Astrid

One evening, we step foot in a magical land Kieran calls London. Of course, I have been to London just several days ago, but today we are in a different period of time. We set to work in a club, which is a place for dancing and lively music.

I sit alone by a table and gawk at the setting. There are so many people in this relatively small space, but somehow, they are still able to find room to jive. The dances back home are much more docile than this, the music milder. But I like this beat better. The dim lighting in the room set by yellow lamps that run on electricity – one of the greater marvels of innovation – makes the space feel rather cozy.

My thumb and forefinger absently run up and down the stem of my funnily-shaped glass of wine. To the side by the bar, Kieran leans casually against it with one arm. He is generous with his smiles while he chats up a young lady.

She seems to fancy him. I know it by the way her eyes keep flicking to his lips. And why not? Those rolled sleeves revealing his forearms and the striped vest over his white shirt are enough to do the trick.

Not that I’ve noticed the arms that much.

The lady leans in to say something.

His smiles comes more slowly now as he bites his lip. I watch as he drops his head, looks up at her, and then says something with an apologetic expression.

She nods. They chat for a while more, but then she stands and leaves.

I sigh into my palm, rubbing my fingertips over my left eyebrow.

He comes to join me at the table. Slumping against the chair, he downs the remainder of his drink. Twenty-seven minutes, the little timer on my wrist indicates. We only have thirty-three minutes left.

“What, did you tell her about the way you burped at dinner last night?” I sip on my drink.

His eyes narrow to stare daggers at me. “She asked me to dance.”

“And?”

“And I can’t dance,” he huffs grumpily. “Not well, anyway.”

I start laughing. He glares. Then I realize he really is serious.

“But...but you were a prince,” I say incredulously.

“So I’m supposed to be a real pro at dancing?”

Ignoring the dry sarcasm, I muse thoughtfully: “Might I just comment...and do not take offense; I say this with complete sensitivity -”

“Of course you do.”

“- that you seem to be excellent at charming women at first glance, but for some reason you are incapable of making them stay permanently.”

Those squinted eyes and deep scowl assure me that he has, in fact, taken injury from my words. Yet I was only making an objective observation, so I give him my most innocuous look.

“I’d like to see you try,” he murmurs bitterly. But then he gives me a proper response: “It is hard, my lady, to convince a woman to come away with you to live in a place she has never heard of when you only have an hour each day to do so, is it not?”

It is a plausible explanation. The shrouded subtext beneath his words – an indication of a possibly certain failure – makes me swallow.

But the piano and stringed instruments play a jolly tune, so I keep my tone light. “And yet here I am, willing to bet five silvers that you would hardly be able to woo even me, though we spend most of our time together.”

Kieran’s eyebrow curves, but so does one corner of his lips. He concedes and leans forward, rubbing his hands together at the challenge. He stares down at the table for a quick second before directing his entire focus on my face.

The broad smile he wears takes me aback. “You know, it astounds me that you’ve been sitting alone here all this while when you’re wearing that dress. Then again, I can’t complain because I must have hit the jackpot.”

“Hmm,” I wrinkle my nose. “Typical. Not the way I personally would have gone about it. Frankly, it’s a little clumsy.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Ouch. And how would you have done it, might I ask?”

I shrug. “I usually only need to smile.”

“Very modest of you. But I suppose you’re right – with a smile like that, you could get anything you wanted.”

One corner of his lips pulls upwards. For a split second my attention is locked on his face and the way a soft lock of hair falls over his forehead, unable to decipher if he is being honest.

I shake my head. “That’s slightly better, actually.”

“Really? Thanks. I genuinely put in some effort for you there.”

“You are so odd, Kieran, you know that?” I smirk. “And not just because of the enchantment.”

“I’m sure I’m not that strange. Just like any other man in here, I think you’re easily the most stunning person in the room.”

“Stop it!” I slap his arm. His triumphant grin stretches wider, and my lips cannot help but mirror his. Even with less than thirty minutes left, he looks completely at ease.

A man in a deep gray suit approaches the table. At first I assume he is going to speak to Kieran, but then he clears his throat and smiles nervously at me.

“Excuse me, miss, but I can’t help but notice that you’ve been sitting docile while the songs have been playing and nobody has asked you to cut a rug.” His accent has a certain musical lilt to it. “Care to stretch your legs for a bit?”

I glance over my shoulder at Kieran, who does not seem the least bit bothered. He mouths, “Smile,” to me, and I giggle. The man takes my reaction as an invitation to extend a hand.

I take it. The warmth of another man’s hand sends a thrill up my nerves.

He places his other hand on my waist, and I copy the other dancing women and touch his upper arm.

I lean in to make myself heard: “I must confess, I do not know this dance very well.”

“No worries, love,” his breath tickles my ear. “I’ll walk you through it.”

He does not ‘walk’ me through anything, but to his credit, he starts off slowly. My body sways the way his does, and when the beat picks up, so do the movements of my feet.

Soon I am twirling and twisting and feeling my curls whip against my cheeks. The man dances with me through the next song, and then the next. I could definitely go on forever.

But then the musicians take a break. Most of them do, anyway. The only people left under the spotlight are a pretty, auburn-haired woman and the pianist.

She is breathing hard from the last song she’s had to sing, but her grin stretches from ear to ear. We all stand back and applaud them.

“Is everybody having a jolly good time tonight?” she speaks into what is called a microphone.

Several people raise their glasses and cheer. Some whistle.

“Fantastic!” she says brightly. “For the next song, we’d like to take it slow for a bit.”

The pianist hits the first key. It cascades into a flow of melody. I watch in rapt attention as he closes his eyes, takes a breath, and then starts to play with both hands.

She sings like a seasoned songbird. Her strong voice is a caress against the pianists’ song; the sway of her hands is a natural reaction to the undulating music. All around me, people sway together, their bodies closer than anybody in Ainsfrel would have dared to permit during a dance. I completely forget to dance myself and simply watch, frozen.

Halfway through the song, her voice mellows down.

At first, I assume the lullaby has ended. But then another soft, tentative voice pushes out the first few notes like a breath.

The pianist sings.

He sings like his voice holds something precious and fragile, like he does not want the singer to break. His eyes flicker open against the light from above, but he does not seek out the crowd’s reaction, nor does he smile at any of us the way the singer does.

Instead, he directs his attention to her.

I watch him watch her. Watch the melancholy in his eyes. Watch the emotion strengthen in his song, though she pays no notice to the longing manner in which he gazes at her.

Their voices join in a crescendo. My heart plunges into the depths of my stomach and rises to the surface again.

She ends on a high lilt. I inhale sharply. Tears sting my eyes.

The whole place is silent for one heartbeat. Two. Three.

And then the crowd erupts into thunderous applause.

The singer’s painted lips spread into a broad smile. She places a hand over her chest and curtsies and waves. But the pianist simply sits back and watches her with a small, sad smile.

All this magic. This adventure. All the things I’ve seen in the past few days, all the privileges these people can have, the freedom.

What my father wouldn’t give to see this.

I thank my partner for the dance – though I did not indulge him for this song – and flee to where Kieran sits applauding. His grin wavers when he catches the expression on my face.

“Can we go back?” I say.

He rises to his feet. Nods mutely. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

When he walks ahead of me to lead the way, I swipe at the tear that has streaked down my cheek.

Imogen enters my room that night. My hair is still drying from the late bath I took, so I towel it while I sit in front of the dressing mirror and mull over the pianist’s expression earlier.

“We missed you during dinnertime,” she says. “Are you sure you do not want something to eat?”

“No, Imogen, thank you.”

She lingers for a while. Then, she sits by the foot of the bed and sighs.

“Something troubles you, dear,” her tone has turned into warm honey. “Did something happen with the Master?”

“No. All was fine. I danced today, you know.” I smile at the memory, but it does not last. The beautiful girl in the mirror before me suddenly serves no purpose; she is stuck here with her own lofty opinions and complacency.

How could I have seen the wide roads in my hometown as constricting? How could I have stood in the midst of so many familiar faces, right next to my father and Lady Tremaine and Sir Rotwell and still wish for more? I ached for freedom once, but discarded my family. Now, I have neither.

“Is it your home?”

She hits the arrow on its head. The girl in the mirror bursts into tears.

“Oh, love,” she clicks her tongue, rushing to my side. Her hands guide my head to rest against her hip. Wave after wave of sorrow washes over my chest. She strokes my hair in soothing motions.

“Hush now, child. Shh, be calm. You’re alright,” she says, as if she coaxes her own child. She allows me to clutch her skirts like a lifeline.

At some point I remember myself and realize that a damp spot has appeared on her pastel yellow bodice. I pull away from her and swipe the back of my hand over my nose.

Imogen drops to her knees. She motions to the drawers, which open up to allow a handkerchief to slide into her grip. She then dabs at the tears on my face.

Nothing needs to be said as she takes the brush from my hand. Moving to stand behind me, she smoothes my curls off the stickiness of my tear-stained cheeks and starts to brush my hair.

I watch her reflection and sniffle. I can hardly remember the last time somebody brushed my hair.

“Tell me,” her voice soothes the knots in my shoulders. “What do you miss the most?”

I sniffle. The answer comes immediately: “My father. His...his embarrassing jokes, his absent-mindedness, the passion in his voice whenever he speaks of a new idea. Sir Rotwell, and Lady Tremaine. She was my governess after my mother passed. I cannot believe it, but I miss her nagging.”

“I see. I am sorry to hear about your mother.”

Somehow admitting the truth and laying bare the secret worries that plague my thoughts helps to alleviate the loneliness. I glance at my hands in my lap.

“‘Tis alright. She passed when I was barely four years of age. I hardly remember the sound of her voice.”

She nods. “So this Lady Tremaine – she took on the role of your mother, so to speak?”

“Quite, whenever she was around. But she started to follow her husband on his business trips to wherever it was once I got a little older, so I suppose…” I shrug. “There was...a part of my life where I had to grow up without a mother. There was no one to pull my hair into a pretty braid, or to have arguments with me. My father is a little more evasive in nature. Still, given the circumstances, my father and I have had a happy life together.”

Imogen uses her free hand to stroke my hair empathetically. I find myself automatically leaning back into her warmth.

“When my husband passed, he did so to protect us. He locked Eli and me in the cupboard to conceal us while he tried to fend off the beast with a broom. In that moment, as I held Eli close, all I could think of was that I would have liked to have one dance with him.”

She chuckles, though a tinge of forgotten grief lingers in her eyes.

“Oh, he was always so stiff, that Saevan. Always so adamant on maintaining appearances. I often wonder if he wished we could have done something together, too.”

The brush stops against the tips of my hair. Her eyes focus on mine in the mirror.

“What I am trying to say, Lady Astrid, is that it is the time you spend with your loved ones before they are gone which matters. However limited it may be each day.”

It takes time for the meaning behind her words to sink in. Those green eyes in the mirror widen slightly.

“Do you mean…” I trail off, unsure if such an idea may even be spoken aloud.

“I mean that you should do whatever your heart knows is necessary,” she says meaningfully. “If you can do anything at all, then you must do it. Do you understand?”

I do. I understand completely.