Once Upon A Flame

Chapter 2: The Flirting?

Sable welcomed me into his humble abode. I would say there is an emphasis on humble, but my room was currently charred, so I was not in a position to pass judgement. He began to heat a pail of water for a bath, then leading me to where the bathing room would be. Once he poured the steaming water into the tub, he left me to undress and wash. The bath was heavenly. I rinsed the dirt and grass from my hair, scrubbing away the events of the past twenty-four hours. I detested the idea of having to put on the now grimy nightdress back on, but I did not see another option. I tried to shake it out without much success and carefully slipped it on over my head. I forced my tangled hair into a loose braid and pinched my cheeks to gain a bit of color.

I walked down to the main room to find my brother and stable boy chatting about the next season of horses. My brother was an avid rider and hunter, and Sable offered every speck of information he had in order to appease the prince. Although it looked like they were actually enjoying each other's company. Maybe in another life they could be hunting companions. I cleared my throat to make my presence known, and both men swiftly ended their conversation.

"Oh, mother had one of the maids drop off a clean dress. It was being cleaned so it was not ruined in the fire," my brother said, pointing to a dress draped across one of the wooden kitchen chairs. I nodded and quickly grabbed it. Passing Sable, I noted that he must have changed, his white shirt free of dirt and soot. He did not pay me much attention, focusing on whatever liquid was in his mug. Probably some bad-tasting coffee. I began my accent up the stairs but turned around briefly.

"And thank you Sable," he finally met my eyes, "for letting me clean up here, I greatly appreciate it." He bowed his head slightly. Before he could say anything, I was already on my way to change.

In the clean dress, I felt like a new person. A better person, in fact. One who does not grieve the loss my room or care about the attention of a subservient stable boy. When I came down the stairs for the second time, I was prepared to shock and awe in my lilac day dress but was met with an empty room. There was a note left on the kitchen table. In horrific handwriting, it read

Prince Charles had to leave by demand of the queen's messenger. Not wanting to make you uncomfortable, I left to the stables. -S

Yikes. Whatever my mom needed from Charles was something I wanted to stay far away from. So, when I walked out of the door, I found myself walking towards the barn. The barn was painted a crisp white that had turned eggshell over the years. The detailing was painted black to give it a sleek look. I remember hearing the king was greatly involved in the design of the surrounding buildings since, of course, the castle had been passed down through generations. I was surprised my mother left the design and architecture considering it was a constant reminder of my father. Then again, I was not sure how often she visited the farm animals.

I walked through the large doors and the stench filled my nose. Although the smell was awful, the view was not terrible. Sable was shoveling hay, his shirt clinging to him as he worked up a sweat in the miserable heat. I realized a moment too late that I had been caught staring.

"Like what you see?" He asked, a cheeky smile gracing his lips. I nearly gasped at his brazen words but figured it would not aid my story.

"Not exactly. I believe if you lifted with your legs more than your back it would be more productive," I replied. An accurate critique that also played off his improper words. He tilted his head a bit, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

"What brings you here? Miss me?" He asked. This time I did let out a scoff. He was delusional at best, insufferably smug at worst.

"As if," I retorted, turning to stroke my horse Whisper. She was a light cream palomino with a flaxen mane. I had learned to ride with I was five with various ponies and older horses, and for my sixteenth birthday I had been gifted Whisper. She was temperamental at first, but we found a balance between her free spirit and my need for control.

I let my mind wander as I began to brush her coat, ignoring Sable as he worked in the hay loft. Surely the whole kingdom would know about fire by now. There was likely a rumor that the fire was no accident but a deviously plotted arson. If the newspaper had their grimy hands on the story, they would twist it to whatever would make the most money. That's what they did with my life stories at least.

To be my own devil's advocate, I certainty liked to... go out more than a proper princess might. But I liked to dance with my friends. Enjoyed chatting with the prominent men of the kingdom. Perhaps my shadow may be seen kissing a stranger. Once.

Or twice.

As I walked out of Whisper's stable, a pitchfork full of hay was thrown into my face. I called out in frustration, dropping the brush. I heard a deep chuckle.

"I'm so sorry miss," the stable boy had to pause to contain himself, "It truly was an accident." I met his eyes, the eyes of a guiltless man, and glowered. I plucked pieces of hay from my hair and flung them, not discretely, in his direction. He pretended not to notice and began to work again. Thankfully he was setting down fresh hay. Had he covered me with soiled straw, the story of a murderous princess might be tomorrow's front-page story.

I was struggling to reach one particularly knotted piece of hay from the back of my head. After watching me struggle for a moment, Sable walked over and helped me. I was tempted to protest, but the thought of my mother haranguing me for my disheveled appearance was enough to keep me quiet. He worked the piece of straw out slowly, careful not to tug on my hair. Surprisingly gentle for someone with such large hands. After it was out, he let it fall to the ground.

"Thank you," I said as he began to walk back towards his barrel and pitchfork. He nodded without a second glance. I picked up the horse brush and set it back on the shelf before making my exit.

The feeling of him standing so close behind me lingered in like a particularly pesky phantom.