Return to the Nine Kingdoms

(Part II) 18

Princess Eleanor
The First Kingdom had been quiet these some odd decades, but Princess Eleanor's personal life had been anything but. She loathed trying on dresses, having her nails painted and face adorned with cakey makeup, picking out shoes, and going to the weekly ball hosted by her mother, but she was the Princess—attendance was mandatory. And, honestly, had she been a delicate, young flower in search of an eligible bachelor—an eligible Prince—she would have been thrilled each and every time the dressmaker came to knock on her door. But she'd been through all that. She had at least one grandchild with six greats in front of his name, for Kingdom's sake!
Her two-hundredth-and-twentieth birthday had come and gone without much fanfare. They'd had a ball, of course, and in her honor, but the decorations were all the same, the cake still over-rich and coated with heaps of cloying buttercream, the dances mundane, and the company dreadful. Her own mother had even neglected to attend, owing to the fact that her failing health, at long last had claimed most of her strength.
Invited to her birthday ball, however, were a few guests that Eleanor had not expected. The Kingdoms had famously joined together in celebration of one accomplishment or the other only a handful of times and the appearance of the Naked Emperor VII, three of his wives, and his recent favorite expatriate, Otto of Gretel the Great's House and pseudo-King of the Second Kingdom was a variable shock to most of the ball's attendees. Thankfully the Emperor and his wives had been forced, by order of Queen Cinderella herself, to wear appropriate attire—any attire that covered the traditionally private parts of any members of the Emperor's court was specifically required. Otto, looking grandfatherly and old with his grayed hair and tight suit, looked uncomfortable but had been well taken care of in his years of self-imposed exile in the Fifth Kingdom.
"Princess," he'd addressed her, as she sat at the high table next to her mother's empty throne. She had been stuffing her face with the unappetizing but sweet cake, as she'd done near the close of almost every ball.
"Otto," she'd confirmed, avoiding the use of any title for the man. He didn't seem to care either way.
"Would you care to dance, Princess?"
"Now? Me? Here?"
No one ever asked the aging six-times-great grandmother if she'd like to dance—they all assumed that the black dresses she wore, in mourning of her dead lover, precluded any idea of merriment. He'd been dead of natural causes for—no one in court truly remembered or cared—so many years, but Eleanor still held to the idea that her would-have-been husband would have preferred her solitude.
"Yes, of course," Otto had insisted.
Eleanor had stuffed the remains of her cake into her mouth and wiped the icing that had collected at the corners of her lips with the back of her hand. Her bones creaking audibly, she pulled herself out of the chair and waddled from around the table and down the steps to the ballroom floor. Otto had remained in place, waiting for the old woman to move toward him, and offered no help until he could extend his hand as part of the ritual of beginning the dance.
The music had been going on while Eleanor had dined, and a merry waltz had started up just before she joined Otto on the floor. When the orchestra realized that the Princess was preparing to dance, each of the players stopped slowly, the final screech of bow on violin string ringing through the ballroom and bringing the waltz to an awkward and abrupt halt.
"Go on, go on," Eleanor had waved to the quartet.
Obliging, the musicians began again, but decreased to half-time to allow for a slower set of steps for the Princess. The other dancers struggled to adjust to the timing and many could be heard exclaiming as their dance partners either stepped on toes or fully collided with others. But Eleanor hardly noticed, keeping her concentration on her own steps and praying that Otto had enough sense to keep her upright if she fumbled.
"You are looking very well," Otto had offered. There was a lie in his tone, but it was the same lie that everyone used when commenting on the lasting beauty of both Queen Cinderella and her only daughter.
"Thank you, sir," Princess Eleanor had replied kindly.
By the end of the dance, Eleanor was aching all over and she had thwarted no less than five attempts from Otto, who she'd realized was drunk on champagne, to caress the various soft parts of her posterior.
"Thank you, Princess," Otto had said with a wobbling bow.