shivering slightly as the towel was wrapped around her.

  They returned to the bedchamber. Both women stopped at the doors, surprised. Standing with her back to them, looking toward the dining area, was a woman in tan robes. Midnight-blue eyes glimmered through her mask. Xena froze, heart thumping and Remy’s posture mirrored hers in tension and respect.

  “My Princess,” Remy said, bowing deeply. “My apologies. I meant to have Lady Xena ready by the time of your arrival. Dinner ran late with Prince Beckett.”

  “Oh, I know,” Princess Ryna replied, stepping closer. “I came early on purpose.”

  She closed the double doors firmly behind her, shutting out the servants and leaving the room hushed and private. She walked to the edge of the bed and sat, crossing her legs, observing Xena. The young woman remained stiff and dripping, uncertain how to move without instruction. Remy mirrored her caution.

  The Princess gestured gracefully. “Drop your towel.”

  Xena’s eyes widened, but she obeyed instantly, letting her arms fall to her sides rather than covering herself. Relief bubbled within her, at least here, in this moment, she could follow instructions safely. Princess Ryna studied her, then motioned for her to turn. She did so without hesitation, heart hammering in her chest.

  “Face me again,” the Princess said. When Xena complied, she found herself no longer measured from a distance; the Princess approached, evaluating her closely, gently weighing her breasts and nodding. “Your body is optimal for bearing children. Full breasts and wide hips. Well proportioned. My son chose well, and I think he will be pleased to see you presented in his bedchamber.”

  Xena’s cheeks burned, a heat that wasn’t entirely discomfort. Part of her relief stemmed from the way she had been accepted into this new life, even under scrutiny. She’d passed their tests. The Princess moved to the closet, selecting a long satin robe. She slipped it over Xena’s shoulders and tied it in front. The warmth of fabric against her skin and the sense of being clothed again eased some of the lingering tension in her body.

  “I ran into my son on my way here,” the Princess said, smiling faintly at Xena, “and he told me he gave you an official name.”

  “Yes, my Princess,” Xena replied, a small but steady pride in her voice. “He named me Xena.”

  “He told me it is a combination of your identification letters and my own name. Did he tell you that?”

  Xena shook her head.

  The Princess’s eyes crinkled again in a smile. She reached out, taking Xena’s hand and leading her into the dining room, candles flickering, shadows dancing across the walls. Relief settled further into Xena’s chest. She hadn’t known what to expect tonight, but thus far, kindness had guided her. First from Beck, and now from his mother.

  “Thank you for your services, Remy,” the Princess said. “But I must begin my private lessons with Lady Xena now.” Remy bowed low and hurried away, out through the doors to the entrance hall.

  Seated on a small sofa by the bookcases, Princess Ryna patted the cushion beside her. Xena obeyed, turning slightly to meet the Princess’s gaze.

  “I’m here to explain everything you will be expected to do, in great detail. There is much to learn in very little time.” She opened a small book, blank pages ready. She handed Xena a turquoise quill and set the bottle of black ink before her. “Take notes so you may study during meals. Let us begin while the night is still young.”

  Xena inhaled slowly, heart still racing from the evening, and allowed herself a tentative sense of comfort. Beck had been gentle. His mother seemed patient. Perhaps she could survive this new life - not just merely endure it.