Page 20 of The Truth About Myths
Outside, the hotel stared at him, a gray lump of concrete sticking from the ground, beams of light escaping from the closed shutters. He lifted his gaze to the third floor, the fourth window to the right. Dark. She must be sleeping. Excellent. At least one of them would rest.
He crossed the empty square and neared the entrance. A pitiful whine—midway between a broken steam valve and a wheezing dog—made him halt. Would there be no end to the night's pitfalls? He followed the sound around the building. The pebbled path opened to a kitchen garden, the scent of rosemary thickening the air.
It was her.
The bane of his existence huddled against the graying wall, the tiara at odds with her old-fashioned dressing robe. A shaft of moonlight gave her a translucent and altogether vulnerable aura. By Saint George, what the hell was she doing there?
Henrique came closer, the grass muffling his steps. She startled, her head lifting, a gasp escaping her lips.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and gazed up at the light spilling from a single window above them. "I can't say it's a lovely night."
She brushed at her tears and raised her chin, fixing him with a defiant gaze. "If you came here to reproach me—"
"For almost getting your beautiful face smashed? No, never crossed my mind." He dropped by her side. With a heavy sigh, he leaned on the icy wall and stretched his legs.
She shifted away, studying him with her usual intensity. At least this side of her was predictable. "I wonder if making fun turns everything easier."
"It is an acquired art… But I must admit, not for everyone. Some find better solace in wine." Henrique smiled self-deprecatingly and placed the port bottle in the space between them. She looked like she needed a bit of Bacchus' oblivion.
Her eyes widened, and she stared at Vesuvio's best vintage as if he had offered her vulgaraguardente. "I don't drink port."
Another of life's delights she avoided. He shrugged and reached for the bottle. She beat him to it and, placing her lips over the rim, gulped it down like the last drop of water before a drought.
"Easy there."
She grimaced and returned it to him.
Henrique rested his weary bones on the wall and sighed. It was one of those nights where the cicadas’ song rose in waves, lifting to a melodious pitch and then lowering in unison.
"Their call reminds me of Braganza. I used to sit close to the river, listening until my mother herded me to sleep."
"Why do they sing?" she asked.
"They spend seventeen years underground, and on one special night, no one knows why, they emerge and shed their carapaces to experience flight."
She took a shuddering breath. "Isn’t the carapace safer?"
Henrique tugged off his coat and placed it around her, careful not to touch her. Somehow, he knew she would flee if he did.
It shifted something inside him, seeing her engulfed by his coat. "Do you think you could fly with a carapace?"
She observed the movements of his hands, her lips pressed firmly. "I don't care much for flying."
"That's a pity. I would love to see you fly." For a quiet moment, their gazes met, and Henrique knew his words to be true. He would love to see Princess Isabel de Orleans fly.
She broke eye contact first, staring at his bruised knuckles.
"You are hurt." After producing a handkerchief from somewhere in her voluminous clothes, she grabbed his wrist. His protest fell on deaf, delectable shell-shaped ears. She wet the cloth on his best port. He stiffened, reading for pain, but she was delicate, dabbing at the dried blood with angel-soft hands.
"I must thank you... I didn't know you could, you know…"
Hurt another? Lose his temper? Neither did he. He pulled away from her tender ministrations, flexing his fingers. "Why were you there?"
"I wasn't negotiating a treaty, I can assure you." She blinked at him, those green eyes flashing as if she spoke with a nitwit instead of the country's most sought-after scientist. "He abused her. Couldn't you hear her screams?"
His face grew warm, and he looked away. "I went down to the stables. The groom thought my horse had colic. When I returned to my room and heard the screams... It was too late."
The cicada's quieted, leaving only the rasping sounds of his failure.
