The Historian’s Novel

Even before Amelia’s eyelashes fluttered open to greet the morning light shining in through the townhouse’s curtains, she knew without a doubt she would spend her day being miffed.

In silence she ate a bitter breakfast. Oatmeal, with only a single scoop of brown sugar allowed. After, she wrote and handed Grace; seemingly stuck in a state of worried amusement, a letter for her father who had business at the king’s castle.

It contained a request to hire Stanton the gladiator as one of the fighters they needed for their family’s duel with the Marquess of Rutherford. Despite having learnt Stanton had found himself a sponsor, Amelia barely considered the mysterious backer an issue. Whatever grievances the noble might have at the idea of losing their prize fighter could be resolved with large quantities of cold, unfeeling cash.

A solution reflecting her mood, which wore a false smile until Amelia had seen Grace off at the door. After having caught her father and Martel in a compromising position, Amelia was forced to come to terms with the fact something about how she perceived her relationship with Grace, had changed. As in the garden of her heart, where once a sapling of match-making had been dutifully watered, could now only be found an empty dead plot, containing a deeply unsettling, inexplicable fear the princess might leave her for a prince charming.

Love held in it the potential to change people. Even her own father was apparently powerless against its sway.

Against such an unstoppable force, what if Grace forgot all about her? The thought drove Amelia towards the dark recesses of her mind. Where she found a haunting part of herself that remained glad, glad she still hadn’t revealed Grace’s identity as a princess.

She ran from that part of her mind. Refusing to entertain such a notion. Even as a ghost of yesterday’s laughter welcomed Amelia back into her bedroom. Imagination mixed with recollection, forcing upon her the memory of having regained consciousness in Grace’s arms. Who had spirited Amelia from the townhouse’s kitchen after she’d fainted.

As much as Amelia had loved waking up in the arms of a hard-working-country-girl-waitress, it left her with a horrible feeling that forget being seen as a friend, Grace might view her as a child needing to be taken care of.

“I’m… I’m not a child, right?” Amelia asked the free-standing mirror which stood next to her bed. “M-My coming-of-age ceremony might have gone without fanfare, but it still happened…”

Her reflection, began to undress. Searching for proof that Amelia might stand a chance when placed next to the many beautiful suitors in The Historian’s novel.

The results, were disappointing. She saw only a body that failed to live up to the legacy of her mother’s hourglass figure. A body containing none of the confidence a lady like Martel seemed to exude with each suggestive step.

Could she confidently call herself a woman? If Grace entered the room at that moment, would the princess scold her like a child who’d stripped itself for no reason? Or would the blonde beauty manage to see something in Amelia which she herself couldn’t, take her by the arm, and guide her to the… to the…

Amelia didn’t finish that last thought involving a bed. Instead, she chose to chase away any pervading indecency, by scrounging the townhouse (after getting dressed) for a book she took with her into her room’s closet. Keeping its door cracked ajar just enough for a sliver of light to fall on her reading.

It was no greenhouse. But the enclosed environment helped Amelia relax. As did the plate of cookies Grace had left her on the bed, which she snuck out to retrieve between the turning of chapters.

Such was how an entire day passed in monotony. Until candles replaced sun, and Grace returned with a positive reply from Havoc expressing his regret of not being there when Amelia woke, and a promise of an explanation to follow when next they met.

An unnecessary gesture. By then Amelia had come to terms with the idea there might soon be a room in the Strightsworth manor dedicated to Martel. What still remained outside of Amelia’s understanding, was why Grace proceeded to then question her on whether she’d gotten any exercise all day.

“No?” Amelia answered, and before she knew it, they were outside taking a walk that ended with them sitting under the turning shadows of a lighthouse, at the edge of a waterfront boardwalk. Watching the moon rise over the protective cliffs of the Ocean Bay.

“Havoc actually did have a reason for not being around today,” Grace said after length, reaching over to place a comforting hand upon Amelia’s thigh, “He’s not avoiding you. He’s been stuck in a meeting with the king’s chief of police. Apparently, word got out about your family’s feud with the Rutherford’s. The public doesn’t know the details, but they’re expecting a crowd.”

Amelia, who idly splashed her bare feet on the water’s surface below them, dared to lean over and rest her head against the princess’s shoulder. “I’m not upset with him,” she said, knowing her words could only sound like denial.

Grace lightly tittered. The jostling of her body’s vibrations caused Amelia to wonder how the two of them might look from an outsider’s perspective.

A lady and her hand-maiden? Good friends? Family? Perhaps more?

“Fine, maybe I am a bit selfish,” Amelia admitted, at odds with her beating heart which, appeared quite okay with the queer idea that a stranger might think them a couple. “Maybe I had hoped to spend more time with my father now that things are going better between us… And now, I’ll have to share him with Martel.”

Grace shifted closer, Amelia could swear the princess’s lips were a hairs breath from her ear, “Or… You know… it might just be a fling.”

Amelia pulled away to look at Grace in embarrassed shock. “My dad would never! I don’t care what stories you’ve heard about him, but I’ve heard it from Heimdall, and my mother is the only woman he’s been with!”

Grace began laughing, to the point she needed to wipe away at a few perfect tears.

“You actually checked?”

Amelia’s lips pursed together, “I was young. Couldn’t even walk yet… I overheard my grand-father trying to convince mom that dad was a no-good play-boy scoundrel who would eventually leave her, so I asked Heimdal to prove him wrong.”

“That is adorable,” Grace said, and she gave such a loving smile that for a moment, Amelia worried her racing heart might abruptly stop. And when the princess reached to unbutton the uppermost clasp of her blouse to better breathe in the warm nightly air, it skipped a few beats.

“Is there a stain on my dress?” Grace asked, startling Amelia who realised her discreet spying had been caught and misconstrued.

“N-No,” Amelia said, dipping both of her feet up to their ankles in the water to calm down. “I… I just got distracted.”

The princess thoughtfully hummed. “Then what’s got you so frazzled?” she asked, “I’m here if you want to confide.”

Her gentle question made it impossible for Amelia to deny it. At some point, she had started to like Grace a bit more than ‘a little’.

“It’s nothing important,” Amelia said, with a smile that felt barely cobbled together.

“You sure?” Grace asked, and she raised a hand as if about to further unbutton her collar.

Luckily for Amelia’s faint heart, Grace did not end up opening more of her dress. Instead, she pulled from her bra a pair of two tickets. “Here,” she said, with an impish grin, “I was going to tease you some more but I’m already satisfied so I’ll save it for later.”

“W-What are these?” Amelia asked, squashing the part of her which felt disappointed at having to wait.

“Colosseum tickets,” Grace said, “Havoc strong-armed a noble for them after he read your request.”

“But the dates are all wrong,” Amelia said, finding the tickets were set for the day before their duel with the Marquess.

Grace blew a raspberry. Clearly unimpressed by something. “Your dad says he trusts you, but he still wants to see Stanton fight before bringing him on. Which, is kind of understandable. Why exactly did you decide on Stanton of all people? Is it because I called him cute?”

With the only connection between herself and Stanton being The Historian’s novel, Amelia couldn’t come up with an answer. Agreeing that Stanton was ‘cute’, felt like the wrong move.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got your reasons,” Grace continued, after Amelia’s dumb tongue couldn’t manage to come up with a lie on the fly, “Hey… Do you see that big building up there on the cliffs?”

Amelia searched for what had caught the princess’s attention, hoping to escape any more questions about Stanton.

“That one?” she asked, pointing to show she had spotted the quaint manor whose uppermost floors could be seen over the cliff’s edge. “It’s pretty,” she said, imagining what the view might look like from the high-rise deck stretching over a drop.

“I’ve heard it belongs to the Marquess of Rutherford,” Grace said, rendering the building, in Amelia’s eyes, suddenly much less appealing.

“O-Oh… Well, I guess he must own a lot of property,” Amelia said, her mood soured.

“Right? But isn’t it weird, how things might give off a good first impression, while on the inside, they could be hiding a horrible secret? It’s why I’m always wary when meeting someone for the first time, even if they are cute… Amelia, I think you need to be more careful when meeting new people.”

At first, what Grace was getting at flew completely over Amelia’s head. But after considering how she hadn’t told Grace about hiring Stanton, and the fact the princess, who still looked to the cliff’s manor, appeared to be blushing …

Could the princess be jealous? Of who?

Or was Grace trying to get her to be more cautious in approaching Stanton? Because Grace wanted him for herself? Or could it be because she was worried Amelia might herself fall for the man?

“S-So how about it?” Grace said, stammering in such a relatable way Amelia wanted to give her a kiss then and there, “You might have to wait until we get home to spend time with your father, but in the meanwhile… Why don’t we treat Stanton’s duel as a date and spend some time out and about… together?”

Amelia hid how high her cheeks were rising. Making it so neither of them were looking directly at the other.

“I think that would be swell,” she said, as a fish with a single, murky blind eye swam between their feet, pirouetting about in the waters like it were making a mockery of how they were acting.