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It’d been a late night the last couple nights in a row. As Rishe struggled into a gown it was looking like tonight would be yet another late night. Between the training program for the new maids, tending her garden and drying the medicinal harvests, attending knight training, reading up on Galkhein history and policies in the library, planning the launch of her new nail polish product line in the Aria Trading Company, making fireworks from scratch, passing encrypted information between herself and Prince Theodore, and generally exploring every avenue to understand and thwart her fiancée’s future plans…
This loop had only started a short while ago. She didn’t have 5 years worth of conditioning, and as her face finally emerged from the multitudes of midnight blue silk, her exhaustion stared back at herself in the mirror. There was a hollowness starting to show in her cheeks and under her eyes. Even in my other lives, I usually worked on one, maybe two projects at once. Juggling this many is pushing my limits. But it will all be worth it, to live past 20, so I can spend the rest of my life lazing about the castle and enjoying my life. It will take nothing less than this to overcome Prince Arnold’s plans.
“My lady, this arrived earlier for you. It’s a face powder, very popular among the court ladies. Would you be interested in wearing some tonight?” Elsie stood beside her, brandishing a small gilded container in her hand.
Rishe looked from her reflection to the container. She wasn’t normally one for makeup – she had little need for it in her previous loops – but given the importance of the party tonight, she could use the extra addition to her armaments; in the social warfare of the royal court, adornments such as this were the armor and weapons of choice. “Yes, I think I would like some.”
Elsie glowed with another opportunity to dress up the engaged crown princess. She popped the lid and dabbed the powder on her face – then followed up with some lip stain, then paraded a litany of necklaces, bracelets, earrings, hair ornaments, any adornment she might be able to cajole her model to wear. Exhausted from the selection process, Rishe was relieved to finally finish the ordeal of dressing and leave for the main palace.
Prince Arnold was waiting in a private room reserved for the royal family, just outside of the ballroom. His cold gaze leveled with Rishe as she swept into the room flanked by her two guards, who he dismissed to join the other party security with a nonverbal wave of his hand. He didn’t comment on the ensemble, but Rishe was silently pleased at the slight upward tilt of his lips. The gown’s primary color was a midnight blue – almost black – with the silk gilded with silver thread and ribbon embellishments ruffling the fabric. Instead of gloves, she’d opted to show off her new product line with petal blue nail polish from butterfly pea flower. She’d picked the outfit to complement the ring Prince Arnold had gifted her.
The crown prince offered his gloved hand in invitation, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rishe accepted it. They both knew it pushed the boundary of not being touched, but it was necessary for the engaged couple in the face of the party. Arnold raised her hand in his and kissed the ring, never actually touching her skin. A blush raced up her neck and splashed across her cheeks as she mentally sputtered at the indulgent action (Enough of that! She scolded herself.) while the prince tucked her hand to into his elbow and tugged her towards the door.
Though they entered into the party with no fanfare, Rishe and Arnold were set upon as soon as they crossed into the ballroom. A waiter swept by with wine glasses on a platter. Noble families stepped forward to introduce themselves and shmooze the royal pair. As the night dragged on, little irritations began to weigh on Rishe: her feet throbbed in her heels, her exhausted lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen with dainty little breaths, her head pounded…
The eldest son of a Garlkhein duchy bowed low to the two of them. “You’re lucky, Lady Rishe. That the daughter of a duke in a minor nation has caught the eye of our own prince is an incredible feat. Why, I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t able to meet you myself. It’s an honor.” Arnold’s already cold gaze grew downright frigid at the implied slight. Rishe squeezed his arm in nonverbal reprimand. The two exchanged a look, one where Rishe’s challenging gaze seemed to chide “Your temperament is showing again” and his arched brow seemed to respond “So? Let it.” Her admonishment appeared more amusing to him than actual challenge.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” Rishe responded out loud with a cordial grin. “Your sister was kind enough to welcome me when his Highness first introduced me as his fiancée. I look forward to your hospitable welcome to this country as well.” A half truth; his sister had been in on the prank to spice her wine that first event. He was clearly aware, by the way his smile grew more strained at her verbal parry and counter attack. “Tell me, how is the trade coming along between you and House Toona?”
And so the night went on. After subtly squeezing the imprudent noble for information on her future mark, Rishe went separate ways from the prince to congregate with the other noble ladies in attendance. Though veiled jealousness passed between the endemic nobility and the hostage princess, Rishe was pleased at the tittering praises as they cooed over her polished nails and her ring. Even if her purpose had been to advertise the new nail fashion to cultivate clientele in other Galkheim provinces, she could admit in the confidence of her own mind that the Prince Arnold’s gift solidified her position in this war of social status. Perhaps it would deter more uncreative pranks and verbal challenges (and perhaps indulged in a little vanity, though she’d never admit it).
When she turned to the next tittering lady, the room began to spin. Rishe paused, self assessing. What’s going on? Some unacknowledged part of her wished the prince was still next to her, if only so she could lean her weight on him while the world settled back into place. Stubborn resolution held her on her feet while the future crowned princess politely excused herself from the gaggle and moved to the balcony for fresh air.
Removed briefly from the noise of the party, her growing headache lessened fractionally. Sitting on a bench overlooking the ornamental palace gardens, Rishe mentally tallied her symptoms. Headache, breathing difficulties, blurred vision, am I just tired or…? She swirled the wine glass in front of her nose. She’d checked before for no strange aromatic notes, and her second assessment confirmed that. Not poison then. And she wasn’t drunk, she’d proven she could more than hold her liquor. She blinked, exhaustion slowing the movement, and her eyes strung. What…?
“Princess Riche!” Even tired, she could more than sense her guard running across the balcony at her.
“What is it Kamil?”
“Something’s wrong with Elsie. We’re not sure what it is. Her hands broke out in this rash, and it’s getting worse by the minute! We thought, since you knew the antidote on our trip in, you might be able to help?”
The makeup! Rishe stood up with a start, then the world spun violently and she promptly sat back down again. The guard looked at her with growing concern.
“My lady?”
“The makeup. Something’s wrong with the makeup we used today. It got on Elsie’s hands. I need to grab-” a list of herbs were cut off by ragged cough. Oh no.
“I’ll notify the prince at once,” Kamil began.
Riche swallowed thickly, her voice a tad rough but determined. “No, no time. Lead me back to my wing of the palace. I have the ingredients we need in the kitchen.” She reached up and grabbed the knight’s arm, using him to help her rise on growingly shaky feet. Propriety be damned. This moment of weakness wasn’t something she particularly wanted Arnold to know about, the cunning prince didn’t need more ammunition to hold over her. Anyway, only she knew the solution, and time was of the essence.
Grudgingly, the guard tugged her forward, across the balcony, into a corridor, and down a flight of stairs. Rishe’s attempts to mentally map this section of the palace failed as she narrowed her focus from tracking their navigations to keeping upright, conscious, and moving. Her vision was blurring, and she coughed again. But in an indeterminate amount of time, they entered the familiar kitchens.
Rishe released her guard escort in favor of leaning her weight on the counters and tables as she snatched jars of dried herbs from the cabinets. She weakly grasped at the mortar and pestle, swaying on her feet as she painstakingly measured out the herbs that would counteract the poisoned makeup. Her fingers were starting to go numb, her movements uncoordinated. A slew of curses unfit for a noble lady but perfectly acceptable in her 5th loop came to mind. She squinted upward, searching her hazy vision for an herb she’d hung to dry just a few days ago, then stretched unsteadily upward. She swayed on her tip toes, the her vision swam, and the floor rushed up at her-
Her world filled with blue as firm hands gripped her. Arnold’s eyes. She tried not to feel relieved as the man who’d killed her in so many previous loops guided her to sit at the table. His voice rang clear in her ears. “What do you need?”
“Second row on the left. The root.” She rasped. Prince Arnold disappeared briefly as he retrieved dried root. “Mash it with the rest. Add a carrier oil,” she instructed. The sound of a clay oil jar on the counter reached her ears, then the rhythmic tapping grinding sound of the mortar and pestle at work. Meanwhile, Rishe sat in her slowly narrowing world in shocked amazement. Crown Prince Arnold – the invader, the warmongering emperor, the merciless murderer – was listening to her instruction without complaint. The action testified to an unquestionable faith in her knowledge and skills. Or perhaps, he simply understood that there wasn’t time to argue.
When the texture of the sound changed from something chunky to liquidly, Rishe spoke up again. “Take half and give it to Kamil for Elsie, my maid. She needs to wash her hands thoroughly, then apply this. Don’t wash it off until rash recedes.” Despite her best efforts, her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. Still, she listened as Arnold did as requested. Maybe she imagined it, but a touch of frustration made the movements sound stiff and quick. She heard him deliver her instructions, then the sound of the door closing.
“Wash cloth. Need to get this… off… me.” Rishe coughed again, squeezing her eyes shut against the mounting burning sensation. A few seconds ticked by, then cool wet fabric glided across her face. She squeaked at the startling but not unexpected sensation, willing herself still to her fiancée’s duressed ministrations. The relief was temporary, she suspected she was starting to get feverish. Arnold’s sharp inhale of breath brought reality into just enough focus that she dared squint up at him. The crown prince loomed over where she sat on the kitchen table bench. His gaze flitted around her complexion – hollow cheeks, dark circles under her eyes – and grew flinty. She blinked them shut again as nausea buffeted her.
“… strain, drink,” the hostage princess gestured weakly at a kitchen corner where she knew the cheesecloths were kept. The poison had well and truly entered her system, she’d need to ingest the antidote to work internally, not topically like Elsie. Wood smacked against wood as a cabinet was thrown open. More clattering sounds as Prince Arnold heeded her instructions. A glass was held to her lips, but Rishe sputtered as another cough racked through her. A frustrated growl. Silence. Then-
Cool fingers gripped her chin and tilted her face upward. Firm lips slanted against her. Rishe froze as a tongue parted her lips and bitter oils passed into her mouth. A second hand gripped her neck and pressed gentle motions into her throat, encouraging her to instinctually swallow. Her body complied, and the lips retreated as she sputtered against the repugnant flavor, but the antidote had already passed into her stomach.
Rishe sagged forward in relief. Warm arms encircled her as she leaned into the sound of a heart beat. The herbs would take a few minutes to really kick in, longer to completely counteract the poison that had sunk into her skin. Gravity shifted as those arms picked her up, and she passed in and out of consciousness.
The next thing she knew, Rishe felt soft fabric under her fingers. Coming back into wakefulness, she began to slowly assess herself and her surroundings. She could breathe in full breaths now, so the antidote had started to kick in. Her corset and stays had been removed too, much easier to breathe in a modest slip than a gown. Her skin felt flushed, but no longer feverish. The nausea had subsided. Also… she wasn’t alone.
In a smooth motion, she grasped the knife hidden under her pillow and surged upward, brandishing it on her would-be assassin. A firm hand caught her wrist and squeezed painfully, forcing the weapon out of her grip. Rishe blinked past a curtain of her coral hair to see Prince Arnold perched above her with an amused smile on his lips.
“You seem to be feeling better.”
She pouted. Still not fast enough to best him. Then her memories of earlier that night caught up with her – the poisoned makeup, his lips coaxing her antidote down her throat – and Rishe barely managed to squash an inelegant squawk.
The amusement faded to something more ominous as Arnold kept her wrist captive. “Why didn’t you alert me as soon as you weren’t feeling well?”
The hostage princess met the one-day-conquer’s steely gaze with her own steel. “There wasn’t time. I knew the antidote recipe, and I knew there was little time to assemble it.”
“If you’d communicated it, we could have someone make it for you. You didn’t have to push yourself.”
I didn’t trust anyone to follow my instructions in the hasty circumstances. But he had. He’d listened to her flawlessly. She gritted her teeth. “It was quicker if I made it myself.”
The prince tilted his head in a slight shake. No. It may have been quicker in theory, but it wasn’t quick enough for her to finish without help regardless. They both knew she had an independent streak. As much as he respected her skills and supported her independence, her determination to make the antidote herself instead of relying on him would have led to the antidote remaining unfinished, if he hadn’t come in time to finish it for her.
“Where did you get the poisoned makeup?” he started a different line of questioning.
Rishe frowned, thinking back. “Elsie said it arrived earlier for me. Maybe a gift?”
He nodded, and they both knew he’d have Oliver look into it immediately. An innocuous gift would be an easy way for a competing noble family to dispose of the future crown princess.
“Rishe.” His firm tenor and a slight tug on her captured wrist called her attention back to him. The eyes looking back at her were that of the killer. Resolute. She did not flinch. “You will not take risks to your health anymore. On this, I will not compromise. Do you understand?”
She did not respond for a moment, unwilling to concede to any overbearing directive, not when she knew the extremes she might have to explore to secure her future. Danger in the royal company was inevitable, and she’d do anything to make sure this current loop lasted longer than 5 years. She was determined that this life, married to Arnold, would last. Finally she chose words that weren’t conceding, but still reassuring and truthful. “I’m not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me that easily, your Highness.”
He tugged her forward by her wrist and captured her lips for the second time that night in a bruising kiss. This kiss wasn’t like the others, this was a contest as much as their dance and their duel had been. She lost ground to him initially by freezing in surprise, but began to kiss him back in earnest to wrestle for the upper hand. Prince Arnold gave her no quarter. His tongue pressed along hers. His free hand fisted in her hair and tugged her into an angle of his choosing. He dragged his teeth along her lips, then pressed a line of kisses along the column of her throat in an action all to reminiscent of motions earlier.
Somewhere in her mind, Rishe understood this was a different kind of contest between the two of them, and that she was losing. Unprepared and inexperienced against the onslaught that was Arnold Hein, a conciliatory moan crept out from the hostage princess. Embarrassment flushed from the tips of her ears and slashed down her chest. Heat entirely unrelated to her poisoning rushed through her blood and pooled low in her hips.
He lavished her pulse point between her neck and shoulder with tongue and teeth, as if tasting her heart beat to prove to himself that she was still alive. She finally surrendered defeat to the sensation, growing pliant instead of resisting the tension bending her head back. Rishe panted and fisted her free hand in his lapels to ground herself in everything that was her fiancée, equal parts ruthless, merciful, efficient, and cunning. Her slip was indecently hanging off her shoulder, and Arnold exploited the weakness by peppering the exposed skin with more kisses, building an unfamiliar pressure between her legs. With his hand staked in the hair at the base of her skull, he guided her head as her traversed her collarbones, her neck, her throat, her chin, and finally back to her lips.
She whimpered as he once again conquered her mouth, then gentled to a sweet, indulgent pace. Everything slowed, like the chiming clock at the end of a loop, as he withdrew. Her skin and lips buzzed in the aftermath of him. Rishe cast a glazed look up at him and struggled to decipher the complicated expression Arnold wore. Heated desire, alien to her but blatantly recognizable in this context, sure. But there was more. Amusement, in her determination to meet his challenge head on. Pride, that he’d earned her heartfelt surrender in this battle. Desperation, like he was trying to make a point and so desperately hoped she proved smart enough yet again to catch on.
Rishe searched mentally for what her cryptic prince might be trying to communicate here. He has faith in my abilities, elsewise he’d never have listened to my instructions on how to make the antidote. He would have just fetched a royal physician. And he supports all my endeavors, even if they’d be seen as ridiculous for most noble women to pursue. But… he wants to protect me. Not to limit me. He wants me to trust and rely on him when I need help, instead of pushing myself too far and getting hurt in the process. He’s proving himself, in his own way.
“I-” her words died in her throat, but she bobbed her head just a little in understanding.
Arnold issued a half breath, half laugh as he stood from her bedside and finally released her captive wrist. “Heh. Rest up tomorrow, Rishe. And think of something else you might want. The kitchens don’t count, your life was at stake. But I crossed your word here. Let me know what you’d like in compensation.”
“O-ok, your Highness,” she managed to stutter out. They were well past the propriety required of their stations and upbringings in this moment, but the promise of a repeat performance had her second guessing her request not to be touched. A bit of disgrace might be worth it.
Something hot and ruthless gleamed in those ice-cut eyes, as if reading her mind. “Good girl.” And then Arnold Hein closed the door behind him.
Leaving her alone in her room again, hot and flushed and internally screaming.