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A ball was to be held, for the princess. Everyone in the kingdom, mainly meaning all the eligible young bachelors, was invited. The princess had refused to marry someone who had been picked out for her, like a dress for a baby, and had turned down a long string of Princes with bright buttons who had knelt at her feet, sent by her father. Her father, the king, had now given in, and was inviting commoners into his home just so that his daughter would marry, and he would have an heir, and, as a side thought, because kings can’t afford to worry about emotions, that she would be happy.
On the night of the ball, the princess, Clara, sat at her dressing table, her head resting on her hand, staring into her three mirrors. It still didn’t feel right. She should be bumping into her true love on the street, or in the middle of the woods in midsummer. Not at some stiff ball where they would all be presenting their best selves. Her father had tried his best for her, but it wasn’t what she wanted. She sighed. Her mother would have understood. Maybe she wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it, but she would have understood.
But she wasn’t there. She was buried in a stiff white marble mausoleum, where one day her father would be lying, and she would too. How could he not see that because of that mausoleum, because of its imposing inevitability, she wanted to see as much, do as much, as she could possibly manage? She wanted everything. And people assumed that princesses had everything. But instead she had strict rules. She was rarely allowed to even leave the palace.
She was pulled away from her thoughts by her personal maid entering the room, bringing her new dress, carrying it as carefully as a tall glass of water that she might spill at any moment. She was beaming more than Clara as she held the dress up: it was made of a smooth silver material, like water in the moonlight. The skirt blossomed below the nipped-in waistline. It was the most exquisite dress anyone would ever have seen, to ensure that the princess would not be upstaged at her own ball.
“Try it on, miss!” Her maid, Jenny, urged.
Clara sighed and took the dress from her, nearly letting it slip from her fingers, the material was so smooth. She pulled it on, and it felt like she was wearing air, the fabric light against her skin. Jenny buttoned it up and Clara examined herself in the three mirrors. The dress looked like something a star would wear, if it fell from the sky. The skirt bloomed around her, a physical embodiment of what she was: the untouchable princess. Her eyes rose up to her face, that of a girl who faked confidence to hide a fear that grew with each day.
“I don’t like it,” she said, brushing a hand down her skirt, “The skirt is too big. I feel ridiculous.”
“I think you look beautiful, miss,” said Jenny quietly.
“But it’s not your opinion that matters, is it?” Snapped Clara, immediately feeling sorry for saying it, as she knew that it wasn’t even her own opinion that mattered, in this case. She was still in the same position she had been when her father had picked out suitors for her; she’d had no say in this dress, it had been chosen for her, chosen to represent a character that Clara wasn’t.
Slowly, she pulled off the dress. “I’ll just have to wear something else.”
“There’s no time, miss; the ball is tonight,” Jenny said, her voice of reason, always.
There was a sharp knock on the door and her father entered, already dressed for the evening in a silver suit that would match her dress, now lying, rumpled, on her bed.
“Clara!” The king exclaimed. “What’s going on here? You should be dressed. Why is your gown just thrown on the bed like that?”
“I don’t want to wear it,” she said stubbornly. “It’s not me.”
“Of course it isn’t you, it’s a dress. Just put it on, time is running out,” he said impatiently.
“No.” She crossed her arms. She wouldn’t back down so easily.
Her father sighed. “Clara. Put on the dress. Look how much I’ve done for you. This night is for you, and you only. But yet you still find fault in everything. If this doesn’t work, I might just give up on you. You’re too stubborn for your own good; I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m supposed to be a king, but my own daughter can best me. I can’t win.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, feeling bad about his defeated manner, “I’ll wear the dress. I’ll be a good girl. I’ll try my best, I promise.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, but he still sounded hopeless as he walked back out of the room.
So Clara wore the dress, and Jenny decorated her like a fancy cake for a wedding, sticky-sweet, her cheeks rouged, her eyelids frosted with silver, her hair swept into intricate curls, as if each one were hiding a secret. Clara felt like a doll. She wished she were running through the fields her father owned, in her bare feet, feeling the wind in her hair, free, like she had when she was a child. But she was tied up in an extravagant dress and royal duties.
Jenny had just finished spritzing on a sweet French perfume that no other girl in the land would smell like, when her father came in once again, his face serious.
“It’s time,” he said, and held out his arm for her to take.
They walked through the cavernous halls of the passage together, the ballroom growing ever closer. The last time they’d used it, Clara’s mother had been alive. It had lain in dust and cobwebs for years until a month ago, when the servants had began to dust and sweep and bring it back to life.
“Clara,” her father said as they walked, “You must give these men a chance. They’re good people, you know.”
“Yes,” she said, as they reached the golden doors to the ballroom, “I will.”
The doors were opened and her father pushed her forward, so that it was just she, alone, walking into the room in the shadow of the great doors. Everyone paused and the room grew quiet so that soon she could hear the tapping of her silver shoes against the gold floor. The room held its breath; everyone waited. Clara curtseyed, deep, her dress brushing the ground and her knees almost, and then her father came up beside her and presented her to the crowd.
She didn’t listen to what he said, instead examining the crowd of men, pressed together, shoulder to shoulder. Behind them were the women, in bright clothes and jealousy, craning their heads to get a glimpse of the princess and see what made her more special than them (Nothing, they would all agree). The men were dressed in their best suits, their hair combed and slicked back, eyes hungry, only seeing her beauty and her wealth and the power that would come with being her groom, and eventually, the king. None of them looked into her eyes. She swept the room with her gaze, taking them all in, black and white, black and white, like rows of chessmen, until -
In the corner of the room, watching her intently, there was a man wearing a brown tweed jacket, with, she noticed, a faded red bowtie. His hair flopped into his face and his stance was awkward, like a fish out of water. She liked that he wasn’t wearing his best suit, like the other men, just to present an image of importance and worthiness. He was dressed only as himself.
“Now my daughter, the princess Clara, will choose who she will dance with first!” Her father cried beside her, and a cheer rose from the crowd. Clara noticed the man in the bowtie was the only one not to join in. Her father nudged her forward, so that she was standing in the middle of the ballroom, the crowd circling around her. Her eyes darted between fox-sharp faces until she alighted on the half-smiling face of the man in the bowtie. She walked towards him, slowly, purposefully, her skirt bobbing around her. All the other faces in the crowd watched her until she was standing in front of him, extending her hand:
“Will you honour me by taking this dance?” She asked, her voice hushed.
“With pleasure,” he replied, grinning, and suddenly he was gripping her hand and whirling her to the middle of the dance floor, both of them spinning wildly, like birds on the first bright spring day. She laughed; she couldn’t help herself.
“So, what’s your name?” She asked, when they had settled into an irregular half-tango, half-waltz.
“You can call me the Doctor,” he said simply.
“Oh, are you a doctor, then?” She asked.
“No,” he answered, grinning, “But that’s what you can call me.”
“You’re a very strange man, aren’t you?” she said, her lips curving helplessly into a smile.
“I’ve been told,” he said, before suddenly dipping her down, so low that the ends of her curls touched the floor.
“What’s that?” She asked when he’d swooped her up again, noticing a silver rod sticking out of his pocket.
“Ah,” he said, “That’s my special wand, for enchanting princesses.”
“Do you do that a lot, then?” She asked, arching an eyebrow.
“No. But it’s always better to be prepared, don’t you think?” Not once had the mischievous, imp-like grin left his face.
“No,” she said, “I prefer surprises.”
Before he could say anything more, the song ended, and the Doctor let go of her. She felt curiously light in the places he had touched her. He began to walk away, but she said:
“Wait.”
He turned around.
“Doctor, will you honour me by taking this dance?” She asked, ignoring the other men crowding around the two of them, trying to catch her eye.
“With pleasure,” he grinned, and took her into his arms again.
Dancing with the Doctor was like dancing in a dream. Everything he did was unexpected. And she loved it.
“Do you know what I think,” she said, during their third dance, and for the first time the Doctor looked at her seriously.
“You think a lot, some would say too much for your own good, but you don’t care about them. Your thoughts are as far-reaching and intricate as stories, which you read often, because your heart’s desire is to escape. That, or to solve a mystery, and you’re always looking for one, curious, but thinking logically, seeking out even the smallest ones, like where you left your hairbrush. Your thoughts are as twisted as paths in the woods, as multiple as stars in the sky, as fantastical as a fairy’s magic, and you think they all belong to you and only you, like a dragon guarding its treasure. They’re your secrets. But you’ve never thought that you just need to find someone who’s willing to look for them.”
She stared at him, unnerved, letting him guide her in the dance. “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right about that,” she admitted, “But I was actually thinking that your special wand for enchanting princesses is really just a twig painted silver.”
The Doctor’s grin returned to his face. “Maybe it is just a twig painted silver, but that doesn’t mean it’s not magical. The most ordinary things are usually the most magical. Remember that.”
By the time her fourth dance with the Doctor had ended, the other men were clawing at her, trying to get her to give them her attention, but the Doctor just swept her away from them.
After her seventh dance with the Doctor, they’d given up trying and were either standing glumly, hands in their trouser pockets, by the drinks table, or dancing with some of the other women in their brightly coloured dresses like tropical birds.
And the Doctor was all hers.
Each time the music stopped she could feel the weight of her father’s glare, but each time it started again she would get lost in it, and lost in the Doctor’s arms and his talk, far away from her father and everyone else around them. She felt it was just her and him, dancing in the stars.
“What do you do, if you’re not a doctor?” She asked him during their eighth dance.
He shrugged, as much as you can while you’re dancing. “This and that.”
“Ah yes,” she nodded, “The fine art of this and that.”
And he grinned even wider and said, “I like you very much, Princess Clara.”
“You don’t have to call me that,” she said uncomfortably, “You can just call me Clara.” The title of ‘princess’ had never suited her. She felt it belonged more to girls with golden hair and sky blue eyes and the singing voices of angels. Not to her, all brown hair and brown eyes and a voice so bad that her music teacher had given up on her.
“Alright,” he said, “Clara.”
On their eleventh dance he said: “That dress doesn’t suit you very well, you know.”
“I know,” she sighed.
“It doesn’t look like you.”
“Exactly what I thought! What would you have me wear?”
The Doctor flushed. “Well, I - I couldn’t really say. I’m not very good with fashion, just psychology.”
“Obviously,” she said, looking pointedly at his bowtie.
“Hey! Bowties are cool.” His hand reached up, almost unconsciously, and fiddled with it. “I thought they were all the rage right now.”
“They are, but that doesn’t make them cool.”
And they spun on.
On their fifteenth dance, as song ran out, slowing, fading, Clara leaned her head against the Doctor’s shoulder, just for that small moment, as time ran out. He didn’t know what to do, and just stood there, stiffly, until the music stopped and she lifted her head and smiled at him. And then he knew what to do. He smiled back.
As they whirled around the twenty-first dance, Clara asked a question.
“You know what I want, Doctor. You picked my thoughts out of my head as easily as an apple from a tree. But what do you want?” She looked up into those unreadable, sparkling eyes, that never-ending smile.
“I don’t know.”
She knew he was lying. Because everyone wants something. And they always know it. But she didn’t say anything.
“Why did you come here tonight?” Was her next question.
“Because I was invited, of course.”
“But you don’t seem like the type of man just waiting to go to a royal ball.” She tilted her head, wanting to figure him out.
“Maybe I wanted to see a princess.”
He let her spin away from him, catching her at the last moment, so they were staring at each other, two arms’ lengths away, like two duellers.
When she wasn’t asking him questions, he told her everything he knew; he’d read many books, and while she liked stories, he preferred factual books. He told her all about the cosmos, and the customs of far-away lands, and how things worked. She learned more from dance to dance than she ever had with any of her tutors.
Clara had lost track of the number of dances when the Doctor said: “Run away with me.”
She looked at him, startled. “Where?”
“Anywhere and everywhere.” He was grinning eagerly. “To the stars, to the center of the Earth.”
“Why?”
He studied her. “Why not?”
She smiled. “Good point.” And for a moment, she could just see it, her and the Doctor, running away from silly responsibilities and fancy dresses and formalities, running to far off snow-capped mountains and hiking through desert plains and holding hands through grass as tall as their heads. They would swim in turquoise seas and get lost in dark woods and run, free, through grassy meadows. But always, behind them, would be what she had left behind. Her father would never forgive her for leaving him. He had already lost her mother; if she ran away the royal guard would be behind them, always. Her father would not settle for her disappearing. He would not let himself suffer another early loss.
“I can’t,” she said, biting her lip. “I just...can’t.”
The Doctor’s face fell slightly. “Okay,” he said with a nonchalance she knew was faked.
“But you could be my prince,” she said hopefully, her stomach twisting, “We could still spend the rest of our lives together.”
“I don’t think I’d be a very good king,” he said, smiling regretfully.
“You won’t know until you try,” she insisted.
“Just trust me - I wouldn’t.”
The night was deepening. Only a few patrons still remained, watching the dancing pair hopefully. They were almost alone now.
Then the clock struck the first chime of midnight, It was a giant clock, created just for the palace by a Belgian clockmaker. At midnight and at noon a fairy marionette came out of the clock face and tapped her wooden wand against the frame of the clock, and sparks would fly around the clock, down to the bottom, where a wolf rested, carved into the wood, and he then would slide away, revealing a handsome prince. No one could figure out how it worked.
The Doctor looked up at the clock just as the fairy emerged from its face.
He didn’t say anything, just ripped his hands out of Clara’s and ran before she even knew what was happening, pushing people aside.
“Wait!” She called, but this time he didn’t stop. So she picked up her skirt in her fists and chased after him, at a disadvantage because of her heeled silver shoes and his head start, but all the more desperate. She pushed the same people out of the way and didn’t even apologize, running until the cool night air touched her cheeks, standing at the stairs of the palace. She couldn’t see the Doctor anywhere. She descended the stairs anyway, a little slower now, and almost slipped on something. She bent down to pick it up.
It was the Doctor’s bowtie.
She stood on the steps, holding her breath. There were only two ways he could have gone: South, into the village, or North, into the woods. She knew which way he had ran.
Clara hiked up her skirts and kicked off her shoes, but still clutched the bowtie in one hand, and ran towards the woods.
Branches caught in her hair and snagged on her dress and scratched her cheeks but she ignored them, because she could see they had already been disturbed by someone else dashing by them. But it was dark, and as the words got thicker and more tangled, it just got darker, until she couldn’t see which way she herself was going, let alone someone before her. She stopped, panting.
He was gone.
A hopelessness descended on her like night on the day. She had lost him. She knew he would never return, because that wasn’t like him. He was too proud. She couldn’t imagine marrying any of the other hungry wolves that had filled the ballroom that night. But she quite liked the idea of being unattached. She would be a powerful, solitary queen. Those were her only options: him, or loneliness.
She trudged back to the palace and she found her father waiting on the steps for her, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
“Clara! Where the hell have you been? And look at you: your dress is all dirty, your hair is undone, and your face is all scratched. You have to be more careful than this. Or people will be calling you The Mad Queen.”
“I don’t care,” she said defiantly.
“Come inside.”
Her father led her into the palace and up to his suite.
“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the red velvet couch. Clara sat. “I’m at least glad the ball was fruitful. I see you’ve found someone you like. Goodness, he was the only one you danced with all evening! Who is he?”
“He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s disappeared.”
Her father sat down heavily on a chair opposite her. “Of course you like the man who vanishes. That’s so like you.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her. “Clara, you are the most contrary, peculiar girl in this kingdom. I gave you jewels; you wanted pebbles. And I remember the year that you refused to wear any colour other than blue. You only wore blue, every day, for a year! You never wanted to learn etiquette or any of the other things that were expected of you. You would rather read, or explore. I’ve never known what to do with you.” He sighed. “Alright. What do you know about this man? What’s his name?”
“He’s called the Doctor.”
“Doctor who?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know. And I’m not even sure he’s a real doctor. All I have of him is this,” she said, holding up the bowtie that she still had balled up in her fist.
“Better than nothing,” her father said, taking it from her. “If you have your heart set on this young man, we shall find him. Tomorrow you can accompany the guard in searching for him. He can’t be far away; our kingdom isn’t very large.”
“Yes father,” Clara said, standing and curtseying. “And thank you,” she added, giving him a small smile.
“You’re my daughter,” was his reply.
~
The next morning Clara and the royal guard in their red uniforms headed out with the sun’s fresh light on their heads, knocking on doors like they were playing a childhood game. But behind none of those doors did they find the Doctor. They visited methodically each house that an invitation for the ball had been sent to, and were turned away with shaking heads and women with stars in their eyes and hands over their mouths to see the princess up close with pretty pink scratches on her cheeks.
Finally, there was only one house left, deep in the forest, and one of the guards said:
“We should give up, your highness. If we haven’t found him yet, we won’t find him now.”
But Clara was stubborn, and still holding her hope close to her heart. “No,” she said, “We won’t stop now.”
The captain of the guard knocked on the door and it was opened by a man in a red cloak. The captain began his speech, many humble “good sirs,” inquiring into his son.
“Yes,” he said, “My son attended the ball. I’ll go get him.”
They waited in the morning sunlight as the man disappeared into the depths of his house. It was a tall house, and a tree with thin branches stretched up to tap on the window of the very tallest tower. As Clara stood looking up at it, a hand reached out of the window and snapped one of the branches off, before withdrawing back into the window. It was strange, Clara thought. And she remembered that had been the very word she’d used to describe the Doctor: strange. And she remembered his wand, a silver-painted thin twig. Her heart beat faster.
But the person the man in the red cloak brought to the door was not the Doctor. He had sandy hair and a twisted smirk on his face. His eyes darted to the bowtie, which Clara had brought, wound around her wrist, a favour.
“Ah!” He said. “I see you have my bowtie. Thank you, Princess.” And he leaned forward and untied it from her wrist. His fingers were cold against her skin. And she could think of nothing to say. She knew this wasn’t the Doctor, so why was he pretending he was? Her mind, raised on fairytales, darted to the improbable idea that he wore a different face in the day than he did in the night, but she dismissed it: this man’s face did not contain the kindness that the Doctor’s did.
“Excuse me,” she said, finally finding her voice, “Are you sure no other man lives in this house?”
The man in the red cloak and his son exchanged a quick glance.
“No other man lives here,” said the man in the red cloak, but as he did so a movement caught the corner of Clara’s eye and she looked up to see the hand reaching out to snap another stick from the tall tree.
“Then who’s that?” She asked, pointing towards the highest window.
The man in the red cloak’s eyebrow twitched. “Just a servant,” he said dismissively. “Trust me, Princess, it’s my son you’re looking for.”
“Can I meet this servant?” She asked, her mind darting for an explanation. “I’d like to meet the man who would let my future husband go to a royal ball dressed in a bowtie.”
She noticed the man in the red cloak waver on the words “future husband.” But he held his ground, “He’s incredibly busy at the moment. No second of his time could possibly be spared.”
Clara looked the man straight in the eyes. “Well, I am his and your future queen, so I demand you let me speak to him.” She took a step forward and the man flinched back.
“Really, my darling,” said the smirking man who pretended to be the Doctor, “There’s no need to be so rash.”
She glared at him. “Obviously, darling, you really don’t know me that well at all,” she said, and pushed past them into the house and up the stairs. She heard the deep voice of the man in the red cloak calling, “Stop!” but she ignored him. She climbed the stairs as they became narrower and steeper until she was standing before a plain wooden door. She knocked three times, sharply, her breath in her throat. The door swung open swiftly, and standing there, frowning, a clockwork gizmo in one hand, stood the Doctor.
“Clara!” He exclaimed when he saw her standing there, his face breaking into a smile that would make the sun jealous, and he let the gizmo fall from his hand and swept her into his arms, twirling her around at the top of the stairs. “You wonderful, wonderful girl! I never thought I’d see you again! But what are you doing here?” He asked, setting her down again.
“I came to find you, of course. I couldn’t let you slip out of my fingers that easily. But who are those men?”
The Doctor scowled. “My proud stepfather and deranged stepbrother. They’d prefer to live a life in which I don’t exist.”
“Oh, Doctor! That’s terrible.” She touched his cheek, feeling his warm skin under hers. “Don’t worry. As my prince you can have them executed, if you wish. You could even order to have their eyes pecked out by pigeons.”
He laughed, but then became serious. “It’s no use being cruel back to cruel people. Then you are just cruel yourself.” He paused. “Clara...I’m not sure that I want to be a prince.”
“Then what do you want?” She said, mirroring their conversation from the previous night, hoping that he would tell her the truth this time.
“I just want you. By my side, always.”
“Sometimes, for the things you truly want, you have to make sacrifices. And being a prince wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” She asked hopefully.
“But you hate being a princess,” he said, again using that uncanny ability to see straight to the truth.
“I wouldn’t, if you were my prince.” And that was the truth.
He studied her face. “Okay,” he said, and took her hand in his, bringing it to his mouth to kiss it gently, tenderly.
The Doctor’s stepfather and stepbrother, followed by the royal guard, reached the top of the staircase as he lowered his hand. His stepfather was red in the face, but his stepbrother still had a small, secret smile on his face, as if he enjoyed the chaos that surrounded him.
“Princess!” The Doctor’s stepfather, his red cloak askew, spluttered, “This cannot possibly be the man you wish to marry! He’s eccentric! He’s ridiculous! He's useless! He has no eyebrows, which surely will not look right in all those royal portraits.”
“Oh, you childish man, don’t you know those portraits are all fake anyway?”
He had nothing to say to that.
“Well, adieu, my fine, fake family, and thank you for all the years of cruelty!” The Doctor said, giving an exaggerated bow, a twist in his voice.
“Oh, dear brother,” said the smirking man softly, “Don’t you know that cruelty is love?” And before anyone could predict what he would do, he had leaned forward and nipped at the Doctor’s ear, and when he drew away, beads of blood dotted the Doctor’s lobe and his stepbrother’s lips.
“Well, I’m certainly glad I didn’t agree to marry you,” Clara said to him as he licked the blood from his lips, still smiling, and she grabbed the Doctor’s hand, and this time it was she who whirled him away.
They ran down the stairs together, their footsteps echoing.
“One more question,” she called, looking back at him as they swept out of the open front door of the house into the sunlight, “Why did you run last night?”
“Because the magic was going to wear off,” he said with a smile.
She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.