Page 33 of Falling Princess
Lorcan and Raina made a visually compelling couple, he with his unkempt mop of hair tamed into a semblance of style, in his close-fitting navy suit; and she in cream-and-crimson silk from neck to knee. A silver tiara adorned her dark hair.
Photographers snapped hundreds of pictures. Better them than me.
I wafted up the marble stairs of the museum in a froth of innocent pink. Ruffles flapped behind me like sails in a high wind. My back was cold. Cameras clicked. Of our group, I was the only one without a partner. I posed. I smiled. I pretended.
I hated every second of it.
Behind me were Kenton and Becca, Bashir and Lacey, Cata and my father. I felt self-conscious and conspicuously alone. Always alone, even when surrounded by family and friends. We were accompanied by three royal guards in black suits with conspicuous bulges. Guns.
Once we were inside, my father bent to whisper instructions in my ear. “Do you see the man with the red bowtie and wireframe glasses? Bald?”
“Yes, Father.”
“He is the U.S. Ambassador for Antiquities. He is here to discuss the repatriation of artifacts from museums to their native countries. I want you to try and get him interested in an artifact loan from Auralia to the United States.”
“How is this supposed to help us acquire machine guns and rockets?” My father is not in the habit of explaining his reasoning to me.
“Leave that to me.” He patted my hand and gave me a firm push in the direction of the ambassador I’ve been commanded to woo. My questions about whether this is a wise investment of our dwindling time, in the event of an attack, are not welcomed.
Smile. Look pretty. Accept everything we tell you at face value.Is it any wonder I despise what I was born to be?
The ambassador spoke mostly to my boob-taped breasts, the curves of which were subtly revealed by the deep V of the bodice of my dress, belying the innocent pink ruffles. I smiled despite the impulse to hold my program over my chest and force him to look at my face while talking to me. I’ve learned that men in the outside world tend to dislike it when young women express ideas, so I let him talk to my chest for a solid twenty minutes before bringing up the prospect of an art trade.
“My card, Princess. We can discuss specifics at a later date. Perhaps, over drinks? In the U.S., you wouldn’t be of age to set foot in a bar, but here—”
I suppressed a shudder and stuck the rectangle into my pocket, the one saving grace of this frightful evening gown. It would be nice to wear something that makes me look like a grown-up for once. Alas, I never get to choose my clothes.
Dancing started. I saw my father on the floor with Cata, which isn’t unusual. They have a close friendship, just as we do. I sometimes wonder if there is more to it than a simple assassin’s guarding of a king. If my father has entertained women in the decade since my mother’s death, I don’t know about it, nor do I want to. It’s enough that he doesn’t take up with anyone publicly.
The rest of my party were paired up and either dancing or making small talk. I had no one to chat with, so I wandered the gallery for a while under the watchful eye of one of my father’s guards. I hardly noticed him trailing me.
All my life, I’ve been watched over in this fashion. After my mother’s death it intensified, but then, so did everything. I had to take on her responsibilities as High Priestess, begin my religious education (ugh) and take a more prominent public role than I was ready for.
But I never resented being guarded, until Lorcan came along.
“Are you a patron of the arts in your home country, Princess Auralian?”
I was startled out of my thoughts by the ambassador. To his credit, he pronounced my last name almost flawlessly. He trailed me into the mostly empty gallery.
It’s not the first time a man has made me feel uncomfortable at one of these functions. My father’s guard probably thought that since the king introduced us, he was no threat. It’s not his job to second-guess his sovereign.
“I suppose so, although we don’t have a proper museum. We have a large collection of artifacts on display in the castle. Sculptures. Paintings. Masks.”
“Masks?”
He edged closer to me. Too close. I sidled away coltishly. Heels are such a liability. I wish I were wearing my cheap sneakers. They’d be cute with this dress, too, in a mismatched way.
“There are three primary tribes in Auralia.” I started talking, since that seems like the best way to hold this man at bay without offending him, and my father, for some unfathomable reason, wants me to cultivate his goodwill. “My people, Auralians; Princess Raina’s people, the Myseci; and the Mountain Folk, like the large red-haired man standing with King Rohan.”
“I see.”
What this man sees are my boobs, judging from the direction of his gaze. Frowning, I willed him to meet my eyes. It didn’t work, so I crossed my arms over my chest and kept talking. We don’t discuss the existence of Cata’s people with outsiders, so I skipped mentioning the Covari.
“Once upon a time, there was a fourth tribe, the Ansi People. They were responsible for many of the larger statues in our collection, and quite a few masks. They’re striking.”
“Your country has become known for its beautiful products, Princess.”
We were no longer discussing art. I am aproduct.I edged away, wishing I had the gall to tell this oily man to his face that I’m young enough to be his daughter and that he should ogle someone his own age. Diplomacy requires me to smile through my discomfort. It’s not as though anything truly awful can happen, with so many people around. I’m not in danger, per se—just annoyed and a bit shaken. Every time this happens, I feel as though my father has thrown me to the wolves.
