Page 2 of A Princess, Stolen
“You were crying,” he observed. “I think you cry quite often.”
I was silent because he was right. I did cry a lot, but apart from that, everything seemed to be fine with me.
“Willa is a well-behaved, dreamy, highly sensitive child. A little absentminded and, yes, certainly a little strange at times, but always helpful and lovable. Easy to control.” I heard Dad say that to Dr. Moore the other day through the open door. Dr. Moore was a renowned psychiatrist who had been caring for me since Mom died.
“You always cry when you come out of the white thingamajig in your yard,” the boy added, crossing his arms defensively over his chest as if he expected anone-of-your-businessreply.
But I didn’t want to brush him off. “Because of Mom,” I replied softly, feeling the rough band on my wrist. It felt wonderful even without the glitter. “The white thingamajig is a memorial my dad created for her. A place where we can remember her and mourn.” That was a bit of adult language that I’d picked up. “Similar to a cemetery,” I added quickly in case he didn’t understand what a memorial was.
He nodded and uncrossed his arms. “The bracelet has magical powers. It will help you stop crying.”
I stared at him standing there, half a head taller than me and so tan as if he lived on the streets with no roof over his head. He had a handsome, serious face. Oval with a straight nose, narrow piercing eyes, and a peculiar mouth. The mouth was the only thing about him that didn’t look quite so serious or angry—his upper lip reminded me of a flying seagull like when toddlers drew them.
I realized that if he had seen me crying at the memorial, he must have been watching me from other places too. It wassheltered in the middle of our garden. Maybe he had climbed one of the tall, ancient oak trees—he looked like he could do that.
“You hugged the white woman.”
“Mom?” I asked, embarrassed.
“I thought she was dead?”
“She is. The white woman is a marble statue that looks like her.”
“And you hug her?” He raised his straight eyebrows, suddenly seeming older.
I was ashamed. Sometimes I did crazy, strange things, but I nodded because I knew you shouldn’t lie.
“I talk to Lea sometimes,” he now said.
“Lea? Is she…is she dead too?”
“For a while.”
He is sad too. I should have sensed it because he radiated that sadness as well as the strange anger, like a misty haze that surrounded him, but I was too preoccupied with my emotions.
I carefully pulled a daisy from my braids and handed it to him through the fence bars. “I’m Willa Nevaeh Rae,” I said, introducing myself, pronouncingNiväihextra clearly so he didn’t have to ask.
The boy smiled and put the tiny flower in his shirt pocket where Dad often stored a handkerchief. The next moment, he took a step closer and his face almost touched the bars. “I have something else for you.” He said it softly as if it were something forbidden that no one but me was allowed to hear.
I took a small step toward him, excited, and he grabbed my plaited braids, pulled me close to the bars, and kissed me on the mouth. Quickly, but also boldly, as if he knew that it was not okay. Then he let go of me and put his finger to his delicately curved lips. “I’m Nathan. Remember my name.”
I could only nod because my cheeks were hot like stove burners and my heart was pounding in my chest like when Dadturned the bass up too loud. I was afraid he would see what he had done to me. I was confused, happy in a tingly way, and yet also outraged because he had simply grabbed me by my pigtails. He was definitely badly behaved.
But, before I could say a word, he turned and disappeared behind the mighty oaks that surrounded Rosewood Manor.
Naturally, I searched for him the next day, and when I spotted him at the gate, my heart was pounding in my throat. I walked toward him in my frilly white dress with colorful ribbons.
“Can you actually get out of your cage?” he asked as if nothing noteworthy had happened yesterday, as if we hadn’t spoken to each other for the first time, as if he hadn’t kissed me.
I shook my head sadly. “No. Dad doesn’t allow it.”
The boy smiled again, that subtle, barely perceptible smile that completely confused me. “And if he doesn’t notice?”
“I’m not allowed.”
Nathan took a step forward. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before, something that would never be an option for me. And he was still barefoot. “There's a spot in your hedge over there that looks like you could slip through. Come on!”
I didn’t know why I followed him along the wrought iron fence to the man-high hedge, maybe because I had never noticed the spot before but he had. And he didn’t even live here. When I came to the neatly trimmed bushes, he whispered from behind the greenery, “Here.”
