Chapter 7: It's Quite True!

Did you hear?

Haven't you heard?

It's shocking!

Dreadful!

I can hardly believe -

Marriage!

Who?-

The Prince, he -

His Majesty wouldn't!

Conspiracy...

There is no doubt about it. It's quite true!

Ninth Hour

That grand city of Kingsbury - Ingary's pride and center of fashionable aplomb - was in chaos.

Social chaos.

The kind where rumors abounded, and every man's opinion became a sagacious treasure.

The people flocked in the streets to hear the latest news. The paper boys raced atop the cobbled stones, crying, "Pendragons! Royal Feast Cancelled! Murder! Read it up!"

News traveled as far as Market Chipping. Initially, the renowned May Day festivities had swept everything under the rug. But now in the morning light, with the excitement waned and drink to a drip, people were beginning to hear of last night's happenings.

That's when it all started.

An orchard farmer gripped the handles of a cart and relayed his tale to his apt listeners.

"Yesterday evenin'," he said. "I was at the Western Waterway, mindin' me own business, when suddenly this bloke grips 'old of me cart and scatters me apples across the ground! I turn 'round and - by my granny, if I ain't shocked to see the pretty prince himself!" His audience gasped. "Oh yes! And out of my eye's corner I see..."

"...a lone assassin!" a gypsy three miles away cried to her troupe. "Cold and green she was, standing on a hill staring down at the prince. She began to race down the hill..."

"...and was joined by two brutes. Big as boulders!" said a dock master at the Western Waterway. Next to him nodded an old man in brown.

"Aye, saw them too. Dressed up as silver as fish they were! Bless me, I thought they would smash our prince to bits!"

"Those six tattooed villains roared and rushed our Ingarian prince!" announced the barrister to the pub.

An officer boasted. "Dozens of soldiers leapt to his side!"

"The Crown Prince fought them off single-handedly!" the toy-maker told the wide-eyed street children.

A buccaneer winked. "Pretty prince-ling turned tail and ran."

"And that green killer," declared a butcher. "She slid through the mob like a knife through butter."

"Silent as a ghost -"

"Invisible as the wind!" whispered a sailor.

Together, the lawyers mused. "No one remembers her face."

"The Witch of the Waste?"

"A lover spurned?"

These sworn testimonies flew. As for gossip about the mystery bride and sudden marriage declaration? Well. That was a different matter altogether.

And it was only the ninth hour of the morning.

Tenth Hour

Tk.

Tk.

Tk.

The maid's clicking heels were silenced as she hesitated upon the threshold of Prince Howell's apartments. Her fingers grasped the breakfast tray as she scanned the furnishings, the shadows, and especially the curtains.

She glanced back.

The castle staff nodded encouragingly, motioning for her to go on.

She swallowed.

Tk.

Tk.

Her heels glanced the carpet, step by step. The refreshment table was near the center of the common room, and beyond that: the prince's private chambers. The maid made wide berth around a mound of clothes and set the tray upon the table. She wiped her palms against her apron and looked back again.

The staff were holding their breath. They leaned forward.

The maid lifted a steaming teacup off the tray and bore it like a sacrificial offering to the prince's bedroom door. The teacup shook in its saucer as she raised a trembling hand to knock.

Tok.

"Your Majesty?"

Tok. Tok.

Silence.

Several moments passed with thickening tension. The maid lowered her hand and faced her companions, horror mounting on her features.

The door swung open behind her.

"You knocked?"

The castle staff screamed and scattered.

The maid whirled around, shrieking into Prince Howell's stunned face at the sight of a crimson stain seeping through the front of his white night shirt. The tea cup crashed to the floor as she ran, Royal Guards leaping out of her path while she cried, "It's true! He's been killed!"

"Your Highness!" the guards yelled. They yanked Prince Howell into the common room while the others stormed his bedroom. Immediately, Howell was thrust into a chair and the nearest article of clothing compressed against his chest. Someone called for a physician. Furniture began crashing to the floor as the guards hunted the missing assassin.

Howell sputtered and sprung from his seat.

"What in the blazes is going on?" he roared. Five pairs of hands immediately thrust him down again.

"You mustn't move, Your Majesty!" a guard barked.

"You'll aggravate your wound, sir!" said another.

"Wound?" Howell repeated, bewildered. He winced as curtains were yanked open and sunshine flooded the room.

The Court Physician rushed in and knelt by the Prince's side.

"Hold him still," he ordered the guards on either side.

"Botheration!" Howell yelled. He smacked their hands away. "I'm not wounded! It's -"

"I caught him!" someone crowed, dragging Calcifer from the dressing chambers. Calcifer bit his hand. "Yowch!"

Head Guard Cranmer burst into the common room with Sir Michael close at his heels. "Status report!" he snapped.

Salutes flew like birds.

"Assassination attempt, sir -"

"The prince is bleeding -"

"Searching -"

"SILENCE!" Howell bellowed, shoving the Physician aside and standing to his feet. All activity ceased. The prince looked around, nostrils flaring, and peeled the compress off his heaving chest. "I am NOT. BLEEDING," he asserted, tugging his red-stained nightshirt down to reveal a torso devoid of any injury.

Everyone stared.

A maid fainted.

Howell winced again and covered his eyes, lowering himself back into the chair.

A noise sounded from the bed chamber, and a young guard emerged holding an object.

"Sir Cranmer?" he said with a straight face, "Uh... I think I found the culprit." He held it high: within the grasp of his hand was the slender neck of an empty wine bottle.

The prince groaned.

The events of the past twenty-four hours had not proven favorable for Howell.

When Michael and Calcifer discovered Howell's symbol of retreat - a gold hair ribbon pinned against a crate - they grew alarmed at the commotion exploding across the docks. Upon investigation, they witnessed a platoon of soldiers escort their prince and, oddly enough, that duck woman, back to the castle. Clearly there'd be no reconvening at Headquarters.

They kept low and out of the dungeons. Then they heard the latest news: the King had cancelled the Royal Feast.

Word was it was due to the extreme hysteria, for the protection of the people: strike two for the prince. But privately, the King pulled Howell aside and intoned his true reason: "If our celebrations are not good enough for you," he said with a fixed smile, "then they are clearly not good enough for anyone else. Oh. By the way, son. You are under house arrest."

Strike three.

One of the biggest celebrations of the year, and the Prince was confined to his quarters with nowhere to go. Radiance, dancing, festivity! - now mere dreams, the flickers of a candle. No maiden would call him "Handsome and Mysterious Stranger" this night.

Calcifer, indifferent to all but the lost food, crashed in Howell's closet that night. The next morning, Sir Michael was finishing reps when a distress alert came from the prince's chambers.

Surveying the chaotic state of the Crown Prince's common room, Sir Michael shook his head. "These rumors are getting out of control."

"You're tellin' me," Calcifer muttered. "Last I heard, the government shut down and I'm a blood-thirsty fire demon."

Michael watched a servant lift an overturned chair and place it beside a settee. "That's all? Well, apparently I'm dating the assassin's sister. Did you know that the prince is going to marry the Witch of the Waste?"

"You don't say!" Calcifer replied, stalking towards the refreshment table to see what the maid left on the tray.

Michael heard a snuffle. He turned to see Prince Howell hunched atop an overturned bureau, wrapping a blanket tight around himself as he sipped strong tea.

"I hate getting angry," Howell mumbled.

"I know, Your Grace," Michael replied sympathetically.

Howell sniffed again and swallowed more tea. "You know what else I hate?" he continued. His bottom lip quavered. "Not sleeping in. My morning has been ruuuuuuuuined!"

Sir Michael rolled his eyes and walked to the crystal windows. "Certain you don't want me to open these, Your Highness?" he asked, grabbing hold of the curtains.

"Treachery!" Howell gasped, throwing the blanket over his face. "My own comrade! Guards, come back - the true villain's in here!"

"Your Highness?" a servant politely said with a bow.

"What?"

"Well... We mean you no inconvenience, sir, but the staff would soon depart to afford you your privacy. Might we restore your present, er, perch to its place of order?"

Howell lowered the blanket to reveal a face aghast. "Of course not!" he responded, drawing himself up nobly. "Can't you see I'm emulating a great work of art?"

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Calcifer carefully lifted the silver lid off Howell's breakfast platter. His eyes gleamed at the sight of cold bacon and eggs.

"Hey shove off, you gluttonous fiend!"

"Oh have a heart, Howell," Calcifer whined. "You know I keep this castle runnin'. Besides, with assassins about, ya need someone to test this food for poison."

He slurped down an egg and licked his fingers. "Mmm, none here." Smack. "None here..." Gulp. "Wait -" Calcifer belched. "Wup! False alarm!"

Howell snorted and jumped off the bureau with a flick of his blanket. "Pitiless mutton grubber! I hate cold eggs anyways," he griped, making a beeline for his closet. A servant intercepted him en route to a beautiful stash of clothes.

"Oh, what is it now?" Howell asked impatiently. Honestly, he had hardly the time! There were outfits to choose, a bath to take, breakfast to skip, plans to concoct, and not to mention a house arrest to utterly ignore. Sometimes he wished he had never made that vow to Madame Suliman. In a heartbeat, he'd say a spell that'd have him strolling through Market Chipping, having the time of his life...

"There is a letter for you, Sire," the servant was saying.

"Ooh, for me?" Howell said brightly, snatching it. His countenance darkened at the tingle of Suliman's magic. Speak of the devil. His eye swiftly caught the broken wax seal.

"Where did you find this?" he questioned sharply, brandishing the open letter before the servant's paling face.

"That's the letter they delivered to you yesterday," Michael explained.

Howell calmed immediately. Tampering with official documents was no mild crime in Ingary, and the consequences were severe. Arresting someone would be a bother, not to mention he hated that second-hand feeling of reading opened mail. The servant bowed and hastily helped his companions re-position Howell's recently abandoned pedestal.

"What color were the Royal Messenger's gloves?" Howell inquired, sliding the letter out of the envelope.

Michael thought for a moment.

"White," he concluded, "with golden embroidery."

Howell sucked in a breath and yanked taut the parchment. "She's going to kill me!"

"Who is?" Michael asked quizzically.

"Suliman," Howell cursed, eyes devouring the script on the page.

His jaw dropped.

Calcifer saw it and cackled. "Well, if this ain't the first time I ever saw you speechless!"

Howell ignored him, twisting the letter around and upside-down, his fingers pulsing with bursts of magic. Sir Michael noticed a lingering servant and tried to signal warning, but Howell pushed past him to the windows, holding the letter up to the morning sunlight. It fluttered teasingly among the rays.

Howell stomped in exasperation. "I cannot believe she's actually doing this to me!"

"Doin' what, Howell?" Calcifer asked. The prince started marching towards him. "Uh, Howell? What'd she do?" The red-head cringed at the projectile letter slung towards him.

"Read!" Howell commanded. "Go on, satisfy your heartless curiosity, drink from the cup of my distress!"

"Um yeah, sheesh. Whatever you say, boss," Calcifer mumbled, tentatively retrieving the parchment.

"Your Highness!" hailed the very last servant from the doorway. They all turned. She was a matronly woman, short, with a name that quite escaped Howell. Barbara or something. She gave the prince a grand curtsy and touched her hands together. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but I can hardly hold it in me any more!" She beamed ear to ear. "Congratulations on your engagement! It's about time you were married!"

The room stilled.

Michael blinked.

Calcifer gaped.

Howell marched right up to her.

"How..." he demanded, peering at her face, "do you know that I'm engaged?"

"Bertha's" smile faltered. "Why... it's been all over the palace since yesterday!" she explained. "Invitations have been sent and everything! Don't they tell you anything?" she asked, glancing past the prince's shoulder at Sir Michael and Calcifer.

Howell spun around. "You knew about this?" he accused.

"Now hold up!" Calcifer sputtered. "We are greatly confounded this present moment!"

Bertha's mouth formed a little "o" shape. She hadn't been expecting this. Maybe a pat on the back, or a pay raise for her thoughtful comment (after all, the Royal Family had a great propensity towards flattery). But apparently, the prince didn't want his citizens to know about his engagement.

Scandalous! she tutted. She scurried when Sir Michael dismissed her from the common chamber. Despite his warning look, he was too late. Bertha rubbed her hands together after the door clicked behind her. Just wait til the rooming staff hears about this!

"And you didn't even have the decency to tell me," Howell wailed, pacing the floor.

"Tell you what? That you proposed? Ain't it the other way around?" Calcifer fizzed.

Howell's mind flashed back to the previous day in the Great Room. The teeming mass of nobles had been gossiping about something... letters? Invitations? That's right, and also a "bride", and his princely title... Great Waters of Coast!

He jabbed a finger at Calcifer. "Read it!"

"Fine," scowled Calcifer, shoving the letter under his nose. "To the Crown Prince... and Secretive Sovereign of Ingary, the Lady Slayer Howell- "

"Stop it, scoundrel, that's not what it says!"

"Yeah well, whatever! I have chosen yer bride as promised - or warned, depending on how you per... perceive the sitchiation." Calcifer looked up. "Oh."

"See?" Howell fumed. "Suliman's finally made good on her threat! Bother it all, I don't have time for this! I am a bachelor, ladies and gentlemen, not a tied-down, domesticated house cat. This is simply too much handsomeness to be hoarded by one woman!"

He turned indignantly and tread the other way. "But the reality is far worse. My father is simultaneously trying to marry me off to other women! You should have seen him in the throne room." He paused. "Calcifer, read the rest of it."

"Uh... You are to be present in the Royal Conservatory at precisely twelve o'clock noon this followin' day. Being late or causin' any inconvenience would be most unwise... Hey, that's today!"

"The rest of it!"

"Sincerely, Head Sorceress Suliman, as authorized by His Royal Highness, King of Ingary." Calcifer shrugged. "Uh, that's all."

The prince ran his fingers through his blonde tresses and thought hard. The letter had been authorized by his father the day before, which meant the King knew about and approved of Suliman's decision. However later, in the throne room, his father had offered him in marriage to the green lady. Howell remembered him specifically saying, "I approve of her as your future wife."

Ah.

So the King wasn't being spontaneous after all.

"The lady in green," Howell said. "It's her."

Michael looked at him with astonishment. "The duck woman?"

"That crazy stalker gal?" Calcifer sputtered incredulously.

His friends' disbelief echoed his own. Although the Crown Prince had wondered little about what an actual committed marriage might look like, he had somehow assumed that his wife would be naturally fashionable, glittery, and outspoken.

Which was the antithesis of this woman.

She wasn't a princess or a duchess; in fact, Howell barely recognized her, which made him suspicious. The prince knew the face of every woman in the palace, with the exception of some servants and visiting nobles. Tight hair bun, plain dress or not, that pretty face and figure were not ones he would easily overlook.

It's probably because of that blasted invisibility thing she does, muttered he to himself, recalling trailing her through the crowd. But so many unanswered questions! Why did they choose her? Was she a spy? Is that why she followed them through the tunnels?

"And why did she accuse me of an assassination attempt?" he sorted out loud. "Father's words didn't surprise her in the least! How come?" He huffed with displeasure and folded his arms. "Did you know she tried to talk my father out of it? Is she out of her senses? Why on earth would she do that?"

"Because maybe she's smart enough not to jump inta that kinda crazy," Calcifer retorted.

The blonde threw himself into a chair and rolled his eyes. "Eager to congratulate me, I see."

"Did you catch her name?" Sir Michael inquired, ever faithful to steer conversation on course. Howell raked his mind. Her name reminded him of that girl in Montalbino, the eight-year old engaged to the duke.

"Lady Josephine! Wait. That's not it."

"Lady Carrie?" offered Michael.

"Daphne?" suggested Calcifer.

"Lady Isabella?" said Howell. His mind switched over to a day in the Conservatory, a fallen handkerchief, and a certain lady in his arms...

Sir Michael cleared his throat. Howell shook the memory away and instead envisioned that moment at the Western Waterway. A slope. A hill. She stood at the top, staring at him with glittering, determined eyes.

Howell smirked.

"Lady Sophie," he said at last. Her name floated in the air: feminine, strong, intriguing. Standing alone by the window, Michael slowly turned red.

"Hey, yer lookin' a little peaked there," Calcifer winked. "Know the gal?"

"Actually... yes," Sir Michael stammered. "She's Lady Martha's eldest sister."

"Lady Martha?" Howell said with interest, springing to the edge of his seat for information on his mystery bride. "And she is... ?"

"His sweetheart," Calcifer grinned.

"You have a sweetheart, Michael?"

"It's complicated," Michael said in embarrassment. "But, I had no idea that Lady Sophie was behind all this! It seems so unlike her."

Howell threaded his fingers in front of his mouth. "So you know her then," he said, gazing at his friend. "Are you familiar with any of her habits?"

"Not very," Sir Michael confessed. "I mean, Lady Martha told me that she likes to read books, avoid parties and such. Maybe decorate some hats. I've personally seen her in the Royal Library once or twice."

Three words echoed in Howell's mind: Books. Royal Library.

Clockwork going tick, tock, ticked behind his furrowed brow. Michael and Calcifer exchanged looks.

"Calcifer Kindle," Howell drawled, gracefully shifting to his feet. "Have a maid fetch hot water for my bath. I have something to do before 12 o'clock precisely."

Calcifer rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, pretty boy."

Eleventh Hour and Half-Past

Freshly washed tresses slid across a hyacinth-scented cheek. A red cape swished around a spruce figure, whose long legs levitated silently across ornate marble floors.

Howell hovered to stillness behind a bookshelf and glanced around the Royal Library. He didn't want any of the Royal Bookkeepers catching him by surprise. He crept around a pillar and gazed the full length of the library to the slim figure standing at the other end. Her staid gray dress faded into the dappled backdrop of dust and tomes. Lady Sophie stood and fingered through page after page, her brow tight, her lips pale. Her braid trailed behind her as she reached for another book.

His mouth slipped into a smile. He watched her set the book down with a frown and disappear down another aisle, searching for who knows what at this point in the game. That's what he planned to find out. He waited a moment before magicking himself to where Lady Sophie had stood a minute before. Glancing around, he lifted the book and peered at its cover. Anthology of Ingarian Law, Post-Strangian War. Howell arched an eyebrow and flipped through its pages. Why on earth was she looking through something so boring?

"Well, at least you can read," a wry, feminine voice sounded behind him.

Howell smiled and set down the tome, turning. They locked gazes. Looks like she hasn't slept a wink, he observed, taking in the shadows beneath her eyes. All because of me, he prided himself vainly.

She opened her mouth to say something. The prince swiftly closed the distance between them and plucked the book from her hands.

"There you are, sweetheart. I've been looking all over for you."

She gasped and looked up with startled brown eyes, her features a collage of bewilderment and irritation.

A guard near the entrance spotted him and alerted his companions with confusion. How did the prince get in here? Wasn't he supposed to be on house arrest?

Howell's smile grew as the lady's expression settled into suspicion.

"Don't look now, but I'm being followed." He side-stepped and linked his arm around hers, his next words silencing her protests.

"I have a proposition for you."

A/N: Ooh sorry, the Short of It! We shall enjoy discovering how you handle this. ;) - the Long of It