The dream, so brilliant and vivid, would startled him to full awareness, heart pounding and body drenched in sweat. He'd fought his way to an open window, gulping the cold night air.
The hopelessness of the situation weighed on him heavily night after night. She was the wrong girl. Prince wanted to bellow to the heavens at the injustice. He would willingly reap the consequences, come what may, when he made his deal with his devil. A deal to set himself free to find her, his midnight ghost.
Inhaling deeply, he pulled his mind to the present and glanced toward his father. In regal magnificence, his hands clasped at his lower back, an absent expression on his worn and cheerful face. No need to wonder what he was thinking. The book he'd been so engrossed came to mind.
Prince flinched at the ungracious thoughts. This whole situation was a ridiculous dilemma of his own making, he admitted, not without disgust. No one but himself to blame. Still, it bode disaster for his future.
"Where's Arnald?" He asked, shifting his gaze to Maman. He should not have to suffer this insanity alone. He studied her carefully from hooded eyes. Something about her expression-or rather, lack of one, caught his attention.
Stately, noble. True, she was the queen. Her stature required composure in any situation however awkward. And this one certainly qualified. He hid a grimace and studied her cool dignified poise.
"Hmm?" Unruffled and utterly calm.
Strange for a mother on the brink of meeting the future bride of her only son. His gaze dropped to hands gently clasped in her lap as she too awaited his betrothed's.
The son-to-mother discourse he'd strived for had never come to pass. For his every approach had met with some untimely crisis demanding her attention.
"Sir Arnald? Your nephew?"
Prince leaned in eyes narrowing. Was that a fraction of tension about her mouth? Her composure was perfect, of course, hands stoic and relaxed.
Her eyes lifted to pierce his, unwavering. He tossed out an uncaring smirk. The one he'd used as a lad of no more than four and ten. A handy little thing that had kept him out of myriad scrapes. An faint blush tinged her cheeks. Without fail, something was amiss. She had not been able to fool him for years now.
Clipped footsteps coincided with the sound of reining hooves jolted his attention to the forefront. Arnald appeared just beyond Papa's shoulder.
Prince tried inhaling but it stuck in his throat, almost strangling him. Maman rose and smoothed graceful hands down her rich cerulean blue silken skirts. There would be no help from those quarters. Her expression, while mild, held an undercurrent of smugness. Most puzzling.