Лорен Уиллиг - The Temptation of the Night Jasmine

She should take it, she knew. That was how the story was supposed to end. She was supposed to take his hand and then the bells would ring and the people would cheer and throughout the kingdom the very birds would fly into the air with rejoicing.

“Charlotte?” Robert wriggled his fingers.

Everyone was watching, waiting. Charlotte saw her grandmother’s face harden in unspoken warning. She knew what she was expected to do, she who had always done everything that was expected of her. Until now.

Charlotte took a stumbling step back, bumping right into Henrietta, who let out a startled oof . The homely sound broke the spell, shattering the fairy tale into egg-shell fine slivers.

“No,” Charlotte croaked, never taking her eyes from Robert’s face. “With your pardon, Majesties, I — no.”

Her grandmother stalked forwards like a malevolent fairy, proving she could move swiftly enough when the spirit moved her. At the moment, that spirit was pure rage. “No?” the Dowager growled. “No?”

The King waved the Dowager to silence. “A lady wants some wooing, what?” he said sympathetically, and his words had all the force of a royal command. “Dovedale — ”

Charlotte felt a hysterical urge to laugh well up in her throat. So she was to be the subject of a royally mandated wooing, was she? She wondered if court etiquette set certain time bounds to the activity. Was she meant to succumb after five minutes, or might one successfully resist for ten without exciting the King’s anger?

His face carefully bland, Robert swept another bow. “With pleasure, Your Majesty. Lady Charlotte?”

Rather than create another scene, Charlotte took the arm offered her. Robert’s muscles told a different story than his mouth; beneath her fingers, his body was quivering with tension. Anger? Perhaps that, too. He had a right to it, having just been refused in front of not only his friends, but his monarch.

On the other hand, thought Charlotte rebelliously, he might have been spared that had he had the simple sense to ask her first instead of demanding her hand the way one might ask for a horse.

“Go, go,” said the King benevolently. He reached for the Queen’s hand, but she twitched her fingers away from him, moving restlessly to the far side of her chair. Shooting her mother a look of pure venom, Princess Sophia moved to stand by her father’s shoulder.

Charlotte let herself be drawn through the door, through the black-and-gold-lacquered walls of the Queen’s breakfast room, into the closet beyond, a small and private room where they could speak without being overheard. Robert took care to shut the door, thwarting any potential eavesdroppers, before turning back to her.

In the tiny space, his presence was almost overwhelming. Charlotte fought the urge to just lean against him and let all her weariness drain away into him. It would be so lovely just to sit, together.

“What is wrong?” he asked gently, touching her cheek with his gloved fingers as though he were handling something rare and infinitely precious.

Charlotte forced herself to look away, holding herself stiffly aloof until she felt his hand drop.

“Is it wooing you want?” he asked, bracing a hand on the wall behind her, the strong lines of his face arranged in an expression of concern. It was heady stuff, having all that attention concentrated on her. His blue eyes searched her face. “If so, we can, er, woo.”

She was no longer a child to be placated with a bauble, no matter how desirable a bauble it was. And it was a desirable bauble, like a prism dangled in front of her, dancing with rainbow images of courtship. What would it be like to be really, truly courted by Robert?

Until he grew bored again, that was, and sought adventures elsewhere. There would be new quests to undertake, new prizes to be won. Like an old trophy, she would be hung up on the wall of Girdings, taken out from time to time to show off to guests.

Charlotte slid out from under his arm. “It’s not wooing I want,” she said.

“Then what do you want? I can’t know if you don’t tell me.” He sounded reasonable enough. But although the pose was right, his body angled towards her, she couldn’t help but feel as though he weren’t listening at all. He was already planning the post-betrothal feast, the congratulations of his peers, the return in state to Girdings. Where she would be just another piece of the tapestry, the lady riding at his side, passed like a parcel from King to suitor.

“Why did you ask for me?” she demanded. “Why now? Why here?”

Robert blinked at her as though the question had never even occurred to him. “Why?”

“Why?” Charlotte repeated firmly, unwilling to be put off.

“It seemed like the thing to do,” he joked, in an unfortunate attempt to lighten the mood. “Hero rescues King, hero marries princess — isn’t that the way these stories usually go? Even if you were really the one to rescue the King rather than me,” he added wryly. “But I thought you would enjoy the romantic gesture. It seemed like something out of one of your books.”

Biting her lip, Charlotte looked away, knowing herself guilty as charged. He was right; it was something she would once have found dreadfully romantic. But now, she couldn’t help but fear that underneath the gaudy fairy tale trappings loomed a gaping pit into which she was poised to tumble. What if all the grandeur and fanfare masked nothing more than an empty hole where honest affection ought to have been? Once the fairy tale was gone, what would be left?

“It’s all very well for a book, but can’t you see that this is different?” Charlotte said earnestly, scrabbling to put her misgivings into words. “Stories end. Marriage is for life. You can’t just leave when you decide you don’t like the book anymore.”

Understanding spread across his face, and with it relief. Reaching for her shoulders, he drew her to arm’s length, scrutinizing her face. “Is that what this is all about? I already told you — ”

Pushing at his chest with both hands, Charlotte broke his hold. “And I already told you . Did you listen to anything I said last night?”

Robert looked slightly shifty, which Charlotte took as a no. “I thought we had resolved all that.”

“Asking the King for my hand in marriage does not count as a resolution!”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Don’t you want us to be married?”

So much that it hurt. Even now. Charlotte wondered if she were being a stiff-necked fool. A tempting little voice whispered that the means didn’t matter so long as the end was right. But she had never agreed with Machiavelli in that. The means shaped the end. If she accepted Robert under such circumstances, always wondering, doubting the depth of his affection, it would warp whatever future they had.

“Not on these terms,” she said distinctly.

Robert was clearly reaching the limit of his patience. “Not on these terms, or not ever? Be honest, Charlotte. No games. Is it the terms you don’t want, or is it me?”

When she didn’t answer, he prodded, “Let’s try this another way. Are there any terms you can name that I could fulfill to your satisfaction?”

Charlotte could only stare at him, in mute agony. What good were promises if she couldn’t trust herself to trust him to keep them? The only term that mattered was as impossible as a unicorn — that he love her enough to never leave. No one could promise that truly. Even her parents had abandoned her for death.

“Right,” he said sharply. “You don’t need to say more.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Charlotte said pleadingly. “You said it best when you said that enchantments can’t survive. You can’t make a fantasy real just by believing hard enough. I used to believe you could — but we never did find any unicorns together, did we?”