The King's Captive

My hand lifts without permission, hovering just short of the canvas. Not touching-God, even I know better-but close enough that it feels like heat radiates from the paint.
"...Antonio?"
Diego's voice is wary.
I don't answer. I can't.
I'm staring at her the way men stare at omens.
"Diego," I whisper, "who is she?"
Diego steps beside me, eyes widening. He whistles low. "She's... wow. She's-"
"I know."
"Antonio," he says, putting a hand on my shoulder, "you look deranged."
"I feel deranged."
He laughs, then cuts himself off when he sees I'm not joking.
My pulse is hammering. I don't even know this girl's name, and yet something in me is clawing forward, hungry, fierce, desperate.
I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in destiny or signs or prophecies or whatever nonsense my tutors preached when I was a boy.

But looking at her-
I almost do.
"She's the Princess of Prussia," Diego finally says, reading the tiny plaque at the bottom. "Victoria."
Victoria.
The name hits like a strike to the chest.