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Mercedes looked around in a clear panic, which reflected quite clearly on her face. She fluttered back and forth between her bed and the chest and the nightstand and her windowsill. She had been like this since she woke, hardly paying attention to anything else.
Ingway knew he should be more concerned, assisting her in her moment of crisis. He couldn’t recall the last time she had been in such a frenzy. Her hair was still unkempt from sleep, her nightgown swaying as she fluttered from here to there. Small whines escaped her lips, louder with every failed attempt.
He knew he should be concerned. But, then again, such concern usually only originated when one was not the cause of such dismay. After all, it wasn’t his fault that she had slept in so late.
“I can’t find it!” With a cry of utter defeat, Mercedes fell back on her bed. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking but not quite to the point of tears. Which was rather impressive, actually. It was quite close, he was sure, with the way her wings kept fluttering.
“Is something the matter, Queen?” Ingway mused, letting the words roll off of his tongue. He stepped from his perch against the doorframe, shortening the distance between them. “It seems something ails you.”
She didn’t even bother to look up at him. “You’ll laugh.”
“Possibly.” He smiled, letting a couple feet stay between them. “Still, ‘tis better than your state now?”
He could practically imagine the pout on her face, only wishing that he might see it. The trill in her tone was enough—for now. “I . . . can’t find my crown.”
Ingway hummed. He leaned forward, toying with one of those many free hairs. It was quite pretty like this; he vaguely wondered if he might convince her to keep it from her braids for once. If he could convince her to speak to him ever again. “Are those blossoms so hard to find?”
Mercedes nodded. It seemed she was getting better control of her emotions now, though she had not yet lifted her head.
“I suppose ‘tis very hard to find blossoms so large.” He tilted his head, sly smile upon his lips. “Such a heavy responsibility for one to bear. Quite literally.”
He could see her stiffen. He could hear the frustration in her tone, irritation with his presence very present. “If you aren’t going to help, you— “Her head snapped up, just as abruptly shutting her mouth.
Ruby eyes widened as she stared at him, a flush crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. Not the cute sort, but the kind that indicated soon-to-be rage and murder (it was still cute, in Ingway’s opinion). Her eyebrows knitted together, lips turning into a scowl.
“Did you . . .” Her words were stilted, barely hiding her fury, “did you take my crown?”
Ingway smiled. With a purposefully languid movement, he reached up to his head, removing the flower crown that rested upon it. “Ah, I had though this too light to be mine.” His fingers brushed over the petals, which were soft and surprisingly very sturdy.
“You---you---!”
In an absurdly swift movement, the fairy queen lunged at him. He spun on his heel, holding the crown just out of her reach. He was taller than her, and she had clearly forgotten how her wings worked, so it was quite an easy feat. He hardly needed to stand upon his toes to keep it from the tips of her fingers.
It was when she recalled the movement of her wings that he found the real challenge. She was much swifter in the air, darting around as if it were nothing. But his arms were longer than hers, and his movements much faster. So long as she was predictable—and she was so deliciously predictable—he could out-maneuver her.
“You—you utter frog!” She hissed, flying backward. He could see her eyes flick over his body, trying to find any weakness she might take advantage of. But he didn’t have any—none physical, anyway.
“Guilty as charged.” He smiled.
She inhaled sharply. And, just as quickly, she darted at him into a tackle at full-force. He fell backward, the wind knocked out of his lungs as he hit the floor. He gasped for a breath, trying to re-orient himself. But the crown had fallen from his hands, to where he knew not.
He could feel Mercedes crawl over him, looking up only to see her nightgown. She reached far above his head, grunting slightly with the effort.
Her effort, however, was not wasted. In a particularly graceless movement, she let herself bounce back, her rear on his stomach as she straddled him. Her expression was bright, smile full of victory as she delicately placed the crown on her head.
Ingway propped himself up on an elbow, reaching for a strand of her long hair and toying with it between his fingers. He admired her, sitting so much above him. She was out of breath, chest moving with every panting breath. She did have the slightest sheen of sweat on her forehead and around her shoulders. “The image of royalty.” He smiled.
She glanced down at him, expression almost severe. “I am not above sending you to the dungeon.”
“My dear Fairy Queen,” he purred, “I would wilt.”
She tapped his nose with her forefinger. “Very well. Then you shall pay for your terrible crimes in here.”
He smiled; under those conditions, he very well could not protest such penitence.