The Dog Princess — Chapter IV
In which Hartwell and Philomena meet after a long time
Hartwell was pleased with himself. Two days on the road and he had only fallen off his horse twice, one of which when he missed the stirrup and fell over backwards, and the other when he fell asleep during a particularly long stretch of road. As a result, he had a large bruise on his lower back and one on his left shoulder.
He had eaten and slept reasonably well at both inns and felt as rested as a man who had repeatedly fallen off his horse could possibly feel. He was also as ready to meet his intended as he would ever be, that is to say not much at all.
He remembered Philomena, of course — everyone remembered her, after seeing her once. She stood out in all the wrong ways, the one ugly girl dressed in dark blue in a sea of pretty damsels in frilly pink and lavender frocks. He remembered making fun of her, something about which he felt bad, in retrospect; he remembered the look on her face — hopeful, then hurt — when he went over to her, held out his hand as if asking her to the quadrille, and when she hesitated he said “What are you waiting for? I don’t have any treats for you.”
And then he woofed.
Not loudly, softly.
But woof he did.
And now, five years later, he was sorry. And he wasn’t stupid enough to think that would change anything.
She was waiting with her mother and father in the Throne Room, which didn’t bode well for the general tone of the encounter.
His first thought upon seeing him was brief, fleeting and surprising:
She’s not that ugly.
Of course she was, when you broke her down to the smaller components of her appearance. Her hair looked unbrushed and unwashed, held back by two braids that she appeared to have slept in. A light fuzz covered the sides of her scowling face, and her eyes looked small, beady.
Her dress was unbecoming, too: why did she always wear dark blue? And why did her neckline come up to her literal neck? Most of all: why was she scowling?
“Prince Hartwell” said the queen, solemnly. “It is an honour to have you here today. I trust you have had a safe and pleasant journey.”
Hartwell bowed. “The honour is mine, your grace. Yes, I did travel well.”
“Very well. I don’t believe you’ve had a chance to meet my daughter, Princess Philomena.”
Hartwell bowed again and addressed Philomena. “Word of your accomplishments has spread to the far corners of the land, my lady.”
“As has word of your prowess” replied Philomena, curtly.
“My lady honours me. I’m sure my fame is nothing compared to yours.”
“Maybe you two would like to speak in private?” Said the queen. “Lady Paris will escort you to my sitting room.”
Philomena let herself fall on an exquisitely embroidered ottoman, and sighed. “It’s good to see you’re as much of a dick as I remembered” she said.
Hartwell, who was looking at the portraits on the wall, turned in shock. “What?”
“Oh, stop it. We’re alone now. I remember, and I know you know I remember.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about” was his weak retort.
“Yes you do.” She removed her shoes and put her feet up on the seat. “I can see it in your eyes. You would be the worst card player in the world, you know, Hartwell?”
Hartwell was shaking with fury. “You cannot talk to me like that. I… I’ll have your head off!”
To his surprise, Philomena laughed. She had a deep belly laugh and a low, almost soothing voice. “You’re in my house, in my kingdom. If there’s a head that’s at risk it’s not mine, it’s yours.”
She waited a beat, taking in his anger. “Please sit down. I’m afraid this is only the first of many conversations we’ll have to have in the coming years.”
“So you want to go ahead with the wedding?” He asked, his last hope dying in his words as he spoke.
“Want, no. Must, yes. For much the same reasons as you do. We’ve been matched, Hartwell, and we need to soldier on. Mind you, soldier is probably not the word I’d use in your case.” She chuckled. “Why are you still standing? I asked you to sit down.”
Hartwell eyed the armchairs in the room, chose what looked like the softest one, and lowered himself in it gingerly.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I fell during fencing practice.”
“Oh. Did you hurt your pretty little bottom?”
He did not reply. He felt himself flush, and he knew she could see it, and she was revelling in his humiliation.
A new emotion, one he had never experienced before, crept up in his chest.
Despair.
If you like what you’ve read, be sure to hit recommend below, to pass this story along to your followers! As always, consider following Panel & Frame for more emerging voices in Comics, Literature, Film, and Art!
