A Game of Pretend

  The air reeks of spring. In our two bedroom shack, the carnations have opened their buds, yawning awake in the light of the warm, humid air. The marketplace buzzes with the newfound excitement of a new season to melt winter’s snowy residue away. Even Mother, who is stubborn as a bull most days and equally grumpy, hums around the house with a smile, sweeping the floors with the same spring-induced haze that’s been awakening the Ashburn Kingdom the past couple weeks. 

   The kingdom loves its spring, including the royal household. So every year they open the castle gates for a Spring Ball, so that the common man may enjoy a truly luxurious spring night. The union of the rich and the poor, together, for a night underneath the stars.

    And this year, I am finally of age to attend.

  From in front of the castle grounds, my eyes flit nervously to the festivities, nervous hands pleating the fabric of my elaborate skirts. People from my small neighborhood flit about the courtyard in gorgeous fineries. If I hadn’t seen the earlier, selling roasted corn in their family stalls, I would’ve thought they were royalty. 

   "Why did I think I would fit here?" I think aloud.

   Mother, standing to my left and wearing her one nice dressing gown, reaches over and squeezes my hand. “They’ve all just learned how to pretend, Amelia.” 

   I nod, craning my neck to get a better look. Yes, pretend--beneath the rogue and powdered hair, it’s all a game of pretend. 

   I adjust the bodice of my dress. I don’t even know where Mother had gotten it--she probably hid it so that I wouldn't sell it to buy a new pair of shoes. Navy blue with golden lace, it sits snug over my breast, exposing my collarbone. When I walk, the long turquoise skirts trail along the ground, embroidered with fabric flowers and puffed with layers of petticoats underneath. When I emerged from my room the night before, Mother gave me a long once-over, clasping her hand over her mouth and on the brink of happy tears. “You’re beautiful.”

   I smirk to myself. Perhaps I could play pretend, too.

   I adjust the skirts, making sure they hide my dirtied boots underneath. I hadn’t owned a new pair in over two years, and the soles have begun to wear down, forming holes in the dense fabric. 

   “Let the festivities begin.”

   Around the courtyard, the servants drape great bulbous lanterns over the massive hedges, shimmering like the twinkling lights of fireflies covered in golden leaflet papers. Beyond the grand entrance of the great iron gates lie the palace gardens, blooming with a rich array of tulips, carnations, and daisies, encircled in a glorious halo of lamplight. To one corner of the venue, trumpets and violins sing in synchrony, and despite the early evening maidens from the town have already gathered in a circle, beginning the night with flippant dancing. Enthralled by the tune, Mother’s head bobs to the sweet serenade, and without another word she splits from my arm to the dance floor. 

    Leaving me, alone, to watch the party unfold.

I pursue the refreshment table, lined with golden candles and rich desserts of every imaginable size, stuffing a delicate cookie into the awkward chasm of my mouth. The richer girls gather in grand groups, giggling and goggling at the gentlemen who catch their ignorant eyes. I absolutely despise them; with their powdered noses and reddened snake lips, I don't know who they thought they were trying to fool. Against another row of rosebushes, lovers intertwine, indulging themselves in their shameless love. In the heart of the courtyard, men and women, rich and poor, gather to dance underneath the stars.

And as I grab a champagne from the tray of a butler, I’m aware that I’m the only one standing alone. 

    It is then, swirling the bubbling liquid idly in its glass, I spot him. Standing on a raised, white gazebo a little ways away from the party, clad simply with a black jacket buttoned over his white tunic, platinum hair swept cleanly over his brow, his eyes traverse the crowd in curious wonder. I peer at him over the fountain of fondue, watching as the string of lanterns ignites his face into a striking work of beauty. I don’t know how no one noticed him; not even the maidens, who’ve drunk themselves into bouts of maddening giggles, didn’t bring attention to the lone bachelor watching them from above. 

   I don’t know what foolish confidence fueled my steps, what the alcohol had done to muddle my common sense. But, as if floating on the bubbles of champagne, I traipse over to the gazebo, careful not to be swept up by the music or lustful dancing of the common folk. Up the steps, I stroll, and without a sound I brace my elbows on the railing next to him.

   I sigh. “The night is so beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”

   He starts so bad I have to grip his forearm from keeping him topple over the railing’s edge. When he steadies himself, he takes a breath, composing himself before offering a weak, yet dazzling, grin. “I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

   I shake my head, giggling. “I was the one who startled the shit out of you. I saw you up here, and you looked so lonely, so. . .”

    “It’s okay,” he grins, glancing at me with forgiving eyes. “Thank you.”

     Up close, I notice the golden brooch pinned neatly over his lapel. I shake my head, cursing myself silently for staring, before I muse, “You’re not much of a party person, are you?”

   “Depends on how you define ‘party person’,” he gestures to himself. “I’m awful at small talk. I never understood how my Father could speak so smoothly. So,” he spreads his hand out to the scene below, “I just like to take it in.”

    I glance down at the royal gardens. And stare. 

    The light drips on the guests like icing on a warm cake. The flowers glow under the pools of warmth, and above it all the lanterns burn gold, iridescent against the purple sky.

   I’ve never in my life seen anything so gorgeous.

   He chuckles. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at these parties before.” 

   “This is my first one.” I lift up my head to look at him. “Are you a stalker?”

   He shakes his head. “I just observe.”

   “Sounds like a stalker.”

   He chuckles silently. “I’m Arthur.”

   “Amelie.”

   “That’s a pretty name, Amelie.”

    “You have a pretty proper name yourself, Arthur.”

    Under the lamplight, I could’ve sworn I saw him blush. He extends his hand. “Would you like to go on an adventure, Amelie?”

    “Oh?” I muse. “Leave my first Spring Ball for a boy I just met?”

    “Trust me,” he smirks. “By this time all the lonely bachelors have already been taken.”

     “Strange of you to assume that all women who come to these parties are looking for someone to warm their bed.”

     “Am I wrong?”

     I eye his gloved hand, then his angelic face. With a resounding sigh, I accept his hand. “Sweep me off my feet, Arthur.”

. . .

  He leads me away from the main garden’s courtyard to a side entrance of the castle. Inside is a hallway, lined with relics of the royal family’s past generations. Swords, emblems, suits of silver armor--never before in my life had I seen such stunning wealth. I feel his eyes watching me as I trace a ruby embedded into the hilt of one of the broadswords.

What I could buy with a jewel like this. . . 

  I turn towards him. “How did you find this place?”

  “Oh, you know,” he shrugs, and underneath the dim lighting his green eyes spark mischievously. “What else are you going to do at these parties?”

   “So you decided to snoop the castle?”

    He laughs. “Something like that.”

    “I didn’t take you for a rebel, Golden Boy.”

    He loops my arm underneath his. “We all have a couple tricks up our sleeves.

    Hip to hip, we walk down the carpeted hallway, admiring the hidden trove of relics. I prod the back of Arthur’s hand with my pointer finger, and he accepts, lacing my fingers with his. His callouses brush up against mine, and for a brief moment I wonder where he’s from, what he does. A lumberjack, perhaps? A butcher’s boy? I stare at his smooth complexion, the lovely eyelashes framing his eyes like shutters--I would’ve noticed him, had I seen him before. The thought is fleeting, but it nags in the back of my head all the same.  

     I could fall in love with him. I smile up at him with a sweet smile that I practiced days before in the mirror--he returns it with an easy, genuine grin, stirring a pleasant feeling in my gut.  

    Perhaps I already was. 

   We reach the end of the hallway, face to face with a set of carved wooden doors, embroidered with brass. With a gentle squeeze, he lets go of my hand, propping himself against the door frame, and opening it for me.

   “Milady.”

   “Such a gentlemen,” I joke, waltzing into the room. . .

  . . .and stare, at a loss for words.

     The pristine white of the floor’s marble gleam underneath the hundreds of candles hung to the wall, perched in intricate silver holders. The flames flicker in unison, bouncing light up, up, up to the spiraled dome ceiling, painted with cherubs and blue-white clouds and birds and butterflies and all other Heavenly things, staring down at the room below. Lining the room are dozens of life-sized sculptures, of kings and queens and dukes and ladies of eras past, immortalized in the stones they were carved from.

    I step into the room. Then I take another step, and another. Gaping in awe.

   And at the end of the room, atop a glistening glass dais, sit two magnificent thrones. Though throne isn’t an appropriate word--the same way it isn’t appropriate to call a nightingale a simple songbird.

   Each mound of pristine rock dazzles with an array of jewels, embedded deep into the sides. Someone carved seats into the center of the mounds, lining it with an arrangement of feathered pillows and exotic fabrics Like the sides of mountain faces, the thrones loom in intimidating majesty, looking upon the elegance of the room with watchful eyes. 

  “Do you like it?” he whispers.

    My mouth runs dry; I can only nod. With slow, careful steps, I step up to the dais. My boot heel chimes like a bell against the glass, ringing through the hall. Arthur places his hand on my lower back, sending a jolt through my spine as I ascend the stairs. Any snarky comments sputter out of me, like the smoke from a wet candle, and all I can see is the stunning beauty of the kingdom around me, Arthur glowing behind me.

I could see myself living here, could see my gowns swish behind me as I walked down these halls every morning, basking in my wealth. Spending hours upon hours in the gardens, running the soft petals through my manicured fingers.

But I don’t think I could ever get used to it. 

    I would never get used to such magnificent beauty.

    We stand on the platform, hand in hand. Embracing the wonder of the room, pulsating with life. I break from his touch, running my fingertips along the throne's jeweled armrest. All the while, Arthur doesn’t take his eyes away from me.

    “You are so beautiful, Amelie,” he whispers. “Has anyone ever told you that?’

    I think for a moment. “My mother.”

    He chuckles, taking a hesitant step forward, hair gleaming gold in the warm embers of the candlelight. A Golden Boy. “You know what I mean.”

    Enchanted, I look up at him, prodding him with my stare. “No, no one has called me beautiful. No one that matters, anyways. Does that excite you, Golden Boy?”

    He closes the gap between us, eyes hovering on my face, cradling my head with his calloused hand. “Amelie. . .”

    “Highness?”

    Arthur shoves me aside, as we witness one of the King’s guards standing at the foot of the doorway, casting Arthur an ugly look. “Your parents have been looking for you, Highness. What the Hell were you thinking?”

I blink. Highness?

   “I’m sorry, Otis,” he murmurs. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

   The guard gives me a dirty look before slamming the door shut.

The word rings loud and clear. Highness.

   I turn to the boy, and the realization hits me like a brick. Too-trimmed hair, soft complexion, hands meant for holding a sword, not an ax. And the golden brooch. . .the royal family's crest. . .

I gape at him, cursing myself for my stupidity. 

  “You’re. . .you’re. . .”

  He can’t even look at me as the whisper escapes his teeth. “Prince Arthur the Second.”

  Prince of the Ashburn Kingdom.

  I back away, tears welling in my eyes. He turns to take a step towards me, but I throw my hands up. “You lied to me!”

   “Amelie. . .”

 “Don’t touch me,” I hug my arms against my chest, shuddering. When did it get so cold in here?

   “Amelie, I’m sorry. . .”

   “Why, your Highness?” I yell, the awful sound reverberating into the dome, shuddering the building from the scaffolding. “Do you think you deserve everything you want? To manipulate girls to bend to your will?”

   “No!”

   “Have you taken other girls in here too? To show them your parent’s kingdom?”

    “No!”

   “Then why?” I plead, the tears clunking awkwardly to the floor. "Why did you lie?"

   “Because. . .because no one can court a prince!” he cries. “Everyone at the Spring Ball knows who I am. They stick their fun aside to impress the royal prince; they fight one another for a chance to have a dance with me. For once. . .” he grimaces. “For once I thought someone could see me for who I was.”

   “Oh, I’m sorry,” I seethe, unable to hide my biting sarcasm. “I’m sorry you get to live in your grand castle, while my mother and I sell our wares on the street so that we might have a chance to survive in the winter. I’m sorry everyone treats you like a prize, when people don't give me a backwards glance when I'm selling wares in the marketplace. I’m sorry you get to marry a princess, and live the rest of your life happily ever after, while I’m so poor no one even dares to look at me when I walk down the street.”

   He stares now, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Amelie. . .”

   “Goodbye, Prince,” I turn on my heels, and I pick up my skirts, exposing my holey boots, as I run down the marble hall, out the bronze-gilded throne room doors, bursting into the hallway lined with the wealth of the royalty until I back into the garden, only to find the sky being to rumble, shedding its first drops of spring rain. 

   People, rich and poor alike, scream, running out from the gardens to the great double iron gates, wilted carnations crunching under their feet. The rain picks up to a gallop, spitting pellet-sized droplets to the ground. Butlers and servers desperately cover the array of decadent foods, rushing them inside the great halls. One by one, the lanterns extinguish, swallowed by the spittle from the sky.

The drops fall faster, stronger, cackling in their wonderful wrath.

Everyone, scrambling desperately to preserve whatever self-image they had left to uphold, doesn’t notice me standing still there in the royal gardens, soaked to the bone with the spring rain. 

   Despite myself I throw my head back, basking in the water falling from the sky. Squeezing my toes inside my boots, squishing the mud between my toes. Basking in the wonderful spring showers, washing away the remnants of the spring from the air and into the soggy grass below. 

Laughing with the wind. Because, finally, I don't have to pretend anymore.