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It was a vast stroke of luck that Alexander was hungover that morning.
If he hadn't had to send Jenkins out on the scrounge for some remedy that might soothe the infernal pounding at his temples, then his valet would have been stationed in his usual spot, standing ready to ease him into his coat and the day in general, whilst Alexander perused the morning post.
Jenkins is a stout, redoubtable sort of fellow, a consummate professional who wields both clothes- and hairbrush with verve and aplomb as the situation demands, but he is also dour, laconic, and in possession of a face which, to be painfully frank, is built upon purely practical rather than aesthetic lines
In short, not the sort of fellow with whom Alexander would choose to make a morganatic marriage, risking his father's ire and the inevitable disinheritance to follow.
And yet, if he hadn't spent the previous night so deep in his cups that he had practically drowned, marrying would have been just as inevitable, because Alexander had gone and read that damned letter, heedless of the complicated sigils heading the page, which should have served as ample warning that it was no pedestrian invitation to visit a friend's country estate or grace a ball with his presence.
But he'd been too preoccupied with his aching head to notice until those sigils glowed a sickly shade of green and the spell settled inescapably upon him. Now, he must move quickly, before Jenkins returns with the requisite aromatic vinegar and willow bark pills.
He rushes to lock the door to his apartment and pushes a scribbled note out beneath it into the hallway beyond.
Awfully sorry, Jenkins; can't let you back in. I've been cursed to marry the next person I meet. Please inform Father instanter.
Alexander's predicament would seem much more romantic, he feels, if his father had done the expected thing and banished him to some remote, isolated spot - a tower perched atop a mountain or sequestered deep in an ancient (potentially haunted) forest– as tended to be the protocol of kings in fairy tales when dealing with their cursed offspring.
Instead, he remains confined to his apartment, the noise, life and bustle of the rest of the palace tantalisingly close at hand but nonetheless out of reach.
Every damn part of it, no less, as the King and his council are taking absolutely no chances where the curse is concerned. As the potential for matrimonial danger even more insidious than Jenkins lurks around every corner, they've deemed it best that he doesn't so much as make eye contact with another living soul until they rustle up a suitable marriage prospect for him to lock gazes with.
As Astrena is a small, landlocked kingdom of little strategic importance, they've hardly been inundated with applicants for that role. Those few showing interest have demanded far more in compensation for the terrible degradation of marrying Alexander than the King is willing to give – a great chunk of his land here, half his coffers there.
For three months, Alexander has had no contact with the wider world beyond the notes pushed beneath his door – dry accounts of the council's business from his father; vastly more entertaining missives filled with court gossip from his sister, Sofia – and he's beginning to flag.
He's read all the improving books he'd put off reading since he was a child; penned his autobiography (dull) and several poems (beyond execrable); counted each tile in his bathroom; stared vacantly at every wall in his apartment.
He should perhaps have taken his chances with Jenkins.
Alexander is woken by a noise that sounds very much like the door to his study being eased open by someone who's unaware that its hinges haven't been oiled for the best part of four months now. That long, mournful whine is followed by a sussurus of slow, careful, shuffling footsteps, and then a loud creak as the cover of his bureau is rolled up and back.
He springs from his bed, propelled by rather more righteous indignation than either courage or good sense, grabs the nearest thing to hand that might pass muster as a weapon, then charges down the corridor to his study. Flinging open the door reveals a stooped black-clad figure rifling through the bureau's drawers, a shapeless cap pulled down low on their brow, shadowing their face.
"You blaggard!" Alexander yells, brandishing his umbrella as best he can. It unfurls slightly and flaps about in the most unthreatening manner. "If you don't get out right now, I'll introduce you to the business end of this!"
He must paint a more intimidating picture than he realises, nightshirt notwithstanding, for the would-be thief immediately dives out of the open study window and into the dark night beyond.
When the thrill of victory has faded and clarity returns, Alexander begins to wonder anew just how exacting the terms of the curse laid upon him are, and what, precisely, would constitute a meeting.
Surely, it would have to include the exchanging of names, or handshakes, or, at the very least, acknowledging nods of the head?
A restless night spent mulling that question over leads him no closer to finding a satisfactory answer to it, so he opts to let his father decide, writing to him in his usual morning note:
I encountered an intruder in my study last night. What now?
To the east, Astrena is bordered by Whythe, an even smaller and more insignificant kingdom whose major exports are pungent cheeses, persistent drizzle, and Whythans travelling in search of sunnier climes.
As the two kingdoms have been at peace for centuries, and Astrena manufactures its own cheeses and inclement weather in abundance, an alliance by marriage between their two royal families was not thought to be advantageous, and even, as Alexander had discovered first-hand, discouraged.
He had been at school with the two Whythan princes, becoming good friends with the younger, Henry, who was handsome in an angular kind of way, and in possession of a romantic soul, given to spouting poetry when the mood took him, philosophising, and reading weighty tomes of dense, worthy literature. Their friendship deepened at university, taking a turn toward the romantic thereafter before Alexander's father put his foot down with a firm hand and demanded Alexander end the relationship. It was not, the King said, a beneficial one, and he should be setting his sights on greater things.
But now, it seems, an alliance with Whythe is all that could be desired. Alexander had received a note that afternoon informing him that everything is arranged, and he will be marrying Thomas, the Crown Prince of Whythe, in three days' time.
Alexander had been decidedly less fond of Thomas in their youth. He was a dull chap, lacking both humour and imagination, and uninterested in pretty much everything that didn't involve riding around at breakneck speeds, shooting at anything that moved.
Nevertheless, he has been judged by King and council as a better partner in life than a common thief brazen enough to ransack a royal palace – Alexander's fate if this hastily arranged wedding doesn't come to pass.
And Alexander, sadly, can only agree with them.
Henry looks unchanged when Alexander next sees him, which is a delightful surprise; even more so because he'd been expecting to find Thomas waiting in this secluded anteroom in the far reaches of the palace.
"Your brother was meant to be here," Alexander says, "so we could meet, fulfil this damn curse, and get wed."
"Thomas wasn't enamoured with the thought of marrying you, I'm afraid," Henry says. "Got cold feet and fled the country last night with one of my mother's ladies-in-waiting. As far as Father's concerned, he's abdicated his position."
"You're Crown Prince now?"
"I am."
"So, I'm going to marry you?" Alexander's heart lifts, but only briefly. "Or this is the curse at work, and that's why everything's gone to pot! I might have to marry that thief after all!"
"Oh, I suspect you will," Henry says, smiling wryly, and the way he dips his head, shoulders twisting, puts Alexander in mind of a figure glimpsed in the shadows just a fortnight ago.
"It was you, wasn't it! Why would you do that, Henry?"
"Sad to say, but there weren't many who were willing to wed you, Alex. Astrena isn't considered much of a prize, its cursed prince even less so, and still your father was dragging his heels about accepting Thomas. He wanted to keep his options open, so I'd no choice but to force his hand; make him desperate. Then, all it took was a few words in Thomas' ear, reminding him how much he loves Victoria, and—"
"And here you are," Alexander says, reaching out for Henry.
"Here I am," Henry says, pulling him close.
Still, a measure of unease remains, even deep in their embrace. "Your mother can work curses, can't she? Did she—"
"Does it really matter?"
"... I suppose not."