Chapter 25
****
"With pleasure, Lady Deimos."
Christine smiled blandly.
Cecilia had been kind enough to explain the ins and outs of ballroom etiquette. From entering the ballroom to the proper way to decline a dance request. Right down to the detail that a lady should not leave her seat to talk to another man when she was in conversation with a gentleman.
As Madame Veronica silently set the tea that the waitress had brought, Cecilia's advice paused for a moment, then reappeared in the form of a tea sprig.
"You do know that royal blue is the color of royalty, don't you? You should avoid that color for Princess Charlotte's sake."
"I'll keep that in mind."
“I had a fitting on a green silk dress today.”
Cecilia said, floating a thin slice of lemon into her teacup. Her demeanor, oscillating between arrogance and grace, was as natural as breathing.
"From what little I've heard, Lady Deimos seems to be the favorite to be Crown Princess of Arsene.”
Crown Princess of Arsene.
Christine squared her shoulders self-consciously.
"That would be fitting."
The emerald earrings set in the shape of butterflies glinted in the light as Cecilia lifted the floral-printed teacup. She loved the color of her own eyes. As Christine peered into the green eyes that mirrored her own, a soft voice cut through her vision.
"I think the color red would suit you well, Miss Peildon."
Taking a sip of black tea, Cecilia turned her head to the display window. Her gaze locked on a red dress.
"It's an ambitious piece for this winter season."
Madame Veronica, a proud look on her face, looked at Christine.
"You'll need at least a month to have a new dress made, but if you need a dress for Christmas night now, I recommend that one. It will go well with Miss Peildon’s skin, I guarantee it."
Madame Veronica insisted.
"Clothes are not what they seem, would you like to try it on?"
Christine's gaze fell once more on the dress that dominated the window.
The black lace that trimmed the bustle and sleeve cuffs gave the evening gown an odd balance of flirtatiousness and modesty, like a rose blooming in the midday sun.
To charm and seduce men.
It was the perfect dress for the Duke's orders.
***
"Your Highness, please look at this pocket watch."
The round object on a gold chain swung before Arthur's eyes. The strings of the pocket watch reflected the sunlight pouring in from the window in front of him.
"Listen carefully to my voice. Your Highness will now be hypnotized."
The second hand of the marble-carved clock on the mantelpiece ticked. The pocket watch matched its pace, repeating its regular motions.
"Now, this is a very peaceful time. Your body is growing lighter and lighter, and you are falling into a deep sleep."
The voice, gentle and quiet as the afternoon sun, overlapped the striking of the second hand.
The hypnotic therapy, initiated at the insistence of Queen Marianne, had not been successful for years, but Arthur had dutifully fulfilled his mother's expectations today. He followed the meaningless movement of the pocket watch with weary eyes.
“Upon examination, we could find no head trauma that would cause Your Highness to lose his memory.”
Suddenly, a memory from twenty years ago flashed through his mind.
"Do you mean to tell me that this child is lying?”
"People erase things they can't handle. It's a survival instinct, so when he’s old enough to overcome it, he’ll naturally-“
“No. I want to know the truth right now, what's in his lost memories, what the truth is................”
"Your Highness is now hypnotized."
Dr. Nigel's assertion jerked Arthur out of his reverie.
"Do you hear my voice? Have no fear, you are safe here. Now, Your Highness, what do you see?"
Ehiri.
A voice howling like an animal, a field of snow reflecting the moonlight white and the vivid blood staining it red. And...................
"Your Highness, tell me what you see."
Arthur's eyes wandered lazily around the room. He glanced past the lights hanging from the low ceiling and the darkly colored still life paintings beneath them.
"Doctor Nigel."
At the sound of his name, Dr. Nigel stopped swinging his pocket watch. The Crown Prince slowly raised himself from his long, cross-legged position in the armchair.
Dr. Nigel picked up a fountain pen and scribbled the words, "Hypnotherapy Failed," in his medical record.
The Crown Prince had closed his mind long ago. The door he had closed himself was not easily opened. Perhaps, Dr. Nigel thought, he had tried to push the cruel memory away too quickly.
Perhaps the Crown Prince was subconsciously aware of what had happened that day, but when he was found in a cabin about an hour away from the hut where it had happened, he remembered nothing.
"Are you still having trouble sleeping?"
Arthur nodded slightly in response to the doctor's question. It was a nonchalant gesture, like buttoning his shirt.
"I'm afraid I can't increase the dose of the neuroleptic."
Dr. Nigel sighed as he turned back to his desk to write the prescription. Arthur had already developed a tolerance to the medication he prescribed. Not surprising, since he'd been taking it for years.
"You’ll have to increase the dosage, then."
"Your Highness."
The hand that had been teasing the fountain pen stopped, and the wary eyes turned to the Crown Prince.
One lip pulled up, he leisurely began to refine his garments. His strong wrists disappeared through the cuffs as he slipped on obsidian-encrusted cuff links. His ankles were no different. Scarred where the cold chains had frozen to flesh on a cold winter's day.
"I would suggest music, Your Highness. Weiner said that the essence of music is healing."
Arthur looked up from buttoning his black leather gloves.
The red, bloodshot eyes reminded Nigel of Crown Prince Ehiri as a child. Thin, pale skin, unfocused pupils. His torn wrists and ankles. It was a horrifying sight, hardly believable for a prince of a country.
"Calming music can certainly be soothing. It's not a medical cure, of course, but you might try combining it with sleeping pills. It'll be better than just taking pills alone.”
"I'll sing to Your Highness.”
The woman's voice broke through Dr. Nigel's nonsensical prescription.
"I'll sing my song.................. to comfort you.”
It wasn't bad.
The woman's body. Her voice.
But Roman Deimos.
Arthur's eyes grew as calm as the winter sea.
Trust no one completely.
Especially not a woman this easy.
Finishing the prescription, Hans Nigel rose from his seat and approached the Crown Prince, who was fiddling with his buttons.
"I'll fill it for you, Your Highness."
Suddenly jolted back to reality, Arthur offered his hand to Dr. Nigel, who bowed politely.
"If you're not sleeping well at night, it's because of your fears, and it's important to address them at the root."
Arthur looked down at the crown of Dr. Nigel's head as he buttoned his cuffs. When he finished the last button, he lifted his head.
"What are you afraid of, Your Highness?"
Dr. Nigel asked as he wrapped his hands around the Crown Prince rince's wrists.
The doctor's keen eyes seemed to scan the surroundings of Arthur's tightly sealed hut. He had been a distinguished scholar and professor of psychiatry at the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons before he was called by the royal family to become a palace physician.
He tried to read what he wanted from Arthur's face.
"What do I appear to be afraid of, Doctor?”
"...."
There was no discernible change in the Crown Prince's expression. His heart rate hadn't increased, his breathing was extremely calm, and he just seemed to be smiling.
It was a calm expression, but there was something behind the calmness, Dr. Nigel was certain.
***
The light was dim through the thick curtains, which were drawn back to reveal a cobwebbed floor. Even with the heat of the blazing fireplace, the bitter cold of midwinter threatened to freeze everything.
‘It used to belong to Miss Bennett.’
The hotbed of rumors was the Amarine dressing room.
“How dare you take my seat?”
Fiona Bennett drained the whiskey in her glass and threw it away in frustration. With a loud crash, shards of glass rained down around the mantelpiece.
It was the night of Christmas Night, the crown jewel of the winter social calendar, the last ball of the season, and Christine Peildon had just crossed the threshold of the Grita's noble and celebrity-studded house. On a stage for a charity event that Fiona herself hadn't even gotten to yet.
I'll never forgive her!
***
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