The Dog Princess: A Tom Holland Fairy Tale

Suspicions Arise and a Big Surprise

"Your Highness..." Jon stood at the edge of Timothée's massive bed, sweeping the the heavy, embroidered canopy out of his way. Behind the draped crimson fabric, the prince was awake, but he wasn't acting like it. He was tangled in his bedding, laying face down in his plush pillows. One foot stuck out of his sheets, catching the eye of his sharp advisor. "Timothée, won't you get up? We're behind schedule."

Nothing but a muddled groan came from the prince. Jon quietly made his way over to the desk, plucking a feathered pen from the fountain ink. Giving it a flick, he made his way over to the exposed foot and tickled him furiously. Timothée moaned again as his foot retreated into the sheets.

"Jon! There is no dignity in your methods." He groaned, his voice like gravel and his words elongated.

"My apologies sire, but your kingdom calls." He said with a smile.

"It is not yet my kingdom! Why don't you call for my father and let him handle things!" He turned over, flinging the sheets about and covering his head.

"Now sire—" Jon yanked the sheets from the bed, resulting in an enraged yelp from the exposed Timothée. He fought back, gripping the sheets and pulling them back over himself. Jon wasn't faint of heart, tugging back on them just as hard. He was fed up with the prince's stubbornness. "Come now! We have duties to attend to! Your father won't be pleased—"

"What does he care! He's not here, is he?"

"Don't start with that!" Jon scolded him. "If your father wasn't out on crusade, well, where would we be? In the meantime, I am his regent and you will do as I say! Am I clear?"

"Crystalline." Timothée gave up and dramatically tossed his duvet over with a yawn. He moved rather slowly and his face was dead.

"Do perk up, my Lord. You look sickly, and a monarch must never look sickly." Jon said, scanning the prince from top to bottom with a displeased expression.

Timothée made his way to his vanity. He stared at himself in the mirror, searching for what was missing. He was defeated, his formally sharp features were sullen and droopy. "This is humiliating. How am I to show my face after yesterday? She ran from me!"

"Should I eliminate her from the contest—"

"That's just it, Jon. I want her." The two were silent, as Jon was struck with disbelief. He blinked in amazement, while Timothée just blankly stared at him through the mirror.

"You—you mean to tell me you've—you've made a choice! Your Grace!" Jon began to jump for joy, which he never did, but Timothée quickly turned around in his chair with a sour pout. Realizing, Jon ceased his celebration. "Oh...oh dear."

"So you see my dilemma." Timothée smiled wryly.

"Perhaps she can be persuaded! After all she wouldn't be here if—"

"Ah! Of course, that's what I thought too—only when we were on our stroll through the orchard she emphasized how she had no choice in the matter."

Jon processed for a moment. "Is that not a guarantee, sire?"

"I thought her winning the race was a guarantee. How can I be sure she won't run next time?" He said, pensively rubbing his chin.

Jon, seizing the moment, firmly placed his hands Timothée's shoulders, lifting him out of his slouch. He looked proudly at him in the mirror. "The harder to get, the better to have, my Lord. You've the rest of the social season to win her over. Don't rely on your wealth and title, but woo her by being the man you are."

Timothée mulled over Jon's words as he made himself presentable and made his way over to the Lover's Corridor. He knew the man he was wasn't good enough. He never needed to be anything other than a name and face before. He thought deeply about what he needed to become in order to win Rosemary's heart: Gentle and kind, compassionate, joyful, selfless—