Public Displays of Attention
Heat rays dripped from the mid-afternoon sun, coating temples, pits, and crooks with a sticky dampness that the tepid breeze could not fan dry. Heat shimmered over the waters of the Agrigu River and plagued the restless crowds who herded by the river banks like gaggles of agitated geese.
All eyes were glued to the two long, narrow boats waiting near the shore. Twelve brawny youths sat in each. Their hands wringing paddles, their shoulders hunkering down, waiting for the blare of the trumpet to set them into motion. Hunger rippled through every tensed muscle and bowed head. Every boy in the race itched for the chance to hold the victor's cup on the other side of the finish line.
A wave of intense focus momentarily chilled the air as everyone watched the trumpeter raise his shrill instrument to his lips.
Then...
A feverish outbreak of cheers as the boats splintered from the starting mark and sliced through the waters like arrows.
"Don't forget to breathe, Nara," Harita gently nudged her friend's arm. "You're already in a sling, the last thing we need is for you to faint."
Seated in the Royal Enclosure, Zita and all her friends observed the race from the shady tent near the finish line. Zita briefly ripped her focus from the progress of the race only to meet Harita's eyes, stirring with mischief. A feathery smile brushed across the princess's lips. She hated how transparent her face seemed to be at the worst of times.
"Is boating a passion of yours?" Harita arched her angular brow. "Or is something else causing you to be all out of sorts."
"Out of sorts?" Zita feigned confusion.
She knew exactly what her friend was talking about. Zita had been observing the Annual Haddonite Boating Race radiating tension. She was strung about as taut as a drawn bow.
Harita's shrewd eyes narrowed at their target. "You've been... jittery."
Zita tried to shrug her friend's observations off but eventually, Harita's iron will wore her defenses down.
"Gadrian is competing in this round. He said I must cheer especially hard for the ochre boat." They both turned their attention back onto the water to see the boats sprinting toward the finish line with an ochre-colored nose pulling forward by a small margin.
"I had a suspicion your behavior had something to do with 'Mr. Dreamy Eyes' Harita purred. "Don't worry. He'll make it to the final round." Harita tutted chidingly at Zita. "You should have told me sooner, I could have saved you all this needless worrying."
"How can you be so certain?"
"This is his arena. It doesn't matter if he's in a team or solo — put something in his hand and whether he's hitting a ball with it, paddling it through water, or sending it flying towards a target, he'll always excel. It's almost a guarantee. He's amongst Haddon's finest. When it comes to athletic ability, that is."
Zita couldn't help but feel a proud glow ignite in her chest, even though her friend's finishing comment felt like a shin kick. She watched as the margin between the two boats widened, the ochre nose kissing the finish line first.
"See? I told you. A golden boy in a golden boat." Harita chased down the last of her cider. "What exactly is going on between the two of you?" she pressed.
Zita wasn't sure how to answer the question. She hadn't seen Gadrian since The Royal Procession yet the pool of affection growing between them had deepened exponentially despite the distance. This could, in large part, be attributed to the letters he wrote to her during their time apart.
The first one graced her breakfast tray the morning after her trip to the Naval Base. The words on the page — mainly detailing his daily activities — tasted sweeter to the princess than the honey drizzled over her stewed pears that morning. Whether he was writing about polo matches, dull business meetings he attended with his father, or his rigorous training schedule for the boating race, each word inclined towards her the same way his body did whenever he spoke to her.
She wrote back sharing about her strange day spent near Haddon's shore with the prince and how she spent most of her time reading, walking, going to the baths, and playing card games with Oziakel as soon as he was finished with his daily tutoring. She shared how frustrated she was that her injuries prevented her from doing any activities that were overly exerting.
"Gadrian and I are friends."
Harita looked at Zita, unconvinced.
"I would be equally as invested in this race if you were competing." Zita insisted.
When she met up with the girls at the baths the previous week, she had mentioned in passing that she had spoken to Gadrian at the procession. They knew that the air had been cleared between the two of them regarding the engagement debacle but Zita decided against sharing any information about their regular correspondence.
Now that Zita knew that they, along with most of the nobility, didn't hold him in high regard she felt it was her duty to shield him from their sharp-tongued judgement. Unfortunately, that meant minimizing the true nature of their relationship, which was indeed friendship but peppered with the unspoken promise of something more. A wistful thread ran along the pages of their letters and strung their words together. Nestled between the pointed tip of her quill and the jagged edges of his handwriting was the shared sentiment: things wouldn't be so dull if you were here.
Harita remained unconvinced but decided to let the topic lie. She turned her attention to waving a servant down for a refill of her drink. Zita shifted her focus back to the ochre-colored boat that was now being ushered to shore by the paddlers who had all jumped out of it.
Zita's eyes sifted through all the soaked bodies hoisting their boats up along the sloping bank. She spotted Gadrian almost immediately standing upon the shore, plucking the winning watercraft out from the river.
A tight gasp escaped her lips as she observed his still-glistening torso. Sweat and water made for a meticulous scalpel, etching out each ripple and curve of his body whether clothed or exposed.
Zita stared at those arms that braced the ochre nose of the boat. She never failed to be steadied by them. Those arms reminded her of the stairway banister in her palace. Or the bougainvillea dripping from the trellises in the plaza of the Arnoan marketplace. Pillars of dependability. Soothing. Primarily ornamental. It wasn't until today that it occurred to Zita that beneath the billowy linen he wore, lurked instruments trained for battle — arms not solely built for comfort but for strength. Arms that resisted the rigid bow and tilled the iron-willed waters. Zita watched on in wordless wonder as he disappeared into the competitors' tent to rest before his next race.
"Like I said, Haddon's finest." Zita heard her friend whisper in her ear. She turned to meet a sly sliver of a smile cutting across Harita's vaguely intoxicated face.
Zita's eyes shot straight down to the ground and locked on it, mortified that others might have noticed just what had captured her attention for so long. Despite the multiple layers of her disguise, the princess could not conceal just how much her eyes clawed for Gadrian whenever he was near. She couldn't help it. Bathing in his words had satisfied her in his absence. But without so much as a glimpse of his face for almost a fortnight, she needed to drink in the only sight she longed for and had been deprived of for far too long.
"Oh stop." Harita gave the princess' arm one of her signature playful, yet too-hard slaps. "Look around you."
She gestured to the rest of the girls sitting in the enclosure. The princess could help but giggle when she realized every other woman in her company had a similar preoccupation with the disembarked rowers and their leaden clothes. Joia, Curo, Mehitabel, and Jules sat entranced. Their expressions ranged from flustered to predatory and every combination in between.
"I can assure you that everyone here is invested in various aspects of these sporting events."
They both threw their head back laughing and Zita's self-consciousness instantly dissipated. That was until she noticed a pair of regal eyes watching her. Unwavering and unreadable as they always were.
Zita felt the overwhelming urge to slink down into her chair, however, she knew it would be in vain. She was convinced that there was no place low enough to slip out of Queen Tatiana's view. A prickling shame roamed along her face. Zita knew that perched atop the royal platform in the enclosure, the queen's all-seeing gaze had captured Zita's indiscreet ogle-fest. The queen's attention lingered on Zita. One... Two... Three moments passed before her gaze pulled back over the crowds and settled serenely on the waters. Zita watched the queen's placid profile with fear in her veins.
Zita was no stranger to aloof female monarchs. The queen of Arnoa was a frightfully detached mother. But Queen Tatiana didn't look at Zita with the same glazed indifference or piqued annoyance Queen Falini did. Tatiana's gaze was never harsh or disapproving, yet it still unsettled Zita.
The princess knew her stay in Haddon was dragging on. The queen had never made Zita feel like a burden, in fact, quite the opposite. She made a concerted effort to make the princess feel welcome. Zita was grateful for this. Yet she knew that calculation brewed in the depths of Queen Tatiana's mind.
Zita was certain that the queen had a plan for her, and she was growing more anxious to know just what that plan was.
"You deserved to win." Zita blurted out the moment Gadrian emerged from the sea of people to meet her at the banquet table.
The final race had been neck on neck with the green boat beating out the ochre one by the most pea-sized margin. Even the umpires crouching at the finish line had to deliberate amongst themselves before eventually settling on a winner.
A mischievous smile danced across his lips. Zita's stomach did a cartwheel. He reached out and took hold of her hand. His grip was cool and damp. The wreath his team was awarded for second place hung from his wrist like an oversized bracelet. Despite his change of clothing, he still carried the faint earthy tang of the river that swallowed him and spat him out.
"Second place is not all that bad," he said, glancing down at the wreath momentarily. "Besides, my hands are holding something far more precious than any Victor's Cup". His smiling eyes were rivulets of certainty that she could spend an eternity splashing around in. They maintained a firm hold on hers.
She liked the way he looked at her. Although Zita knew that the sum of her parts was attractive, she was aware that none of her features dazzled in isolation as his did. But he gazed upon her deep brown eyes as though they were just as enchanting as the rare jewels that gleamed in his.
"Perhaps I am disappointed in the outcome," he finally broke eye contact, his impish grin still in place. Zita found herself studying every corner and curve of his angular face. Everything from the perfectly straight slope of his nose to the deep groove of his philtrum looked sharp to the touch. If it weren't for his wide-mouthed grin and the playful glimmer in his eyes, his face would be quite severe.
"But that's only because I wanted to dedicate my win to you."
She felt a warmth blanket her chest. She smiled so broadly her face couldn't contain it.
"You would have done that for me?"
He didn't say anything. He just entwined his fingers in hers. She felt his calloused thumb trace circles over her hand before he lifted it to brush it with a feather-light kiss. The people buzzing around the overflowing buffet at the banquet table faded into obscurity. As far as Zita was concerned, the two of them were alone and shielded from view.
"It truly was something watching you compete today," Zita said.
Gadrian laughed. "Did you like the view?" mischief brewed in his eyes.
"Yes...the boat was expertly crafted. A well-made vessel."
"The boat?" Gadrian's brows quirked upward, trying to decipher any hidden meaning.
"I couldn't take my eyes off of it. It was extremely streamlined."
She caged the words that so badly wanted to fly free from within her. She had to use all of her willpower to suppress the urge to say that she had captured everything about him, from the determined crease between his brows to the way the sun danced along every sweat bead on his back.
She wanted to say she was jealous of the shirt he wore. And envious of the water droplet that spilled from his cup as he drank and lazily traced his jaw on its descent. However, she was sure that even though these words went unspoken, they still underlined everything she said.
"Well, this is a strange feeling." He crossed his arms and turned playfully pensive.
"What is?"
"I don't think I've ever been jealous of a boat."
Zita laughed. "Now, now. I wouldn't feel too slighted if I were you. There were quite a few eyes in the crowd that were drawn to you instead of the boat."
"Not the eyes that mattered." Something wicked splashed behind his gaze and Zita felt her face immediately rappel downward. Her eyes — the very same that had trailed Gadrian like a shadow the entire day— now roamed about the floor in something that felt like panic. if panic tickled. He, however, remained unwavering, daring her to speak. The air felt hot and thick as she took a measured inhale to still her racing heartbeat.
He leaned in closer. "Letters have been a poor substitute for your company" he whispered. The difference between his breath and the humid air was indistinguishable.
"Gadrian!"
Their eyes both whipped to the table across the enclosure to see his teammates bellowing for him. Their alcohol-loosened limbs were waving at him, beckoning him to come over and join them. Gadrian looked over at the group and then sighed.
"I have to join them." He slumped his shoulders, disappointment hanging on both of them. He took Zita's hand.
"When can we see each other again?" Zita's eyes searched his once again. All of her flustered feelings were short-lived in the face of the looming distance that would once again emerge like a canyon between them.
Gadrian lifted the princess's wrist and graced it with a kiss.
"Soon," he said, simply, before taking his team's wreath and slipping it over the princess' head to sit about her neck like a garland.
An eruption of whoops and hollers rang through the air. The sounds all came from his teammates' table. The princess felt a hot wave of embarrassment wash over her as eyes from all over the enclosure were drawn to them.
With those words, he squeezed the princess's hand and dropped it as quickly as he picked it up. Zita watched him maneuver his way through the sea of people, leaving her in his wake. When he arrived at his table a fresh batch of roars filled the air, accompanied by some table banging and back-slapping. Zita felt like she was drowning in eyes as the stares of the nobility darted between her and the wreath dangling around her neck.
Zita lifted her hand to graze the wreath. It was bulky and the leaves bristled against her collarbone. But it didn't matter.
If wearing it came with the promise of Gadrian's return to her, she would never take it off. She would wear it like jewels as she lived and like a noose as she died.
She had a part of him now. She had his word. A promise.
Soon.
And that one word gave her more hope than anything had in a long while.