The Wrong Prince (12 page)

DRIP. DRIP.

The rain was meek yet laborious. Dmitri sat slumped upon balled woolen blankets in his cell, face in his hands, listening as it fell. Occasionally, the wind blew his way through the pane-less barred window, and droplets sprayed his sleeve and neck. But he didn’t care enough to move. He wondered how cold the cell would become in winter.

Then he remembered that he would never find out. He’d be long dead by then.

In the corner sat the pages of his novel, untouched since Pavola had brought up her letter of acceptance from the University of V
ü
ndtgen. The book was nearly complete, but he’d been unable to think of an ending. Apathy rolled over him like a lazy tide. He saw no reason to finish. He saw no more reason to do anything.

Death was inevitable, all over again. He was going to perish there, as soon as Pavola left. He would never tell her so. Of course, he had no getaway plan—that was an outright lie. To escape the fortress would be impossible for him…but not for her. If Pavi had a way out, who was Dmitri to keep her locked in? She’d already spent her whole life at Wintersea. He wanted nothing more than her freedom, above his own.

Perhaps he
should
have spent the last number of weeks devising an outbreak. It’s what anyone else would have done. But Dmitri had, fortunately or unfortunately, never been much like anyone else. And Pavi—well, she had brought him hope, had caused him to believe that he could somehow survive like this, indefinitely. Had he become complacent in his routine of writing by day, and receiving her sustenance and company each night? Alas, such life-prolonging rituals would soon be over.

He contemplated Pavola, her spritely gait and thoughtful eyes. Dmitri loved the delicate point of her chin, and the way it tapered down into her milky throat. The man closed his eyes, imagining his hand caressing her chin, that throat. He wondered at the sensation of her soft-looking skin, yearning for nothing more than to rest his head upon her shoulder, press his lips to her neck.

His back ached against the wall, but he leaned harder, digging his shoulder blades into the stone. Despair and fury welled within him. He wept bitterly, fighting back images of him and the girl fleeing together, hand in hand, a future of learning and travel and children they would never share, taunting him.

Shoulders heaving, the man shot up, eyeing the fluttering pages of his novel in the corner. How dare those pages speak of dreams, of hope? How dare he have been so damned foolish to believe for a moment that he or anything he wrote would survive his captivity? And his heart—why, it was the biggest captive of all. It rested entirely in the hands of another, unbeknownst to that person, and would travel with her all the way to V
ü
ndtgen.

Helpless with rage, Dmitri scooped up the stack of papers and hurled them up at the open window. “Begone,” he bellowed, eyes burning. “May the Ekianic claim you! And good riddance!”

As if an act of providence, a powerful gust huffed his way, blowing the papers back into his cell. They scattered every which way, at least a hundred pages, some landing outside the bars and into the outer room. He covered his face, lowering his head.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing like that when familiar footsteps sounded up the top stairwell. Heartsick, he did not look up.

He heard her enter, felt her tentative steps, imagined the startled expression she must have worn to see the disorder he’d made. For several minutes, neither spoke. At last, she asked simply, “Writer’s block?”

Dmitri nodded. The explanation was as good as any.

He watched as Pavola perched atop her knees and began patiently collecting the pages, one by one. In spite of himself, he was grateful he’d thought to number them. He could see her eyes focused on the numerals as she arranged them in proper sequence.

He wouldn’t have her cleaning up after him. Resigned, he knelt down and gathered up the parchment as well. They worked in silence, until his stack was reassembled.

“I ought to bind those for you,” she offered.

Dmitri wished he could return her smile. “You’ve got enough to do before you leave,” he muttered. “Don’t waste your time on my silly garbage.”

She looked as though he’d insulted her. “It’s not garbage. And it’s not a waste.”

He waved her off as another cool draft sprayed through the window. “You were right when you said novels were useless frivolity.”

“I no longer believe that.” Her neck reddened. “Not since reading yours. You’re going to finish it, aren’t you?”

He choked back a sudden sob, turning away. He would not fall apart in her presence. Although his days were numbered, it didn’t make him any less of a man. He straightened, facing her again, and tensed his arms. He would seize the girl in them, hold her, squeeze her if not for the blasted bars in his way. “Pavola.” His voice was a growl. “If I ever make it out of here alive, I want my future to be with you.”

She went still.

“Say you’ll think on it,” he urged her. “That you’ll think on me.”

She appeared to be forming her words as she glanced down at her gray skirts. “Mit,” she exhaled. “I seldom think on anything but you these days.”

His heart leapt.

“But,” her sweet face paled, and his spirits fell, “you are a prince.”

“And you are a princess.”

She shook her head. “I’m a mistake.”

“No.” He reached his arms between the bars. With some trepidation, she stepped forward, allowing him to take her hands. He pet her fair skin, pulling her in. “You are a masterpiece.” He lifted a hand to cup her hair. It was silky, springy; he’d never felt it before. He was certain he’d be happy if all he did for the rest of his days was weave his fingers through it.

“To what shall I compare you?” he whispered, and her cheeks further blanched beneath his touch. “You are pure and gentle as the crescent moon, illuminating paths of hope in even the darkest hours.

“You are the evening primrose, tender yet hardy, blossoming in your own fine-spun glory in spite of the night’s gloom. And when the sun blazes beneath the western hills,” he continued, intent, “its fiery tendrils lashing at the twilit dusk, it recalls the strength of your mind, your tenacity. Only because you thrive, then so do I. My affection, respect and admiration are wholly yours.”

She trembled, resting a hand over his. “You make love to me with your poetry, yet you still wish me to leave.” She came closer, bowing her brow against the bars. “I am so confused.”

“You will leave,” he told her, sliding his thumb along the underside of her chin. “And when you have accomplished all you can, and earned as many credentials to your name as you aspire to, then you will sail back to East Halvea and find me.” He tried not to envision the young woman seeking his grave. For the moment, he would pretend, just pretend, that everything he so desired—a full life, a future with her—was possible. “I’ll be waiting.”

She made to protest, tearful, but he brushed a finger across her lips. Her perfect, fragile lips. “Don’t speak,” he breathed. “Just kiss me.”

Two rigid, cast iron columns flanked his face, but he cared not as he angled himself between them and received her mouth over his. God above! An angel was kissing him, her mouth warm and heavenly, the taste of her, lemony and clear. It was altogether everything and so much more than he could have imagined.

She stopped for breath, her eyes bright as they met his, and issued a shaky laugh. Dmitri’s heart was no longer subject to gravity, but lifting weightless to the ceiling as he reached for the back of her neck and brought her in to kiss him again, this time long and unrelenting. His pulse palpitated. If he didn’t survive the following moon, his life had been worthwhile, all of it, for those moments.

At last, their lips parted. Pavola took a tiny step back, looking more enlivened than he’d ever seen her. She tried to speak, but only stammered. Dmitri smiled. “We…we’ll figure something out,” she finally managed, eyes glowing at him. “We’ll free you. I know it.”

He gazed at her mouth, pink and raw from his kiss, and wondered if his appeared the same.

“Oh!” She looked suddenly sorry. “But how could I have forgotten?” (He could imagine how.) “You must be starving!” With haste, she reached into the folds of her skirts and withdrew a few parcels wrapped in brown paper, and a flask. The man received them into his cell.

“I, er….” She stumbled over her shoes as she backed away, and Dmitri’s smile widened. “I’ll be back tomorrow. And we’ll—we’ll talk more. About it.” She let out an uncharacteristic giggle as she crossed the room. “Um. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Pavola.”

It didn’t matter that she’d forgotten to light the candle for him before she left. He’d wager his beam was bright enough to illuminate all of Llewes.

PAVI FLOATED DOWN THE TOWER steps, swept by an unfamiliar elation. What was this curious phenomenon? The sensation was unquantifiable. She knew of no equation, no term by which to measure it. It was stronger than anything she’d experienced, and it jumbled her thoughts, making her giddy. How could a feeling overrule her most practiced sensibilities?

And how could a
man
be responsible for it?

Perhaps this was how the famous scientists felt when they made their greatest discoveries, conjured their revolutionary theories, or engineered something truly groundbreaking. But Pavi hadn’t invented or discovered anything. She’d merely kissed a man—albeit, a prince!—for the first time.

Why did that somehow feel grander than any invention or discovery?

But she hadn’t time for men. At least, it was never part of her plan. She’d always intended to be studious, independent. Oh, this was going to interfere with everything, she just knew it. It already had. And she was completely unprepared.

“Dmitri Straussen, you will be my undoing,” she heard herself say, although she couldn’t curb her lingering grin, spreading all the while.

She rounded the next stairwell, her mind made. She would search through every piece of literature she could access, and find a way to break a cast iron bar. There had to be some method by which to melt or bend the metal. A single bar was all she needed to remove or manipulate, and then Mit could squeeze through the resulting gap.

From there, who knew? He would return to his country, where he could keep in close correspondence with her, until she completed her courses. She did not dare consider whether he’d accompany her to V
ü
ndtgen; that would be asking too much. Not to mention, she already found his presence far too distracting.

She was surprised when her shoes met the ground floor. She hadn’t realized she’d completed her descent already. She lowered her eyes, blushing at the recollection of the kisses she’d given him, the affections they’d exchanged, and above all, his beautiful, elegant words. Did the Tybirian prince really think such flattering things about—?

“Careful, ward!”

Pavola gasped. In the shadowy corridor, she almost ran into someone. She looked up, meeting the alarmed face of the same burly guard with whom she’d nearly collided once before. “Forgive me, sir.” She bowed her head, walking on, but her gut sank as he called her back.

“Hang on there, Miss.”

She slowly turned.

“Haven’t I seen you wandering these parts before?”

Though terrified, Pavi refused to bat an eye. “I live here. I’m sure you have.”

This did not appear to assuage his suspicions, as he only squinted down at her. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I heard you coming down the tower steps just now.”

Her heart lolloped an extra beat, but she fought to maintain a placid expression. “Of course you did. I climb the steps for my daily exercise. The stone ones, anyway.” She feigned a shudder. “I’d not brave those rickety old wooden things at the top for a pound of silver, mark my word.”

“Mmm.” He looked her over again, and Pavi thanked God she’d not been carrying a tote bag that night.

She sighed. “If only I could go outdoors to exert myself. Alas,” she shrugged, “I am to remain indoors. King’s orders. Plus, all the rain, you know.” She knew she was rambling, but it was good, for the guard was beginning to lose interest, looking impatient.

“Very well,” he decided, plainly bored with the conversation. “Off you go, then.”

Pavi bade him goodnight and resumed the path her quarters, exhaling a long breath the moment she was out of earshot. That was close. Going forward, she’d have to be more careful. Although she had created a useful alibi with the exercise fib, it wouldn’t do to draw attention to her frequent presence near the tower. She had enough to deal with, as it was.

She passed through her door and smiled at the small, candlelit chamber. Her camp bed was neatly made with its plain linens and brown blanket, the single pillow flat, books stacked neatly on the bureau. She’d never realized how romantic her bedchamber was.

Or, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was only that her mood was romantic. She laughed in disbelief, closing the door behind her. Her encounter with the guard had already dissolved into a distant trifle. Mit and his tender prose, his fond kisses, stole center stage in her mind once more.
Look at you, Pavola Ward!
She scolded herself.
You are behaving like a silly waif!

She sat on the bed, holding her navel. For some reason, the most resounding sensations seemed to originate there. She would research the physiological explanation later. For now, she only wished to enjoy it. Stars were exploding in her belly. It was the only fit description. Shooting stars. Hundreds of them.

But Mit was still a prisoner. And Pavi had already mailed her response to the university, as he’d implored her to do. Time was running out; she had to formulate something.

“I will see him freed,” she avowed, tracing her lips where his had been. “Soon.”