Holes to Heaven

And not as if any of you care, but here's a map (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v44/spazticllama/britannia.jpg) of the...place. Look at it, it's PRETTY.

Fodor's Guide to Campbell's freaky-deaky AU world:

Here is some useful information that will make reading just a bit more pleasant. There's some weird pronunciation things in the languages (which are Celtic based), so hopefully this will help.

For all of you who know anything about Celtic pronunciation know that these words, while similar, are not always pronounced the same. However, most of the rules stay the same.

Islay - "EYE-lah"
Dundalk - "DOON-doll-k"
Stirling - "STER-leeng"
Inverness - "en-VER-ness"
Gwynedd-"GWEN-ed"
Westbarrow - "WEST bare-oh"
Cambria - "CAME-bree-a"
Hampshire - "HAMP-sher"
Argyle - "AR-gull"
Easbrough - "AYS-bro"
Laoghaire - "LAY-rah"
Cuailgne - "CALL-ee"
Loinnir - "loo-NEER"
Ànis Ler - "AH-nish LAHR"
Gael - "GAYL"
Laowyn - "LONE"

Provinces: Cambria, Canterbury, Cornwall, Dundalk, Galloway, Gwynedd, Hampshire, Hull, Inverness, Islay, Kelly, Limerick, Perth, Stirling, Westbarrow, Whitehaven

Each Nation is ruled by a Greater King and Queen. (Ex. The King and Queen of Ireland, the King and Queen of Britannia)

Each Province is ruled by a Lesser King and Queen (Ex. The King and Queen of Whitehaven)

Kentic (KIN-tick) is the official language of the Empire, and is spoken everywhere. However, in Canterbury, Hampshire, Hull, Cornwall, and Westbarrow, it is the only dialect spoken. Is the equivalent of English.

Scotsgal (SCOTS-gull) is a descendant of Scottish Gaelic, and is spoken in Whitehaven, Galloway, Stirling, Perth, Islay, and Inverness.

Wolsh (WOLE-sh) is a descendant of (what else) Welsh. It is spoken only in Gwynedd and Cambria.

Caeltic (KAYL-tick) is a descendant of Irish Celtic, and is spoken in Kelly, Limerick, and Dundalk.

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Chapter One

Three hours into the ceremony, the pain in Brenna’s legs had graduated from mere stiffness to near numbness. She had been instructed to stand as still as she could; which was a stupid thing to ask someone to do for four straight hours. Her arms were held tightly to her sides, though she had remembered to keep her fingers loose and graceful. It wouldn’t do to look awkward at a Final Rites of Passage, especially her own.

It was difficult to stay loose, however, with everyone analyzing her every breath. She never thought she’d list “standing” among her most physically painful experiences. Swallowing, she flexed the muscles in her legs, though it did little to allay her discomfort. She stood up straighter despite it, being sure to set her chin parallel to the ground. Mustn’t have bad posture in public.

The peristylum was packed to bursting with every title-bearing citizen in the Empire, and then some. It was a lovely but highly impractical place to hold a large audience. More of an indoor garden than an auditorium, a large square of what would have otherwise been roof was removed to admit sunlight and fresh air. Every sort of exotic flower grew amongst the audience, their sweet fragrance catching the air. Brenna knew better than to marvel at how little damage the delicate blossoms had endured with all the people packed amongst them. But of course not. A courtly lady could never destroy beauty.

In fact, Brenna doubted a lady could destroy a flea if faced with the task, and no self-respecting man belonging to a gentlewoman’s household would offend her by mussing the garden.

The richest and most important of guests sat on cushioned chaises forming a square around the dais she stood on, while the others stood and shifted constantly.

Brenna thought it might be sort of funny if one of them passed out from locking his knees. She expected the others would leave the poor soul there until the ceremony was over; it would be disgraceful to interrupt the Final Rites of Passage of a princess for the fainting of an non-sitting noble. Let them lie there.

Yet no matter how she scorned the absurdity of it all, no matter how she ridiculed their silly social code in her internal dialogue, the mere fact that she, Brenna, held the attention of virtually every noble in Britannia made the blood rush in her ears.

Society required her to resemble a goddess at the very slightest; and standard which Brenna found quite loathsome indeed. Her maids had spent countless hours trying to “fix” her. Brenna pitied them; they were charged with an impossible task.

But even Brenna had to admit they had done quite well. It wasn’t that Brenna was vain. In the words of her own mother, “A princess cannot afford to be plain.”

Which was stupid. It wasn’t as if greater or lesser beauty made you more or less of a princess. It was popularity Mother was concerned with.

Brenna supposed it was all subjective. She thought anybody could look heavenly with enough imported silk and designer cosmetics (overpriced face paint, more like). All of which she was buried beneath.

If her appearance was left up to her, she was quite certain that the courtiers would remark to her parents with pity at what a homely daughter they had.

Sadly, when a girl belongs to a society which measures the size of her waist before that of her heart, she learns to come to terms with such truths. At least, if she hasn’t eagerly embraced them already.

Because even Brenna, who was forever smirking at the frivolous upsets of the court ladies (“Oh, curses! My lashes have clumped!”), would never dream of disgracing her mother or father by expressing any hint of spirit, individuality, or rebellion around these people.

No, if you wanted to blend in, you kept your mouth shut and you looked as lovely as humanly possible. Brenna figured she was getting off easy. Many of the commoners were held to much higher standards, like getting an education and starting a career and doing community service. Luckily for her, she didn’t need a brain at all to excel in life.

And now she had to be more cautious than ever. Once her Final Rites were completed, she would be marriageable. According to Society, if she didn’t marry within a year, it meant she was either deformed, deflowered or diseased. Which meant she might as well be damned.

She would be shunned at parties and forced to either live with her father or get a job. Either would bring scandal and disgrace to her household. Her father had a poor heart, and she wouldn’t make those she loved suffer just so she could make a statement.

In addition, she was the only daughter, and being so, she couldn’t afford mistakes. Even petty ones. She planned to marry quickly, and annul once the required year was through. Husbands went out of style faster than ballgowns in Britain; it was one of the few things that played to Brenna’s advantage. She wouldn’t be fenced into anything, and that’s all that mattered.

But all of these things were merely whispers of mental commentary as she stood before the spectators with all the grace and poise she possessed, a demure smile gracing her lush mouth, her pale grey eyes cast sweetly downward. It was all rather nauseating, really.

The Matriarch was gibbering on about the "ecstasies of womanhood”, a speech Brenna knew by heart from their countless rehearsals. Brenna didn’t have to speak at all until her father drew away the sheer material of her veil.

Her lack of participation made her feel completely brainless. It was her passage into maturity, and all she got to say about it was something along the lines of, “I accept the charges you have placed on me, and swear to fulfill them, Great Mother.”

Moreover, Brenna was quite certain that whoever invented this absurd ritual in the first place was a spiteful mother of sons. Because there to her left, two rows of suitors (and their mothers) were sitting and watching her with ruthless scrutiny. They were placed so she could see them out of the corner of her eye, so that if she tilted her head just so, she could see their faces.

All were young and stupid, handsome and idealistic. Some she could live with, some she would go mad with, others she didn’t know at all. She occupied herself with trying to name them all, starting down the first row and working her way over.

First was a fair-haired gentleman who could have been Narcissus himself; a childhood enemy and “playful” torturer of hers, Prince Ives. If men could be beautiful, and Brenna believed they could be, he was the beauty that conquered all.

She found him amusing at times, but rarely when he was actually trying to be funny. Otherwise, he was completely hateful; a whiny brat and barefaced fool, he needed such a face, or even the mindless ladies of court would run screaming.

(Of course, Brenna suspected it was his beauty that had destroyed his personality in the first place, but that was a theory for another time.)

Alas, his father was the Greater King of Gaulle, which made him one of the most powerful choices she had.

Beside Ives was Sir Ethan Cambridge, a fairy-boy who was slight of body and of will, a poet and a dreamer instead. She was rather fond of his dark, fleecy curls, but he had a sort of knack that made a person lose all listening ability the minute he opened his mouth. Brenna supposed he owed that to his flutey, boyish voice, which made a girl doubt his very manhood.

He also insisted on speaking in verse, leading Brenna to believe he simply didn’t want to be understood, and thought himself terribly clever when he wasn’t.

Nonetheless, he would be a submissive mate, and she was certain that if married to him, she would be able to maintain her virginity for the whole year. She gave a spiteful smirk at the thought.

Yet Sir Ethan was considered a social step down; though he was the High King’s second cousin, his parentage was somewhat ambiguous. His mother was flaxen-haired Duchess, his supposed Duke of a father fireheaded. Since the Duchess couldn’t explain her youngest son’s dark curls (and the fact that her husband had been on a three-month diplomatic mission at the estimated time of conception), the High King gave the boy the honorable title of “Sir.”

While he was still of rank, a Duchess’s bastard had not nearly the rank of a legitimate heir. And even a legitimate heir would have been below her station. According to who, she didn’t know. But one could get lost in the details.

After Sir Ethan was her least favorite; the massive, hairy, foul-mouthed (and foul-smelling) Prince Gallan. His father was also one of the Greater Kings, but one of the least popular.

The King of Canterbury had been described to Brenna as a warmongerer, a brute, a drunkard and a bully; Gallan took after his father in each of those respects. The one time he had spoken to her, he had made crude remarks and had even tried to “cop a feel” so to speak. This of course, won him a kick that hit perfectly home. She hoped she had impaired his ability to father children.

Had it not been frowned upon to simply “drop” a suitor, Prince Gallan would have been ancient history. Though it would have been a fine community service to spare another poor woman from Gallan’s bed, Brenna was no masochist.

Her eyes slid with smooth subtlety to the next face. He was almost out of her line of sight, but she strained to study him the best she could without turning her head. She knew at once he was a stranger; she would have remembered such a face. Her boredom causing her to forget herself, she began an unabashed assessment.

This man surpassed them all; he had the beauty of Ives, and then some. A chiseled jaw, sturdy frame, and lean physique gave off the impression of agility and skill that could be used, as opposed to Gallan, whose bulk was only good for throwing around a few drunk punches.

His curls were looser, wider, and longer than Ethan’s, their color putting her in mind of the fine dark chocolates her father used to bring back from Italia. They gleamed in the sunlight that filtered through the open roof of the peristylum, her fingers clenching around air as she ached to touch them.

As her gaze came up to his lips, which she hurried over in an effort not to fluster herself. But she couldn’t help noticing the sensual rise-and-fall line that seperated his soft, full mouth.

He was intense, ethereal, enchanting. There was something about him, some kind of raw chemical force, that drew her to him.

With a quick swallow to relieve her dry throat, she risked a peek at his eyes, though she knew it wasn’t wise of her. But she threw caution to the winds. They were so black that the pupils were lost, giving the impression of depth and mystery. It also made them completely unreadable. She was so lost in his eyes that she didn’t realize they had been making eye contact for much longer than the proper glance.

Brenna flushed with embarrasment and dropped her eyes back to the Matriarch’s feet. Even then, she could still feel his intense stare burning into her. Her face went hot with both pleasure and mortification.

But all was forgotten as a light clicked on in her head and she put his face together. The High Prince. She gasped audibly, suddenly unaware of her surroundings. She was frozen by a torrent of frantic thoughts. The High Prince. Prince of Princes, the man who would one day rule the Empire and singlehandedly wield more power than any man on the planet. He was sitting with the suitors.

There was no way to explain it. Why would His Royal Highness, Prince of Men, Prince of God, Divine Emperor-in-Waiting be seeking out a coupling with one of the Lesser Princesses? The fact that these frivolous people sat around and thought up glorious epithets for the man spoke to how great the people’s love for him really was. All the ones they had come up with for Brenna had been lame and overdone (like “Goddess-Child” or “Sun-Princess”); it was the stuff of cheap fantasy novels.

But there was no messing around when it came to the High Prince. Certainly he was merely amusing himself. Perhaps he was bored with ruling the world at the moment.

For a moment she struggled with his name. Joshua, of course. Joshua the Great. Joshua the Beautiful. Joshua the Gentle. Joshua the Warrior. It was somehow fitting, that he was named for the man who once crumbled the walls of Jericho.

The High Prince was the patron-saint of the entire Empire. All the fuss over one silly man had amused her in the past. But she had seen his face. She had looked into his eyes. He came as close to godhood as a mortal man could.

Realizing how much he had thrown her, Brenna began to backtrack, reasoning with herself, as she often did when she found herself teetering on the line between rational thought and romantic imaginings. She was being ridiculous, and she admonished herself for it.

He wasn’t that perfect. She had met plenty of men of close or equal beauty; it was surely his title and the amount of awe and power attached to it that made him glow like the sun itself. People who allowed themselves to be wooed by propaganda and power were welcome to kiss his feet all they wanted. Brenna simply wouldn’t.

“A face as if angel-carven,” they often said in their gossip. It was gossip no human could live up to, not even His Greatness, this pseudo-Adonis. Brenna took a moment to size him up. He wasn’t a god, no. But he came pretty damned close.

Which means he's likely to be a self-righteous bastard, she rationalized. Suddenly, she had an overwhelming desire to give him a piece of her mind. In fact, the words, “barmy git” sounded quite favorable indeed. Then she shook her head, surprised at the scale of her reaction. She'd never met the man, and never planned to; what did she care if he was completely hateful or not?

As she completed her thought, she looked up and noticed that the Matriarch was looking at her with a furrowed brow, as if waiting for an answer. But they couldn’t be at her part yet…her legs didn’t ache nearly enough. And after a combined 175 hours of rehearsal, she knew the exact point where she came in just from muscle pain.

“I implore your pardon, my lady grace, my diffidence effects my hearing,” Brenna said meekly, as if her hearing had anything to do with it.

They should enjoy that. Titled ladies found it delightfully charming when nubile girls admitted their inelegances.

“You needn’t apologize, my girl. You gasped rather sharply and we were wondering if you quite all right.”

Brenna’s cheeks colored again; she was grateful for the veil, or else the Matriarch would have surely suspected something.

“Heavens!” Brenna arranged her face to look as delectably discomfited as possible, “How silly of me. A muscle in my leg knotted and I was simply surprised at the sudden discomfort. My goodness, I’ve made a scene!”
Equipped for a good con, Brenna gave a nervous laugh and made a show of wringing her hands nervously. In an effort to look truly gawky and youthful, she let her shoulders slump inward, allowed her perfect posture to wilt a little, and distributed her weight unevenly on her feet. Brenna could have kissed the Matriarch for smiling kindly and waving apologies away.

I am an expert at deception, Brenna thought smugly, straightening. She could explain away murder with one innocent smile, if the opportunity ever presented itself.

For Brenna, who had been deceiving her fellow patricians since day one, it had become something of an art.

The Matriarch resumed her speech, and Brenna became the silent, bashful virgin once more. The urge to glance back at the Prince came over her too quickly to stifle, and her lowered eyes found him easily. His eyes were ready for hers, locking her gaze, a small, infuriating smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

The bloody prat, thought Brenna, riled. She frowned and looked away. Her supposition of the Prince had been accurate. But then, what’s more to be expected when you answer to the name “His Royal Highness, Prince of Men”? As far as upper class society was concerned, the Prince was Jesus Christ himself. Brenna bet he just lapped it all up.

Once more, she was forced to bring her focus back to the ceremony as she saw her father rise from his seat and move to stand beside her. She felt relief wash over her. As much as she faked emotions, the sensation of exposure brought by the crowd of important people was very real. Her father’s strong, familiar presence beside her made her brighten. It was nearly finished.

“Helena Rowena Niamh Brenna Pembury, today you will add a title of virtue to your name. Have you chosen?”

Brenna ticked off all five of her names as they were said. As the tradition went for those of status, a child was given a Christian name, usually after the mother’s favorite dead royal (hers was Helena, which was used by everyone but her closest friends), a member of the father’s family (Rowena, Brenna’s great-grandmother), a member of the mother’s family (Niamh, Brenna’s late aunt), a familiar name (Brenna), and the surname, Pembury.

And as if she didn’t have names enough, yet another was added at the Final Rites of Passage; the “virtue” name, expressing a virtuous quality the young lady wished to represent.

Grace, Hope, Joy, and Faith were among the most popular, but Brenna had been sure to choose something unique. It wasn’t a virtue that was terribly important to her, but she like the way it sounded and she couldn’t find a single princess in the Census who had used it in the past two hundred years. And that was good enough for Brenna.

“I have, Great Mother. I have chosen the virtue of Purity, because it is the ultimate quality of righteousness. As I fashion my life after Jesus, Christ the Lord, I shall strive to be pure and unblemished in the eyes of God and of my people.” Brenna rattled off the words as practiced, hoping she didn’t sound too mechanical.

The Matriarch smiled her wizened old smile. “A worthy choice, child. One with thought and conviction behind it. I charge you with the pursuit you have named, and pray God will grant you the yearnings of your heart. So it is now that I name you Purity Helena Rowena Niamh Brenna Pembury, Princess of Whitehaven, lady of this hour.”

Brenna smirked behind her veil. If only she knew what the yearnings of my heart were, she thought. It would be straight to the nunnery for me. And Anglicans didn’t even have nunneries.

As Brenna thought this, she allowed her eyes to dart quickly over to Prince Joshua, who was watching her just like everyone else, though no longer seeking her eyes. The way he appraised her with his gazed bothered her; it felt as if he were undressing her with his eyes. She wanted to somehow inflict physical pain upon him, but that would hardly be ladylike.

“I accept the charges you have placed on me, and swear to the present witnesses to fulfill them to the best of my ability, Great Mother.”

Brenna gave another smirk. Yes, they would bear witnes to her immaculate propriety, the thoughtless on-lookers. But only because Brenna was so careful to keep private things private.

This time, she had the presence of mind to keep her eyes on her father, who was lifting the veil over her face and placing the “Tiara of Womanhood” on her head.

Aside from its trite title, the tiara itself was lovely: it was wrought of silver so pure it shone white, and was studded with emeralds so costly it made Brenna uneasy to bear them.

But when she had tried it on during rehearsals, she had to admit it complimented her, bringing out the pale green hidden in her slate-grey eyes and offsetting her uninspired Irish-black hair nicely. This was the objective, of course; each tiara was custom-made to fit each princess, and for such a price, it ought to be worth it.

Now that she had been unveiled and crowned, she was next to acknowledge her audience. She started her curtsies at her right, ending with the section of suitors. Summoning her confidence, Brenna took her last curtsy, purposely locking eyes with the Prince as she sank to the ground.

She was pleased to see that his eyes, a moment ago filled with self-importance, were now completely focused on her, raking over her hair, eyes, face, body. She was accidentally flattered to have him assess her with his gaze. Against her will, she found herself praying he approved.

She smirked, thinking, what a hypocrite I am!

She straightened and turned away from him, then, allowing herself to be escorted back to her room to change into her evening gown. Because it would be simply shameful for a princess to wear only one outfit in a six-hour period.

Chapter Two

Brenna was relieved to slip into her evening gown; the former had been stiff and oppressive, pinching and prodding her at the slightest movement. While the gown she wore now was hardly cozy, the cream silk material was loose and floaty, leaving just enough to the imagination. Her black hair had been foisted into an complicated chignon, leaving Brenna in awe of her hairdresser.

She felt that having a reception after the interminable ceremony was an atrocious idea. She’d not have a moment to sit. It was like being the birthday girl, with everyone wanting to talk to her and sit by her and harass her, the one day she put on a pedestal; only to dutifully return to her place on the outskirts when it was all over. She prayed that moment would come quickly.

She entered the Grandroom with forced grace, banishing her mental fatigue as best she could. She stepped daintily down the marble stairs, one of her hands lightly following the balustrade while the other held a handful of dress at her hip and out of harms way. She was announced and all heads turned to her, making her skin crawl again with the feeling of nakedness.

She was glad to see two of her friends waiting for her at the bottom of the steps. They were two of the few decent girls around; though Brenna knew there wasn’t any profound emotional synthesis between them, both girls made good companions, and that was all Brenna asked for.

“Oh, Brenna, you look lovely!” came the obligatory greeting from the taller girl, Danielle, whose shimmering golden tresses were receiving looks of envy from bystanders. Danielle embraced Brenna warmly and kissed her on the cheek, a gesture repeated by the other girl, Isabel.

“I can’t stand you!” exclaimed Isabel, seizing Brenna by the shoulders and twirling her to face the other way. “Danielle, look at how it’s cut in the back? Isn’t that marvelous?”

Danielle made an affirmative sound. “The material is flawless. Who designed it?”

Though Brenna knew their overzealous praise was partially done to associate themselves with her, it boosted her mood to know someone was on her side.

“Now, ladies, a girl has to have some secrets,” laughed Brenna as they pulled her through the guests to the benches.

“Now sit,” commanded Danielle, as both she and Isabel pulled Brenna down onto the bench with them. She could tell, now that she saw the barely-contained excitement on their faces, that they too had spotted the unexpected visitor.

“What?” Brenna asked innocently.

“Are you daft? What do you mean what?” remarked Danielle in exasperation.

But Brenna maintained her blank look.

“Oh, don’t play us for fools, little miss Purity. You can’t possibly have overlooked him. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Tell you?” said Brenna, giving in. “You think I knew the heir of the Empire was going to be at my Rites, and still showed up? You’re barking mad, the both of you.”

Isabel gaped at her. “What a nasty shock to give someone!”

“Indeed! You’d expect him to be a bit more subtle, especially if he’s going to take a seat with the suitors!” fumed Danielle, affronted on Brenna’s behalf.

But Brenna didn’t want to think about him sitting with the suitors, didn’t want to develop feelings about it either way.

“Nonsense,” said Brenna with a wave. “It’s more likely that a real suitor yielded his seat. I have as little chance of marrying the Prince as a farmer’s daughter!”

Isabel opened her mouth to retort, but Brenna’s mother had approached them, looking venemous. Whatever the trouble was, Brenna knew she would somehow be responsible.

“Where have you been? Your father and I have been searching high and low.”

Mother gestured for Brenna to stand, and pulled her so quickly through the clumps of people Brenna almost wondered if they were being chased.

“What’s the matter?” asked Brenna, piqued. They had stepped out of the Grandroom and into the hall that lead to the castle’s living quarters.

“Mind your tone,” Mother said coldly, continuing their fast pace down the hall.

“Tell me!” demanded Brenna, yanking her arm out of her mother’s grip and staring daggers at the older woman.

“Now is not the time for petulance, Helena.”

Brenna cringed, both at her mother’s impassive face and the use of Helena, her proper name. It distanced them even more.

“I am not your pet anymore, Mother,” Brenna insisted, no longer bothered with etiquette outside of the Grandroom, “you will tell me what is going on, or I’m going back to my reception.”

The queen’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “The Emperor-in-Waiting has requested a private word with you. Or do you still object?”

Brenna seriously considered objecting. Her heart jumped into her throat, her pulse skittering at the thought of being in such close proximity of the most worshipped man in the Eurasia.

You coward, she chided herself. “I go for him, then. Not for you.”

The words were meant to hurt, but they just sounded petty and childish when they left her mouth. Brenna sighed resignedly and followed her ice queen of a mother to where the Prince was waiting.

Brenna was faking bravery even to herself as she turned the knob to the door her mother had led her to, walking in as if meeting the Emperor-in-Waiting was the most natural thing in the world.

She spotted him standing by one of the massive bay windows, looking out over the palace gardens. Brenna cleared her throat to get his attention.

“My lady,” he greeted with a regal nod of acknowledgement. His smooth, cultured voice caught her by surprise. It had just a twinge of Highlander influence to it, adding a much-needed element of realness to him.

“My lord,” she responded in kind, meeting his eyes boldly and neglecting the customary curtsy. He said nothing for a moment, examining her face as if he had lost something in it and was trying to find it. After a few moments had passed, Brenna was growing tired of the awkward silence. But then he spoke.

“Shall I call you Helena, or Purity? Though I must say, if I’m as good at reading eyes as I like to believe, your thoughts of me were hardly pure.”

Brenna fumed, and she couldn’t decide if she was more infuriated by his arrogant words or the cocky smirk tugging the corner of his lip up. She felt her face grow hot with affront at his audacity. But her voice came out icy and controlled.

“How dare you imagine to know my thoughts? And how dare you confront me with such vile insinuations? You might have forgotten, but you’re the randy bastard and I’m the blushing virgin. Am I more likely to give you erotic looks or are you more likely to imagine them?”

The Prince raised a dark eyebrow at her choice of words, but more in amusement than remorse or admission of guilt. He gave that mocking half-smile again and crossed to Brenna with such fluid speed that her head reeled when she found him merely inches away, his nose threatening to crash into hers.

Brenna’s breath caught in her lungs. Heat washed over her, the musky scent of him making her less sure of herself. She bit her tongue as a last resort to regain her composure, and turned her moment of weakness into a cold glower.

He looked bemused by her sudden retreat.

“Please, my little wildcat. Let the tongue lashing continue.”

She cursed silently. He had caught her flustering.

“Go to hell!” Brenna tried to sound as frosty as possible, turning from him and striding towards the door. She was furious with herself, almost as much as she was with him.

She reached for the knob and began to open the door when it was slammed in her face. He twisted her around, so her back was to the door and she was trapped between his arms, with one hand on either side of her head.

Brenna’s first reaction was offense, but when she met his feral black eyes and realized she was cornered, she felt fear trickle through her, as if someone had poured a glass of cold water over her head. This was the last thing she had expected from him.

But he must have seen the panic in her eyes, and he dropped his arms to his sides, giving her some space. His expression had softened and he watched her with gentle exasperation.

He ran all ten of his fingers through his hair and offered a placating smile. “Little fool,” he spoke to her as if she was a frightened animal, “Don't you know I'd never harm you?"

Brenna realized her mistake, that taking advantage of her had not been his intent at all. She felt stupid. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and debated whether to answer him in indignance or apology.

Neither, she decided. It made her feel uneasy, not being in control of herself. She fixed him with a stony-faced frown, unsure if she should leave with him a biting remark or not.

Unable to fight her instinctive propriety, she left him with a cold, "Good day, sir."

Then she opened the door and slipped out of it, successfully this time. What a disaster, thought Brenna, returning quietly to the Grandroom. There went any hopes of that courtship. Mother wouldn’t be happy.

Chapter 3

Brenna did her best to melt in with the guests, praying that he wouldn’t pursue her. She didn’t know what to do with herself; she was jumpy and giddy, and the flutter would not leave her stomach.

She realized it wasn’t his looks or status that made her ill at ease; it was the fact that he had touched the wall around her mind, had begun to knock a few of the bricks out. It disturbed her severely. That wall was her foundation, it shaped every public move she made. Perhaps it was a fear of dependence, or fear of exposure, but her emotions were always kept walled inside, to be freed only when it was convenient to her. No foreign force was allowed access.

But he had not requested entry. He had not dealt with her before plucking away bricks, here and there, as if the thick, hard mortar that held them was nothing. She seethed with fury at the intrusion, cursing him with words that shocked even her. How dare he? she repeated to herself, over and over. The fact that he excited her made her hate him that much more.

She was jostled from her outraged musings by Danielle and Isabel, who were eager to hear all the gory details.

“Where have you been?” asked Danielle, as both girls dragged Brenna off to one of the quiet rooms. Once they had found a spare one, Brenna was ushered inside, the door locked and latched behind her. They all claimed seats on one of the plush armchairs upholstered in champagne-colored crushed velvet, Danielle and Isabel scooting theirs closer to Brenna’s so that they formed a triangle.

“Let’s hear it. Everything. Now.” Danielle fixed Brenna with a gaze that left no room for argument.

“Yes, did he snog you? You were missing for an awfully long time,” asked Isabel unabashedly.

“Isabel!” Danielle and Brenna cried together, scandalized.

“What?” asked Isabel. “It’s what we’re all wondering.”

Brenna gave her a sharp look, but answered anyhow. “No, Isabel, we didn’t snog. In fact, I find him perfectly loathsome.”

“You can’t mean that!” exclaimed Danielle in disbelief, jumping to the edge of her chair.

“Rubbish. You fancy him, and you hate him for it,” asserted Isabel, insightful as always.

“Nonsense,” retorted Brenna, trying to save face. “He’s the most tactless, hateful, brutish prat I’ve ever encountered.”

“You’re quite right, Isabel. She’s smitten.” Danielle’s mouth curved into a wicked grin.

“Yes, so when’s the wedding?” inquired Isabel.

“Stop it! It’s not – I’m telling you, honestly, I have no interest in spending another minute with that man. I’d rather die a childless old maid!”

Danielle was not to be put off. “Oh, hogwash. Stop trying to fool us and tell us what it is that makes him so detestable. Because I have never heard you speak of anyone, not even Gallan, with such...vehemence.”

Brenna realized her mistake. Had she answered passively, she wouldn’t have given herself away. Now she had to explain herself, and the task was daunting.

“Nothing happened, he made a complete arse of himself, and I got angry with him, and he – “

She paused. What exactly had he done? What would have happened had she not gone to pieces? The thought was both frightening and fiery at the same time, and for a moment, she couldn’t breath.

“He what?” asked Isabel, impatient.

“He was vulgar. This discussion is over.”

Of course, that did little to divert them.

“Did he tell you why he came?”

“No, I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?” Danielle was exasperated.

“Because I didn’t care,” Brenna ground out, fixing both girls with a final sort of glare. They finally relented, then, allowing her to return to the Grandroom.

Brenna was glad for the distraction the guests brought, chatting animatedly with them as not to think of her encounter with the Prince. It was all stupid, really. He didn’t belong here in the first place. Why couldn’t he go pester a princess of his own rank? What made him think he could just drop into her life one day, and proceed to undo her? She didn’t deserve it.

It wasn’t until late that the last guests went home, freeing Brenna to excuse herself to bed. She had put but one foot on the staircase when her name was called out.

“Brenna, love, come speak with me a moment.”

Her father looked just as tired as she was, but still more amiable than her mother.

“Yes?”

“These are exciting news, and I wish I could give them to you when we had more energy, but it would be terrible of me to delay.”

Brenna wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he had to say. But she respectfully waited for him to continue.

“The High Prince has tendered a personal invitation to you, to come and visit his palace in Laoghaire, so that you might ‘try it out’ so to speak.”

Brenna bit back the outraged protest that boiled in her throat. The proposition scared her out of her skin, and she was prepared to gently refuse it.

“How do you mean?’”

“He wasn’t specific,” answered Brenna’s father. “But he seemed quite keen on you. You must have charmed him.”

Brenna snorted softly. ‘Charmed’ probably wasn’t the word she would have used. ‘Amused’ was more accurate. She burned at the memory of his wry smirk.

“You’ll be accepting, won’t you?” asked the king, the proud and expectant look on his face melting her. No. No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

She meant to say no. Instead, “How long would he want me to visit?” came out.

“He didn’t say. I don’t expect it would be a very long while. You would decide when to leave.”

His tone of voice implied that she wouldn’t be leaving. How could she break it to him? If his face had held any hint of selfishness, any victory for himself, she would have refused. Instead, his happiness was for her, his triumph in her name. It was beyond anything he had ever hoped for her, Brenna knew, and for her to sweep it aside merely because she hated the man in question?

She couldn’t. She loved her father too much. Because she knew if she refused, he wouldn’t fight her. He would respect her decision. But it would break his heart to see her throw away such an ideal opportunity, and it would break Brenna’s knowing she was the one who had failed him.

She was terrified at the prospect of staying at the Imperial Palace, her only link to the Prince, whom she despised and feared. Her parents would be unable to rescue her.

It’s fitting, isn’t it, thought Brenna, resigning herself to her fate, that my childhood would be banished from me the day I am pronounced a woman.

She smiled at her father. “Tell the Prince I am honored, and that I accept.”

The elated grin that spread over her father's face was the only comfort she took in her decision.

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Brenna had not slept much the night before. She had not even glimpsed the Prince since their visit during the Final Rites ball, though her parents insisted he was staying in the palace. It drove her mad, the tension and anticipation, knowing that sooner or later, she'd have to face him. Why in the world had she consented to this?

She had been woken before dawn that morning, feeling like a droopy sack of nerves. Even her image counselor (which was just a ridiculous name for the beautician), who normally had a bright, I-can-fix-anything-attitude, had mentioned the trouble she was having with Brenna's face that day. But though she should have, Brenna didn't much care about how pretty she looked. She wished she could meet the Prince looking like the hag she had woken up as; that would have scared him off good and well. Alas, her mother would have never left her out of the house.

Primped and polished, Brenna was the quintessence of calm on the exterior; inside she was trembling anticipation. She tried not to think of him. Tried not to care. But it didn't take her long to realize how unready she was for all of this. How inexperienced she was in this social arena. Her mother had extremely careful about the boys Brenna came in contact with; in fact, the only time she had been alone with any male with her parent's knowledge and approval had been her brief moment with the Prince. She didn't know how to fake this sort of thing.

She seethed at herself for her ignorance. She should have seen this coming, should have prepared. Now she was a sitting duck. And it frightened her.

"Come, Brenna, they are ready for you," came Mother's frosty voice. Brenna followed it out the back entrance and out to the rear path, where two expensive-looking black cars were parked. A man with the Empire's emblem on his suit held the door open to the second car, waiting for her. Brenna dutifully let her parents embrace her, though she couldn't make herself focus on the words of wisdom they offered.

Like a robot, she moved towards the door that was being held for her, trembling at the thought that the Prince might be sitting next to her all the way to Ireland. Relief washed over her when she saw the back seat was empty.

"Has the Prince already returned to Laoghaire?" asked Brenna, trying not to sound too happy about it.

"No, milady," answered the footman, simply. "He is in the other car."

Brenna felt anxiety knot in her throat. That meant she would have to worry about facing him on the barge for the entire ride. She shivered in fear, as well as the slightest bit of excitement, which surprised her.

She slid into the seat, raising a hand to her parents as the car pulled away from the palace. The thought suddenly gripped her that this was it. She couldn't change her mind now; she was in for the long haul. At that, she started to pray.

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Joshua had to hand it to Brenna; she wasn't like the others. She had surprised him, really. He had, at his father's bidding, agreed to search among the Lesser British princesses for a suitable bride. All of the women he had been presented with had been vastly unsuitable, and Joshua preferred to make personal life decisions like these on his own.

He had only visited two other Lesser princesses so far, finding both just as intolerable as any of their Greater counterparts. And if he hadn't heard that the young Princess of Easbrough was holding a Rites ceremony, he probably would never have bothered with her; at twenty-two, he was four years her senior, and he rarely found much interest in younger women. They were often clingy and frivolous, and always boring. But since he was close by, he'd decided it couldn't hurt to at least see her.

He hadn't regretted it. She was a striking, yes, potentially beautiful, even, once he had become accustomed to her exotic features. Her hair, like a sheet of black satin, was contrary to the golden curls that had recently become popular among the women. It contrasted sharply with her ivory skin, drawing attention to her bewitching eyes. They were a luminous mist-grey, eerily pale, her prominent pupils seeming to bore holes in him. At once upon meeting them, he was both uneasy and entranced.

Her mouth also drew his eyes, lush and full and sensuous. Lips he doubted had yet met another man's. She was oddly appealing, and he was surprised that he found her so. He had never been a man impressed by something merely because it was unusual.

But her expressive brow and silver eyes opened her to him like a book. What an ardent creature she was! Her gaze held a raw, fresh heat, revealed an untamed, untutored passion. It staggered him for the briefest of moments, and he decided that he simply must speak with her, simply had to probe deeper into this little wildcat of a girl. She was like a freshly-dipped candle, the soft white wick eager to be kindled. He moistened his lips at the thought.

But perhaps confronting her immediately had been an error. After his vivid musings of her, he had been both surprised and pleased to find her blocking his advances. Her barbed tongue had roused him so that his control slipped for but a moment as she tried to leave. It was only the panic in her eyes that had jolted him back to reality.

That accusing look she had given him had haunted him for the rest of the evening, making him feel slimy and barbaric. It was then that he knew he must have her, must prove to her that he wasn't slimy or barbaric, must uncover the fire she was so desperate to smother. He knew just how to play her, exactly the strings to pluck. He only hoped he could account for his fumble.