The Streets are not Friendly #Wattys2016

Chapter 3

    Diana wanted to hug Gwyn, to comfort him, but to her way of thinking, a) he was probably more than twice her age, b) she was some male little street rat to him c) Her head was still spinning.

    She left that to who she thought (and slightly hoped) was Gwyns Fiancé, who was carefully dabbing at her eyes with a lacy silk handkerchief.

    Diana had to leave. She was on a mission. She had no money, no way to repay the king and his mistress, so no reason to continue to loiter. How long could she really keep up this 'boy' charade in front of the king? She made her way to the door and stared at the veritable maze of halls, corridors, and passageways before her, flipping and spinning.

"Vait! Urchin, come back!" Melody  called. "Ve vere not done viz you!"

    Diana stumbled back into the room, head now pounding. "Stop shouting," she mumbled. Her head still hurt. She felt another cold coming on.

    Melody frowned. "Come, dear. We were going to visit poor Gwyn's grandmama in ze 'ospital later today. Ve vill see how vorthy you are of...us. Of King Gwyndolyn of Sage and Princess Melody of Tenace." Melody's eyes twinkled. "I vill show you to your room as soon as zis baby is done crying." She jerked her head at Gwyn.

    Diana was astonished. Sure, she could not care about the Duke's son, but it was impolite to be so callous, and if this was Princess Melody, who was Koda? Royals almost never chose to have surnames. She shook herself and sat on the floor, her throb shifting to a consistant ache. When she spoke, it was in the rough half-whisper of a boy. "Yes, ma'am."

She spotted her cap just underneath the ottoman and pushed it firmly over her head, fiddling with the adjustments.

Melody kept twinkling.

    Gwyn recovered in a single half hour. Diana admired the golden decor, only to be broken away by Melody's thick accent. "But Gwyn, ze boy is filthy," protested Melody. "'E simply cannot go outside vis moi." She pursed her lips, scanning Diana's dirty clothes. Diana glanced down at the thin jacket that was far too small, out of which her skinny wrists jutted. Her threadbare gloves were always wet, and the fingers had worn off. Her loose shirt served well to cover her just-developing breasts, but she knew it looked odd, hanging loose and too big on her wiry body, especially because everything else was so small and tight. Her pants were too short: she was showing four inches of ankle above huge clunky boots with newspaper shoved into the toes.

    She hadn't bathed in four months, and she couldn't, unless no one was around who would barge in on her. If her femininity was revealed, she would be sent to an all girls' academy or, worse, much much worse, finishing school. She knew she couldn't keep up the masquerade much longer--her feminine face and rapidly growing body would betray her--but for now, at least, she was fine.

"Ze maids vill scrub him down," Melody was saying. "Zey know 'ow to do zeir jobs. Zey'll clean you right up."

    "No!" Diana cried. "I'm...I have... I'm terribly disfigured," she said. "And, uh, I'd rather wash myself." She was proud of herself for thinking so quickly. She was even conjuring up a mental picture so she could describe it if asked.

Melody's eyes narrowed, but she waved her hand in the air. "Ze maids vill not care, leetle boy. Besides, 'ow bad could it be?" She smirked. She obviously smelled a rat.

   Diana ducked her head. Melody called for the maids, who immediately came and took Diana. She walked down a long hall, the maids flanking her. After many twists and turns, they arrived at a bathroom with a huge soaker sunken into the stone floor. One maid began removing her coat.