Page 77 of The Truth About Myths
"Love as if you would one day hate, and hate as if you would one day love." - Bias of Priene
Henriquestoodattheballroom’s fringes while the couple danced under the light of a thousand candles. Everything was correct in the waltz. At least a palm separated their chests. Alfonso led her into unimaginative steps, stiff as the stick in the mud he was. When he smiled at something Isabel said, the entire company sighed.
Alfonso had the right to smile into her eyes and bring her closer at every measure. He had the right to splay his hand over the small of her back and listen as her heart pulsed with the waltz’s one-two-three. He had the right to her hand's weight in his and to square his chest as he paraded the most stunning woman around the ballroom. Alfonso had the right.
Then why did it feel so wrong?
A knot obstructed Henrique’s esophagus, and no amount of brandy would make it recede. A lucid part of him tried to command his legs to leave the room and repel the pain, as any wounded animal would. But his skin had become bark, rigid, stuck in the same place like a gnarled oak. Thank God for it. Otherwise, the Spanish aristocracy would learn the mess within. He wanted to shout to them that the woman in Alfonso's arms was his and that, no, they could not have this particular princess, not for a ball, not for their political machinations, and not in blazing hell for breeding their next prince.
What had happened to his principles? Seek pleasure, avoid pain? She'd shoved her royal self into his beliefs, that's what. After her, pleasure and pain became the same, swelling and ebbing, scraping to show peaks underneath the physical. A deeper meaning to things.
Perhaps it was only he who saw it.
More fool him.
"Well, then. I can't say I'm surprised." Dio turned his back to the couple. "On to the card tables, shall we? All this royal sweetness is making me thirsty."
Dio's voice faded with the last strings of the waltz. Isabel's skirts twirled around her ankles and then stilled. Henrique stopped breathing. Alfonso leaned in, aimed for her cheek, and then kissed her lips. Isabel startled and pulled away. Even with the distance separating them, her eyes sought Henrique's. He crushed the brandy tumbler. His vision tunneled at the Spanish rooster, and a primitive urge gripped him to grab the prince by his lapels and shake the smile out of his Bourbon face.
The ballroom swirled around him. The guests' faces turned into mythological monsters, watching the tragedy unfold. Henrique hit the side table with his glass, sloshing liquid over the rim.
He advanced, a foreign bloodthirst fueling his moves.
A hand over his arm forced him to stop. Henrique eyed Dio with murderous intent.
"Are you sure you should congratulate her in your state? You've been drinking since last night's dinner."
Henrique panted. What would he do? Grab her like a Neanderthal and take her to his cave? Dio was right. He didn't belong here. With a last glance at the princess, Henrique strode through the French doors and into the gardens.
"Where the hell are you going?"
"To the tavern. Care to join me?" He had experienced enough pain for a lifetime.
"A Castilian maid might wash the breath of Lady Montijo from my neck. Good God, the lady is ferocious. But are you sure you should go?"
Henrique trampled the grass, not caring for Dio's tone. "I don't know what you mean."
"Self-deception isn't one of your poisons."
Henrique whirled and grabbed Dio by the lapels. The pent-up rage threatened to engulf him. "Stay out of this."
Dio's lips opened in a smile full of teeth. "I’ve known all along. You love her. That's why you have Hercules’ club up your ass. Go after her. It's not too late."
Henrique released his friend, disgusted with himself. Isabel had used him. He had taunted her for keeping her passionate side on a leash, and she showed how wrong he was. What they shared meant nothing to her. She chose a royal prince. Whether for political reasons or sentimental ones, what was the difference? He had shown her his true self, and she chose another.
Henrique's long strides carried him to the brightly lit stables. Halting, he caught his timepiece. Half-past twelve in the morning. Why were all the torches burning?
Dio caught up with him. "As much as I love a good debauchery, I don't think—"
"Silence." Henrique lifted his hand.
The carriage house had trains of baggage being lifted to the coaches. Servants bustled about, carrying boxes and baskets.
Henrique intercepted a groom. "What is going on?"
"The royals leave for Madrid in the morning,patron."
One of Canastra's guards glared at the servant, and the boy lowered his hat and scurried away.
