The Rose's Flame

Meeting Prince Oliver

Ambrosia gripped my wrist tightly as we approached the cherry wood door to Prince Oliver's chambers. After two anxious days of waiting, I was finally meeting my prince; we were having afternoon tea together.

A tendril of dread clutched at my stomach as I pictured a grotesque figure-a bent, devilish form accentuated by a sweeping cloak. A monstrous face concealed behind an expressionless mask.

I shook my head to clear it of such silly thoughts. Prince Oliver's reputation was surely overblown. I was probably worrying myself over nothing.

Ambrosia rapped on the door, which was opened by a well-built man in his mid-sixties. The man's silver-streaked chestnut hair was tied back in a queue, and he had an honest face with clear, blue eyes.

"Welcome, your highness, it is an honor to meet you. I am Sir Nathan Rodenfield, attendant to the royal prince." The man said, bowing to me with his eyes cast to the ground. He gestured down the hall. "If you will follow me right this way, the prince is anxious to meet you."

Ambrosia and I stepped into a fine suite of rooms dimly lit by candles. The curtains were drawn, obscuring the gray daylight. The scent of woodsmoke, parchment, and several medicinal herbs, such as chamomile and feverfew, greeted my nose-a combination I would have expected in an apothecary rather than a palace.

We followed Sir Nathan down a short hallway into an ornate parlor. The walls were blood red and mostly obscured by oaken bookshelves. The bookshelves took up most of the room and were so stuffed full that one could not fit another sheet of parchment between the worn leather spines.

A large fire crackled in a finely carved fireplace. A painting of the night sky hung over the mantle. A velvet upholstered sofa, two armchairs, and a daybed took up the middle of the room. As I stepped into the firelight, my slippers sunk into the soft, imported carpet.

Prince Oliver did not rise from his chair, as was customary, when we entered. Instead, he simply bowed his head to us as I curtsied politely. This, as well as the fact that he had not yet introduced himself or even spoken, gave me the impression that he had no concept of manners.

While Prince Oliver was still grotesque, the prince not quite so terrifying as I had imagined him. He was far younger than I had expected, looking no older than eighteen. (At least my father had the common decency not to marry me off to some old hobgoblin.) Despite his youth, he was bent like an old man and would have barely come to my eye level when standing.

He wore a brown velvet suit with a high lace collar and white, silk gloves. His face was disfigured by strange scars that I presumed were from the fire my mother had mentioned. The scars formed red, angry divots across his cheeks and forehead.

The prince's auburn hair fell to his shoulders, one side concealing his left eye. His one visible eye, which was a stunning hazel color, was rather unnatural looking; the iris seemed far to large and the pupil too small. This strange eye bore into me, appearing full of wonder.

I heard a low growl emanate from somewhere near Oliver. I looked around for a dog or some other small pet, but I could not see one. Perhaps this reclusive prince had a shy dog; that would be very fitting.

"Will you, please, have a seat, m'lady?" Sir Nathan said as Oliver gestured to the sofa across from him.

I frowned at Sir Nathan's informal address before sitting hesitantly on the edge of the sofa, as far from the scarred prince as was polite. Did no one in this kingdom have a concept of proper manners?

"Sir Nathan, you may leave us." Ambrosia said.

Prince Oliver reacted as if he had been slapped, opening his twisted mouth and letting out a sound similar to a kicked dog. I leapt to the other end of the sofa, gripping the armrest in terror. No human should be able to make such a sound.