Part of Your World (Twisted Tales)(57)
(No foul play discovered, although why such a healthy youngish man had keeled over would remain a mystery for the ages. Vanessa had no trouble getting along with his replacement, who was much more amenable to collusion anyway.)
Often when interrupted Eric would forget which was the last object he had looked at and have to start a room from the beginning.
Then he hit upon a brilliant idea to keep track, inspired by his life as a musician. He would carefully mark the first thing that he looked at in a room, observing its precise placement, and the last thing he looked at before leaving—and then he would write it all down in his musical notebook. The altitude of the item was indicated by a note: high G over C, for instance, for the top shelf of a bookcase, middle C for the floor. A portion of a room was a measure of music; each room was a refrain. He filled in the details with what could very easily have been mistaken for lyrics.
Some parts were harder to put into code than others; the library, for instance. He pulled out every book because Vanessa was known to spend entire afternoons there, especially in the sections on history, folklore, and magic. An hour going through all the floor-level shelves resulted in a whole page of middle C notes. Very suspicious, even to someone who didn’t know much about music. In a burst of inspiration Eric labeled the sheet Part for Upright Bass, Picked: Anticipating the Coming Storm. It was a bit more experimental than the sort of music he normally composed, but these were modern times, and the Mad Prince was nothing if not eager to try new things.
Progress was slow but steady. He had no doubt that soon he would find the king.
And then something so unimaginably horrific occurred that Eric couldn’t even gather his wits enough to escape it.
Chef Louis said to him:
“Eet has been a long time since the royal couple has dined en privé. Maybe a special dinner is required?”
The entire staff was in on this decision, reacting exactly like an extended family scared that Mom and Dad were drifting apart—what could they do to keep them together?
Grimsby and Carlotta, bless them, did their best to quell the whole thing. The maid yelled, the butler made Bretland-accented speeches of disapproval.
It didn’t matter. The dinner would be happening.
Part of Eric thought he deserved this. He had been avoiding Vanessa like a coward and not behaving like a true, brave prince. It was only a matter of time before he was forced to face the villain—he just hadn’t expected it to be at opposite ends of a long dining table with a white linen tablecloth and golden candelabra; a multicourse feast for two lonely people in a giant empty room that overlooked the sunset sea.
When Vanessa came into the dining room Eric stood up, as was only right. He looked at her—really tried to look at her. But whatever spell kept her appearing human was different from whatever hid the polyps. Her form remained. And it was a beautiful form; very curvy in the right places, maybe a little too skinny and waspish in the waist. Implausible. Her hair was radiant and her face was symmetrical and prettily composed. But what looked out of her eyes and tugged the corners of her lips wasn’t married to the flesh it wore and seemed hampered by its limitations.
Tonight, as befitted the “romantic” occasion, she wore a bloodred velvet gown and matching bolero to cover her shoulders. A fox was draped around her neck, behind which sparkled the chain of a golden necklace Eric didn’t remember seeing before. But besides the fur there was no other nod to the sickness she kept pretending to have. The weather was far too warm for velvet, really, but Vanessa never seemed to get hot or cold. And she never pretended to feel faint like other ladies.
That, at least, Eric could appreciate.
He wore a military-style dress jacket, royal blue, with a sash across the front indicating his brief service in the army that was required of all royal sons.
“Good evening, My Prince,” Vanessa whispered. They air-kissed, like cousins. He pulled her seat out for her. “Thank you,” she simpered, oozing down into it.
Chef Louis himself came out to present the first course, small golden cups of perfectly clear consommé.
“It should be good for your throat, eh, Princess?” he said before bowing out.
Eric was feeling annoyed and reckless. He gazed at the woman opposite him daintily sipping from a tiny mother-of-pearl spoon.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick,” he observed. “Not the entire time we’ve been married.”
“Oh, it’s this ghastly summer weather. Cold one moment, hot the next. Plays havoc with the…nerves…oh, I don’t know, whatever it is the silly little things say about the weather,” Vanessa finished, too bored to bother completing the thought.
She pulled the fur from her neck and let it drop to the floor. Eric flinched when its taxidermied nose made a soft clack against the tiles. There was no reason to disrespect an animal you killed. It wasn’t a thing; once it had been a living being.
“You haven’t been…yourself lately, either,” she said, somewhere between a purr and a growl, letting the whispering part of her act die off as well. “It seems like you’ve been acting different since…well, almost exactly since the time I lost my voice.”
“Perhaps so. I do feel pretty good these days, actually,” Eric responded airily.
They finished their soup in silence, looking into each other’s eyes—but not like lovers.
Not at all.