Page 19 of A Girl and HER Prince
“My Lavinia—just like the girl in this poem, you are MY princess!”
Her father had given her this book when she was still in elementary school. She’d pored through it, not quite understanding the dactylic hexameter passages as a child, but her father had read it aloud to her and made the tale of a princess falling in love with a Trojan warrior and a prince from the rival kingdom come alive.
Oh, how her father would make the voyage of Odysseus shine with his imagination too! It was too painful to imagine what this vacation would be like if he were around. His jokes and laughter were sorely missed, and yet… for all of their shared love of Greek literature, they had never stepped foot here.
As Deedee cruelly pointed out, Livvy didn’t live life. In fact, if she were truly being introspective, she might admit that she just read about adventures in books. Her fingers trailed to her charm bracelet.
Could she break free from her habits of watching the world march past like she was a mere bystander, never making mistakes because she never tried?
She hated that Deedee had called it; and still, even so painfully aware of her shortcomings, Livvy would much rather stay in her cabin reading than venture above decks to mingle with the zoo animals.
Scaredy cat!
Livvy turned her book over onto the blanket and pressed her forehead into the poem’s smooth cover.
Turner’s a nice guy.
So why couldn’t she conjure up more emotion for him than that? That was the curse of being a romantic, wasn’t it? She’d felt more passion in that one brief look stolen between her and Venice.
Typical, since it was forbidden… and it probably happened because itwasforbidden, so that was that. Couldn’t she learn from Deedee’s heartbreak?
Livvy was being so stupid.
She should get out of her comfort zoneandbe sensible—learn that love didn’t follow the romantic tropes first started from these epic poems, but was so much better… supposedly. She found the page where Princess Lavinia’s hair caught on fire… an omen for glorious days to come:
O sight of woe! Over her broidered snood it sparkling flew, lighting her queenly tresses and her crown of jewels rare: then, wrapt in flaming cloud, from hall to hall the fire-god’s gift she flung.
Livvy’s eyes grew heavier against the soft blanket as she read. The temptation to take a nap before going out consumed her and then… yeah, yeah, she’d try to be social again. As if her father still wove the strange mythology behind her name with his deep melodic voice like he’d often done when she was a child, she drifted off to sleep, still hearing the bedtime story of a Trojan prince echoing through her mind.
The mythic tale took over her dreams… was it strange that the prince in this story looked so much like Venice? He was the son of Aphrodite. A warrior who’d survived the Trojan wars and had escaped the hands of the brutal Myrmidons.
Bruised, bleeding, and smarting from his people’s defeat, Prince Aeneas retreated from Troy to find solace in the arms of the only daughter of King Latinus.
Why did this dream feel so realistic? Even asleep, she wriggled uncomfortably when she saw Venice come ashore in a toga, sandals, and bronze armor. He was the hero of her tale, and no, she didn’t mind at all, even though she should. She really, really should! Livvy dropped all her suitors the instant she saw him.
Her father was a fan too! Her mother? Not so much. Poisoned against the prince with venomous snakes sent by the vengeful goddess, Hera, she hid her daughter away in the woods:“Hail, Bacchus! Thou alone,” her mother shrieked and raved, “art worthy such a maid…. For thee alone my daughter shall unbind the glory of her virgin hair.”
And so started the biggest war since Paris stole off with Helen to Troy. Was it worth it? What could’ve possibly inspired Aeneas to fight a war for love?
The ghostly images of Livvy’s dream passed through her heart as if she were that princess, who stood behind her father’s throne and looked upon the foreign royal who begged for her hand in marriage.
Their eyes met. No words. Just a glance. There was kindness there, and a strange scorching connection in those golden Tyndarian eyes. Somehow that felt like enough.
A knock sounded on the door. Livvy woke with a start, her vision adjusting to the darkened room. A crisp pink note lay on the bed in shadow under the fading sun. She snatched it up and recognized Deedee’s rushed handwriting:“Don’t sleep the evening away! Come up to the pool when you get this. I think Turner misses you.”
She couldn’t bring herself to care. Livvy pressed her forehead into the mattress as the lingering feelings she’d felt for that stranger burned through her, leaving an ash heap of embarrassment. Was she actually dreaming about Venice?
That was so not right!
Wake up, Livvy!The knock against the door sounded louder. She pushed herself up on her elbows and rolled off the bed, checking the mirror as she passed it. She groaned. The humidity had gotten to her hair again and it was bouncing with unruly curls—and not the cute kind! Livvy patted down as much of the wildness as she could as she headed for the door.
She opened it just as whoever was behind it knocked again.
“Deedee?”
“No, sorry!” Livvy opened the door all the way, not recognizing the woman standing there in the hall. She was probably the most dazzling socialite Livvy had seen so far, with stunningly high cheekbones and thick black hair. She wore a slinky white dress over her swimsuit. The telltale white straps were tied behind her neck as she strode into the room, still wearing her sunglasses from outside.
“So, you’re Deedee’s friend, are you?” she asked without preamble. She was all fake smiles. “I’m Bris—I’m sure we’re going to get along tremendously.”
