Page 67 of The Truth About Myths
Alfonso helped the backstage boy remove the harness from her waist and then escorted her out of the makeshift theater and into the conservatory, where the citrus trees were in full bloom. The cooling night air and the sweet scent of orange flowers tasted bittersweet. She watched again to see if Henrique would follow, but deep into her marrow, she knew he wouldn't. Hadn't he felt the same?
Maybe he did, only it was the thousandth time he did so, and he would reduce its power to some animalistic desire. But she would not deceive herself into discounting what happened. She had felt a higher feeling, and she would bet her brother's kingdom Henrique did too.
They trailed the moonlit path until they arrived at a fountain. The air was heavy with the scent of wet pavement and damp earth. A cicada struggled in the water, her spindly legs useless against the spray.
Isabel placed it gently on the fountain's rim.
When she lifted her head, Alfonso gazed at her strangely, his cheeks flushed. He still wore Hercules' costume, and his bare arms made her oddly uncomfortable.
He touched her cheek. "There are very few decisions I have carried out in my life, and none of them this important."
Isabel moved away from him, placing the fountain between them. "I'm sure this will change when you assume the throne."
An owl hooted to their left. She looked at the palace entrance longingly.
He followed her and, catching her hand in his, went down on one knee. "I want to cross the Ebro with you, Isabel. Will you be my queen?"
Isabel flew. Triumphant was her smile and her face fair as a cool wind on a sultry afternoon. Certainly, Henrique’s enjoyment in her performance was because of the glimpses of skin under the diaphanous gown or for the rewards her joy would bring. Even as the rationalizing began, he knew it to be lies. He felt pleasure because she felt it. It wasn't perfect because she pended a bit to the side, and too many people watched. Still, it was addictive, this pleasure of hers. What else could he build for her to keep her smiling?
To what lengths had he gone? He, who scoffed at the differences between royalty and commoners, would found a new country just so he could proclaim her his queen. To make her happy. To bow to her every need. To be her subject, her executioner, her prisoner.
His pulse sped as he listened to her. Her cultured diction, spoken with all the consonants and vowels, breathed life into every word, warming his chest.
Then she paused, and her gaze found his. He sustained her look, like Hercules must have gazed at Mount Olympus, knowing there, hovering beyond a mortal's reach, lay his life's meaning. The time for denial had passed. He craved the meaning Isabel brought to his life even though it carried the promise of unfathomable pain.
As soon as she finished her performance, he would go to her. He would kiss her while the audience clapped their hands raw. He had so much to show her. Ropes and pulleys weren't the only way to fly.
As the curtains closed, he took a step forward.
Dio clasped his shoulder. "It pains me to admit this, you old fool, but you are a genius. Your contraption worked flawlessly."
"Save your flattery for the morrow. Now I—" His words died away as he spotted Alfonso approaching Isabel.
Muffled by the curtains, the audience clapped incessantly.
Dio linked his arm through Henrique's and tugged. "This calls for a celebration. I've been saving a bottle of my father's best brandy for the opening night."
Henrique planted his feet on the ground. Hands fisted by his sides, he watched Alfonso paw Isabel, helping her out of the harness. Every instinct he possessed clamored for violence.
Dio clucked his tongue. "If you had done your duty to the hostess and accepted Hercules' role, it would be you holding fair Virtue." He chuckled, oblivious to Henrique's murderous intentions. "They fit, don't they?"
Alfonso's besotted look washed down over Henrique with the force of a gale. With his preciouspundonor, the prince offered dignity and entrance to Europe's leading families. All Henrique offered was clandestine passion.
What right had he to come in between the royal couple? Two princes of the blood. The schism between him and Isabel ripped Henrique's chest apart.
Anger curdled his stomach, and he turned away from the couple. "Where is the brandy?"
Chapter 24
"To Eros—You burn us."Sappho
Isabel’slegstookherto the garden. The moon kissed the mowed grass, and jasmine fragrance lingered over the flowerbeds. Brushing her arms, she sped to the spot he favored. She wanted something from Henrique, a closure, a definition... She knew not which. A man should not look at a woman as he did and walk away.
A burst of nervous laughter escaped her throat. She had just received a proposal from the next king of Spain. Instead of pondering where her duty lay, she was ruining her slippers in search of a blue-eyed rogue. Craving his… His what? His passion? Like Ariadne and the women after her, Isabel expected more. Love. A future? Impossible. Her chest constricted until the air became scarce. It was best if she didn’t love him. She’d never been in love before. She could be mistaken. This discomfort in the pit of her stomach every time he came near, this appeal to fluster and amuse him... This need to learn his opinion of everything? This admiration, this desire to have him succeed at his endeavors? Maybe this wasn’t love.
He said passion and desire were but animalistic urges. Had other royalty not had to forbear such instincts? Her priority should be Alfonso’s proposal. Instead of traipsing the garden, she should write to her brother, considering the implications for his reign.
A breeze kissed her cheeks, sweeping through the olive trees. Their silver leaves shimmered in the moonlight, adding a touch of myth to the summer night.
