An Imperfect Princess (8 page)

The girl’s face
lit up. “You can see her too?”  She held the jar aloft, pleased with her find. 

“Will you guys
please stop
exchanging pleasantries
while I’m suffocating inside this
jar?” Aijo cried.

“I can.”
Careful, careful.  Aijo was growing dimmer by the moment.  She probably wouldn’t
die immediately in a jar that was clear crystal, but she’d begin to starve if
she ran out of oxygen for her quantum metabolism. “But is bad to put fairy in
jars.”

“It is?”  The
girl’s grin faded.

“Are people,
livestock–no, alive. Have to need air and light.  Can’t have air if they’re
inside a jar.”  It wasn’t entirely accurate – Aijo’s metabolism, if it could be
called that – required oxygen for raw materials to change into the partons it
needed.  It wasn’t for respiration like the majority of other living beings,
but for something more akin to nuclear cold fusion.

But her limited
vocabulary in this language sorely lacked those kinds of words and chances are
a child wouldn’t understand advanced theoretical physics on any planet that
wasn’t already familiar with the Pharinae’s unique physiology.

“Oh.”  The girl
made no move to unlock the jar.  Aijo’s protests were growing weaker by the
moment.  Without light or oxygen, and blocked by leaded glass, she was probably
in pain.

“You please let
her out?”

The girl jutted
out her lower jaw, prepared for a fight. “But if I do, Uncle James won’t see
her.  He never believes I see them.”

Pharinae were
good at keeping themselves hidden when they wanted to be invisible, but somehow
Aijo had been caught.  She fervently hoped that this Uncle James didn’t
appreciate little girls catching helpless Pharinae.

She tried a more
direct approach. “Please let fairy out.  She is dying. I will be sad.”

Somehow, that
seemed to connect.  Reluctantly, Marilyn opened the lid to the jar.  The fairy
immediately brightened with the fresh air and escaped from the mouth of the
jar, zipping to the ceiling where she hovered erratically.

“Thank the
gods!” Aijo said in Lathlian, coughing. “That was horrible!”

“She talked!”
Marilyn said delightedly.  “What did she say?”

“Fairy is happy
to out.”  Eneria was quickly growing frustrated at her lack of words.  And her
head was killing her.  She gingerly reached up and felt a goose egg the size of
a kona nut on her forehead and some bandages.

Then she
remembered.  Descending through the atmosphere.  Pulling the handbrake, only to
be too late.  The splash, then blackness. 

For the first
time since waking up, she took stock of her surroundings.  She was in a fairly
nice bedroom with furniture made from what appeared to be wood.  The little
girl before her was well dressed and humanoid, which was about all she could
have asked for.  The child–it could only be a child, based on the size and
shape of the furniture in comparison to her–had a cascade of beautiful, curly
hair with reddish brown tones that looked very alien to Eneria.  Her father had
had curly brown hair, but it was a different texture, much tighter and without
any of the reddish coloring.

She glanced down
at herself. Her comfortable old uniform was missing, she noted, and had been
replaced with a crisp white dress that she suspected was a nightgown.

Wherever I am,
at least they don’t eat aliens, she thought ruefully.

At that point,
half a dozen other people entered the room.  Now that the immediate danger to
Aijo was over, she allowed herself to relax back onto the bed.

Adults, this
time.  Perhaps this child’s parents?  No, there was obviously a class
difference.  Everyone deferred to a single man, who approached her bedside and
knelt down beside her.

A shiver ran
through Eneria’s spine when she saw him.

Like all
Lathlian royalty, she had been allowed to select one condition, one aspect of
her possible future husband that answered to her own demands.  Her brother, in
typical male Lathlian fashion, had required the most “perfect” woman he had
ever seen – an impossible condition, one that Narin d’Munt had called cheating. 
Vaz’s plan to marry her childhood sweetheart Seth had been destroyed when
Prince Xyling of Konkast had defeated her in a fencing match.  Before that, the
only person who had ever defeated her had been Seth. Her plan had been to have
her father cave and let her marry a commoner.  Gordani d’Tar had been stubborn
and held out for someone of noble birth, and no one had been more surprised
than him when a Konkastian had entered the Lathlian World Championship. Vaz had
fallen to his blade in the final round, losing the championship and her chance
at happiness.

Seeing those
things, Eneria had been tempted to ask for something even pickier than Vaz. 
She had wanted to ask that he “make my toes tingle” or “present me with a
necklace more beautiful than one I could carve myself.”  Something subjective,
to give her a bit more control, but not as impossible as her brother’s silly
requirement. In the end, she had asked that the man she marry be smarter than
her, something her mother had approved of in her old fashioned way and that had
frustrated her father to no end.  Lathlian nobles were not bred for
intelligence.

But
had
she opted for that “toe tingling” condition, she may have perhaps found the
first man in the universe that met her criteria.

He was tall and
dark and handsome.  He wasn’t that old, but he was obviously the superior to
those around him.  She had never seen hair so dark as to be completely black;
the closest had been her brother’s, which was such a dark blue brown that in
dim light it did appear fairly black.  But this man’s hair was not only pitch
black, it had no highlights at all.  It had been neatly groomed at some point,
but now appeared rather mussed, as if he had a habit of raking his hand through
it.

Was the young
girl his daughter? Was the lovely yellow haired woman behind him his wife?  Oh,
please no, she begged the heavens.  The last thing she wanted to do was have
her toes tingle at someone else’s husband.  That would be the ultimate rude
gesture from the universe itself.

“How are you
feeling, young miss?”

His voice flowed
over her like deep, dark honey.  No, not honey.  Molasses.  Soft, slow, gentle,
and sweet.  Dark like his hair.  She could drown in that voice.

“Head hurts,”
she said, conscious of the strange language on her tongue.  Aijo had dumped
enough vocabulary in her head for basic communication, but she felt the lack of
adequate words to ask the man before her if he happened to be single and
intelligent.  She’d need to practice a lot more before she was able to
communicate fluently.

“I’d say so,
after that nasty shipwreck.  What is your name?”  He knelt beside her bed, not
touching her anywhere, but still close enough to burn her with his presence.

She was a
jeweler; the last time she’d been
burnt
by anything had been the
electric crucible at her workbench.

She swallowed
noisily.  “Eneria d’Munt of Lathlor.”  Racking her mind for words of astronomy
to describe where that was, she hit a wall.  The only word she knew for any
celestial objects seemed to be “star”–and Lathlor wasn’t a star, it was a
planet.  No one would believe she was from a star!

Then again, this
was a primitive world.  In all likelihood, no one would believe she was from
another planet, for that matter. 

“How did you
come to crash off the shores of Cornwall?”

"It long
story.”  She bit her lip in frustration.  “Not have words.” 

"I
understand.  You are still unwell and from the sound of it you’ve never been to
England before.”  The man stood up then and motioned over to one of the
servants, who offered her a glass of water.  “I’m glad you’re awake though,
young miss.  If you had been out for much longer I’m afraid I would have never
been able to speak with you at all.”

She nodded and
gratefully sipped the water.  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, pleased that Aijo
had given her his proper form of address. 

Something hit
her–he was a noble! She was lucky indeed, then.  Someone with nobility on a
primitive world would have access, perhaps, to the tools and technology she
would need to get home.

He turned to
leave, and Eneria became desperate for something, anything to keep him around
for longer.  “My lord, what is your name?”  Now that she had heard it once, the
phrase for requesting an introduction flowed easily from her lips.  Aijo’s
brain-juggling had sharpened her memory and vocabulary associations as well.

“James Holding,
the Earl of Courtland.  Welcome to Cornwall.”

Eneria closed
her eyes, committing the words to name, but she had no context of where an “earl”
fit in, in terms of closeness to the rulers here.  She didn’t even know the
word for a ruler!

“You have been
kind.”  She drank another drought of water and a wave of dizziness engulfed
her.  She nearly spilled her water before the servant who had given it to her
caught the glass.  “My lord, who are others? Marilyn, I know.”  She smiled in a
friendly manner to the girl, who looked surprised at the acknowledgment.

The beautiful
blonde woman stepped forward, with a polite smile matched by twinkling blue
eyes.  She gripped Eneria’s hand. “Eneria d’Munt, I am Clarissa Brookfield, the
earl’s sister-in-law.  Might I say, you have the most striking hair color?  I’m
positively jealous.”

Eneria was very
surprised at the casual intimacy.  Touching was not done between noble
Lathlians very often.  It took her a moment to process the phrase “sister-in-law”
but the major understanding she had was that the beautiful woman was not his
wife.

She let out a
tiny breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

“Your hair is
pretty, too,” Eneria said, glad she was able to finally form a coherent
sentence in the unfamiliar language.   She got the sense from the younger woman
that the compliment was genuine, although the exchange was a normal pleasantry.

The earl
introduced the remaining people in the room–the chambermaid Mitsy, the
housekeeper Mrs. Witlow, and Mrs. Thomas, Marilyn’s governess. 

“You are welcome
to stay here until you are well,” he offered.  “But as soon as you are up to
it, I’d be most interested in hearing your story.  The vessel you arrived in is
something entirely unlike any I have seen before and being Cornish I had
thought I had seen every kind of ship.”  He nodded to her, then motioned to his
entourage.

“Come along
girls, let us leave Miss d’Munt to rest.”  He took everyone with him but the
maid Mitsy, who fussed and clucked over Eneria like she was a baby and finally
offered her some soup.

Food! Eneria
hadn’t eaten in days.  Her stomach growled at the smell.  She fervently hoped
that her biology would find the local food agreeable.

Well, I’m dead
to the universe anyway, she thought miserably. She hesitantly sipped the soup with
the spoon. 
It’s a meat based broth
, she mused, as the flavors rolled
over her tongue. 
Obviously they’re not a vegetarian people.
  Although
there did seem to be vegetables and starches in it as well.

The broth was
salty, but tasty, and Eneria decided it probably wasn’t doing to kill her
immediately.

“Is good,” she
told the maid, who smiled saucily at her.

“Atta girl! I
knew you’d be all right in a trice if you just had a wee bit of Cookie’s hot
soup in ya.”

Eneria nodded
and took another spoonful.  “Could you talk with me?” she asked, hesitantly. 

“Well, sure
lovey. I’d be glad to keep you company for a bit.”

Eneria smiled
back, pleased that this species seemed to have the same sort of emotional base
as her own.  The Konkastians always smiled when they were about to kill
somebody.  The last thing she had seen on Xyling’s face before he shot her
uncle was a maniacal grin.  Then again, they probably
did
find it
amusing.

“I not have… do
not have the words I need,” she explained, trying to keep her vowels and
consonants straight in the new language. She held up her hand, trying to
demonstrate height. “Ranks. The earl is... ruler of England? Above all?” she
asked, but the maid shook her head.

“Goodness no,
that’d be the queen. The earl is above a baron, but below a marquis, who is
below a duke.  And a duke answers to the queen.”

Eneria nodded in
understanding.  “And child of earl is...?”

“Do you mean Marilyn?
She’s not his.”  Mitsy settled into a chair that was in the corner, oblivious
to the fairy hovering above her head.  “But if she was, she’d be a lady.  If
the earl had a son, he would be a lord, until the earl died, then he’d inherit
the title.  Just like everywhere else in the world.”

“I see.” 
Primogenitor, patrilineal descent.  She struggled to fit the concepts into her
aching hea. “And wife of queen is...?”

The maid burst
into a merry peal of laughter.  “Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong dearie.  The
queen is a she.  Her husband is the king.  Their sons are princes, their
daughters are princesses.”

Eneria blinked a
few times, confused.  It sounded more complicated than it was, because it was
all in a language she’d barely learned overnight.  But she had the words she
needed now. 

“A princess is
the daughter of a king and queen?”

“Aye.”

“Thank you.  I
am Princess Eneria d’Munt, daughter of Queen Emerita d’Munt and King Narin d’Munt,
of Lathlor.”

Both the maid’s
eyebrows shot up. “A princess, you say?  Maybe you hit your head harder than we
thought, poor girl.”

Eneria shook her
head, trying to explain.  “My... place, Lathlor
—
”

“Country?” The
maid supplied helpfully.

“Is England a
country? Or Cornwall?”