Let The Games Begin

Chapter 5: Part 1

"Let the games begin!" my mother announced in her usual flourish, flute of champagne raised high to the clear blue sky.

Standing under a parasol with the other older aristocratic women who had no business dressing to the nines just to watch the younger aristocrats hop onto horses and make them do tricks.

I loved horses just as much as the next girl, but being around them so much only reminded me painfully of Alistair. Today, much like most days, I'd gotten up early just to catch a glimpse of him out in the fields with an aggressive horse. Alistair was never abusive towards the animals, even in the face of danger. He was patient and sweet and kind. He would make a good father one day.

This brought a painful ache in my chest.

"How much do you think all this costs?" said Bernie Lexington from the sidelines, as we watched a redheaded woman whose name I didn't know leap with her horse over the turnstiles.

Bernie, who had been born Bernice and understandably went by Bernie, was due to be wed to a man whose ancient bloodline spanned centuries. Blonde and curvy, her favourite past-times consisted of shopping and gossiping. I couldn't stand her.

"I wouldn't know," I told her, wondering how I'd found myself saddled with her for company. "My mother organised this. She always does."

"Where are you getting the money from? We heard you were broke."

"Isn't everyone?" I countered, walking away from her and towards the belle of this open-air ball. She eyed me quizzically as I neared her. "Was all this really necessary?"

"All this?" she asked, arching a perfectly threaded brow.

"The food, the drinks, the live music that no one's really listening to?"

"If you must know, Helena," she scoffed, "the proceeds of this tournament go to the poor unfortunate souls who can't afford to be here."

"Mother," I began, "we can't afford to be here."

"Walk away, Helena," she hissed at me, glancing around to make sure that no one was overhearing us. "The King looks lonely. Why don't you go and keep him company?"

"You're impossible," I muttered, but I did walk away, and I did make my way to Simon.

He was boxed off from the other guests, a makeshift VIP box at ground level. Looking dapper in a dark suit and tie with his hair neatly styled despite the wind, Simon was lightyears away from the other men around him who looked like they were playing dress-up with their parents' clothing.

"Helena!" he greeted me, like he was genuinely excited to see me. And perhaps he was.

Simon and I had, after all, forged an unusual friendship.

"Your Majesty," I said, with a faux curtsey. In my riding clothes with a crop in hand, I knew I probably looked ridiculous.

Simon smiled. "When are you riding?"

"Believe it or not, this"−I gestured at myself, from the dark coat to the tan breeches and long riding boots−"is just for show," I admitted. "My mother doesn't want me to risk a head or spine injury. I'm too precious, remember?"

Simon's eyes wandered in my mother's direction. "She's quite the character, isn't she?"

"And you're too politically correct."

"It comes with the territory."

A strange moment passed between us, and movement only a stone's throw away from us caught my eye. Alistair, looking dirty and dishevelled from when he must have been mucking out the stables, was walking past, and our eyes locked.