“It’s time, mon frère,” The tall, dark-skinned man murmured ominously as their ride came plunking to a heavy stop at their destination. “Are you ready?”
Francois chuckled softly as he checked, for the final time, his lace cuffs and neck-tie. As much as they may have suited him, they weren’t necessarily his style. For the time being, however—for the role he had been hired to play—he knew that it would have to be something he dealt with. In any case, Francois was confident he’d be able to wear his clothing as easily as he wore his suave, aristocratic façade. And at the Lician Palace, anything short would have been unacceptable.
“I’m always ready, mon frère,” he replied, in turn, smile playing upon his lightly tanned cheeks, framed by waved locks of tinted pinks and purples. “But was it really necessary to bring Reena?”
“Of course. She’s more memorable than your average carriage…and besides, who else do you expect to take care of her? You know how mother feels about Reena.”
“True enough.”
The elephant they rode upon let out an appreciative cry, curling her trunk to the sky as nobles left and right turned their heads to admire the animal—some with awe, and others with perplexed glances of distaste. If she were a woman, and not an elephant, Francois was sure that at this moment, she would have been batting her eyelashes in bashful delight at the attention, oblivious to the signs of blatant disapproval that dotted the crowd of her onlookers. Whether they were sneering at Reena, or the two dark-skinned men who rode high upon her back, however, was a question all on its own.
Francois had to bite back a cheeky grin at the thought. Now that they had successfully begun the first part of their mission—a small one, but an important one nonetheless—it was time to quit talking to each other as brothers. Francois was now a sophisticated young suitor from the Third Realm, and Fernand was now Edouard: the quiet savage Francois kept as his bodyguard.
Before too much longer, the two had descended, allowing a few attendants to escort Reena to (what they were assured was) the most elegant of stables, then continuing on their way—Francois in front, naturally—to the castle. The young man kept his head held high and proud as he made his way to join the rabble of suitors that had already arrived to give the Princess their well-wishes. And quite a rabble, it was. Francois supposed he should have expected no less than a line (which is exactly what it was) to wait in before he was permitted to have his audience, practically flanked with guards, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a touch disappointed. It was going to be a long, tiresome wait.
This wasn’t an exaggeration.
Hours passed, Francois trying hard not to be disgruntled at the realization that he was one of the last to have arrived (the problem with traveling by elephant—they weren’t necessarily the fastest mode of transportation), and that by the time he actually stood before the Queen-to-be, she would have most assuredly been thoroughly and utterly bored. It dashed his hopes at being particularly memorable—or at least it would have, if they didn’t have a failsafe, courtesy of their employer, waiting to ensure Francois’ good graces (or at least familiarity).
And wouldn’t you know? The fool stepped forward as if upon cue, when it was nearly Francois’ turn to give his introduction. Tripping forward, shaking with nerves, he scrambled awkwardly to retrieve his scattered belongings amongst quiet scoffs—scoffs which were abruptly silenced when the Princess, herself, lowered herself to the polished floor in order to assist the fallen boy. Maybe it was because he was a master at sleight of hand or simply because he knew what to look for, but the needle that slipped so craftily from his sleeve was almost too painfully obvious to Francois for him to watch. But what was obvious to Francois was clearly not obvious to the guards that surrounded them—an observation made clear by the fact that none of them made a move.
The plan was simple: be the one to capture the assassin. It was a set-up to make Francois look good—whether or not the Princess was harmed was of no concern to them, as the assassin hadn’t been armed with any lethal poison to begin with.
But, regardless of simple, the plan wasn’t what happened.
Francois couldn’t quite explain it. Or rather, he could have, if he was better in tune with his subconscious, but undoubtedly wouldn’t have cared to try in either case. A shiver—no, it almost felt like a cold wave of dread—had passed through him the second he saw the scenario before his eyes. There she was: so unaware, so unprotected…her pain inevitable. And Francois knew—was the only one in a position to prevent the act from being carried out.
Before he could think for another instant, Francois’ body went into autopilot, and he launched himself forward, quickly closing the gap between where he had stood, and the two kneeling figures on the floor. And, before the would-be assassin had enough time to register the suitor that had come flying from the sidelines, his arm was already descending toward the Princess—or rather, where the Princess had been, and where Francois now dove.
Everything had slowed, something cliché but accurate. Francois hissed in a breath, instantly grabbing at the burning pain that had stabbed into his upper arm as he fell only somewhat-gracefully, but hard, upon his knees. Only somewhat aware of the hustle and bustle about them, the doorways being blocked as the assassin made a move to escape—and was quickly restrained by Edouard—Francois found his eyes going only to the Princess, his face set but filled with more genuine concern he should have allowed himself if he had been thinking rationally as he asked, “he didn’t hurt you, did he?”