Ryan Graudin - All That Glows

Slowly, deliberately King Edward spreads a crumpled magazine out on the polished wood. The front-page photograph reveals Richard, drink in hand, dancing. PRINCE RICHARD UNCENSORED: THE ROYAL’S TRUE COLORS looms above it in bold, blocky letters.

“‘Prince Richard punched me in the face without provocation,’ one insider reports. His face is deeply bruised from the encounter with the underage royals’ fist. ‘He knocked me out cold in the restroom.’”

Partway through the reading, Richard tucks his hands behind his back, the healthy one covering its damaged partner. I curse myself for not thinking to wipe my attacker’s memory.

King Edward looks up. “Did you attack this man?”

Richard barely glances down at the page. His face remains stiff, unreadable.

“Did you attack him?” his father asks again. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice.

“I—I don’t remember,” the prince says finally. He’s not looking at his father or the magazine. His eyes dance around a nearby vase of flowers: all purple, green, and white, popping beneath the paradise-blue walls. Some of the petals hold crystal-domed dewdrops, fresh from the florist.

For a moment his father is silent. “You don’t remember?”

Almost imperceptibly, Richard gives a small flinch.

“You’re making a fool of yourself, a fool of the crown!” The king’s fist thunders down. His teacup of Earl Grey tips and bleeds its contents across the table. “You aren’t even a week out of Eton and you’re already getting so bloody plastered you can’t remember if you attacked this man or not!”

The prince is a statue, still taking in every minute detail of those flowers.

“You’re a strong spirit—I know that, Richard. Stop wasting what you have and get your arse in gear. How are you ever going to amount to anything if all you do is drink and punch people in the face?” The king’s lip curls with disgust. “Some people think the monarchy is a relic of the past—that it should be done away with. But the nation still needs us, Richard. They need an heir they can depend on. Someone they can relate to. When I was your age, I was planning to travel the world for my gap year—to get an idea of what’s out there. To culture myself! And you? You haven’t even planned one! I’ll go to hell and back before I let you spend twelve months pissing in the corner of some pub.”

King Edward’s streamline face, so much like his son’s, flushes from pink to crimson with the effort of his speech. The rage in his aura builds with the power of an oncoming wave. The room grows hot with it.

“Do you have anything to say?” He relents, once the breath wheezes out of him. “Anything at all.”

Without a word, Richard turns and walks out the door. I have no choice but to follow, leaving the king to his crumpled magazine and spilled cup of morning tea.

It isn’t until Richard is far from his father that the emotions begin to bubble up, a scalding boil. He walks quickly, furiously, like a sentinel ordered to march double-time. He wanders the same corridors twice, making anxious loops past the paintings of long-dead men suspended along Kensington Palace’s grand hallways. By his third circuit, he escapes to the gardens. It’s here beside an orangey sea of marigolds that he kneels down.

“I’m sorry.” I sit next to the prince. “I should’ve erased his memory too.”

The words don’t make me feel any better. They can’t take back the red of his father’s rage or those sharp, flinty words.

The prince straightens; air, crackling and static, fills his lungs. Bright pink lines his eyes. Part of me wilts at the sight.

Richard’s head turns slowly, clearly in my direction. For a moment, I forget he cannot see.

“You sense me, don’t you?” My whisper grows even quieter as I double-check the veiling spell. It’s as strong as it’s always been, keeping our worlds an unknowable distance apart.

He shifts and I start, realizing exactly how close I’d sat next to him. Closer than a watching Fae should.

The crunching of gravel causes both of us to look up. It’s Princess Anabelle, Richard’s younger sister. Her straw-colored curls, round and soft like a china doll’s, almost fall apart from the briskness of her march. The rest of her is just as preened. Penciled eyes and lips. A dash of powder to bring life to her cheeks. At sixteen, the princess looks as pieced together as the portraits of her forebears.

Helene trails her at an acceptable distance. The distance a Fae should keep from her royal. I swallow, trying to ignore the guilt that’s joined the rumblings of my still-tender insides.

“Hey.” Anabelle kneels beside her brother, still managing to look all grace in her heels and pencil skirt. “Are you okay?”

Richard clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

But his sister presses. “I heard the yelling. What happened?”

The prince, so rigid in the face of his father’s fury, breaks beneath her question. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

“Another blackout?” A frown lurks on the edge of Anabelle’s pearly-rose lips, but she has enough control to hide it.

“I didn’t drink that much. I swear . . .” Richard sighs. “Some guy told the tabloids I attacked him.”

“And you believed it? Richard, it’s a bloody tabloid !” The princess pats her brother’s back and I notice even her nails are white-tipped and perfect. “I’m sure nothing happened.”

“I woke up with this.” Richard holds out his hand, so swollen I can no longer make out the bony ridges and valleys of his knuckles.

A look close to admiration crosses his sister’s face as she inspects the injury. “Well, you must have had one hell of a good reason to hit him.”

The prince laughs. There’s no humor in the sound. “I’m a mess, aren’t I, Belle?”

Anabelle places his injured hand back on his knee. “We all are. You just have a special knack for showing it.”

“It’s not like you could do anything wrong. Not in Dad’s eyes anyway. You could run naked through the streets and he’d still think you were blooming perfect.”

“Probably an exaggeration,” his sister points out. “You know, the only reason he’s so hard on you is because he loves you. He’s worried about you.

“Dad does have a point though,” the princess’s voice plummets into a whisper, even though everything around them—the paths, the flower beds—is empty. “People are watching us, Richard. You and me. We’re a symbol of something whether we want to be or not. Sooner or later you’re going to have to start living up to that.”

Richard’s only response a long, leaden sigh. Like the sound of a sleeping bear poked into drowsiness.

“I think you should apologize to Dad.”

“What?” The prince starts. “Belle, I didn’t do anything! I told you, it was a blackout!”

“Maybe not, but you still put yourself in that position. The only way Dad is ever going to trust you is if you take the first step and show some initiative.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Richard’s cheeks mottle red and peach. “I was just having some fun with my friends like anyone else!”