Chapter Nine

THE LAST TIME I’d received mail from abroad had been… Well, never. I did not receive mail. Nobody did. Text messages from Astrid, Mother, sometimes Larry, yes. Emails from work, university, some questionable business that assured me they could enhance my sex life, sure. But nobody sat down and wrote letters anymore. Not with pen and paper. How very odd.

This letter had also come from the palace. Of course, within the unopened, handwritten envelope might be nothing more than a printed copy of a standard thank you for attending the queen’s festivities a little under two weeks ago.

Still, my shaking hands didn’t get the memo. Why I felt nervous to open the missive confounded me. Utterly ludicrous . I tore it open, spoiling the expensive envelope entirely. Several pages fluttered to the floor about my feet.

Curious.

A thank you should take no more than one page—two at a stretch and with a gigantic font. Perhaps I had become embroiled in some sort of chain letter, whereupon I would need to send this on to at least six friends (four more than I possessed) or risk imminent ruin or death. As previously mentioned, I am somewhat prone to dramatics.

What I found upon retrieving the pages could not have shocked me more if the words leapt from the page and slapped me.

The letter was from Prince James. I discovered his signature on the second page I looked at. Astounding .

Once I collected the six pages—yes, six—I collapsed onto my bed as though my bones had de-solidified. What the dickens was this?

It took some time to order the pages correctly, but I was reading James’s apologetic, charming, and entirely devastating letter before long. How was one to resist such an onslaught of charisma? His vulnerability quite beguiled me as he pleaded for me to forgive his behaviour and then humbly asked that I write back to him.

There was nothing to be done but call Astrid.

She answered after three torturous rings. “Presti, I saw you not one hour ago. Is everything okay? It is not like you to be so clingy.”

“I’ve received a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Mm.”

“Handwritten?”

“Of course.”

“And who penned the missive?”

“Prince James.”

Astrid gasped. “Extraordinary.”

“Mm.”

“Well? What does he say?”

“This and that. Apologising for his behaviour when last we saw him. Asking me to write back.”

“Write back?”

“Mm.”

“Extraordinary.”

“Quite.”

“I shan’t ask you to read it to me, Presti, what with privacy and all that, but was it splendid?”

“Naturally. The entire letter is peppered with snippets of James’s personality so as to make it quite impossible for me to do anything other than dreamily admire him as a literal embodiment of a Prince Charming.” I sounded ridiculous, but it was the truth.

“Remarkable. He did come across as one who could be quite an excellent belletrist. Do you plan to respond?”

“Well, I don’t know. I can’t seem to think straight. Shock and all. What do you think?”

“I think you must. It’s manners to respond.” I heard the flutters of excitement building in Astrid’s tone.

Should I respond? “Of course.” And then that heinous bitch, reality, gut punched me. “What the hell do I say?”

For a moment, Astrid said nothing, then she said, quite rapidly, “I’ll be there in ten minutes. We’ll need the best paper you have, a calligraphy pen, if possible. Far more romantic than a common ballpoint, candles and at least one bottle of wine. Oh, don’t fuss about the paper; I have just the thing, but get the rest of the required accoutrements together. Larry will happily bring us sustenance, I’m certain. This looks set to be an all-nighter, Presti.”

What the hell had I gotten myself into? Perhaps I should have kept this one little secret to myself. Too late now, Astrid was well and truly up to her naturally sculptured eyebrows in my and James’s…penpalship?

True to her word, Astrid arrived in a swirl of excitement and zeal not ten minutes later. I listened as she almost incoherently babbled to my mother some excuse for her presence, which inexplicably seemed to involve the plight of sea otters being exploited on the internet for the viewing pleasure of the human population as they watched the otters frolicking in aquatic environments.

“Well,” my mother said as she extricated herself from Astrid’s enthusiasms at my bedroom door, “let me know what I can do, as always.” Mum smiled fondly and left us to it.

“Right,” Astrid offered as soon as my door closed, “I’ve got parchment. Father ordered it online several years ago, but we never quite found a use for it. And now the perfect occasion presents itself. Oh, Presti, this is just marvellous.”

“Mm.”

Astrid froze and turned her seeking gaze to mine. “You seem enervated. Have you changed your mind? Do we need to rebuff the overtures of the prince?”

“It’s not quite overtures, As. I think he’s just lonely.” Though we hadn’t spent much time together and were, in fact, little better acquainted than strangers, I’d gotten the distinct impression that James not only would not have chosen his life but was positively lonely in it.

“Then be his friend, Presti. I can’t imagine he has too many true ones, and he couldn’t ask for a truer one than you.”

“What if…I could see myself falling for someone like him. What if I do, and I end up getting hurt?”

“What if you don’t? Matters of the heart are full of risks, but what is life without taking those risks to find the person made just for you?”

Part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity of a prince of anywhere being made for me. But an image of James’s vulnerable eyes, the phantom feel of his soft, warm lips on mine, overtook any hesitation I felt at replying to his letter.

“Okay. I shall become his pen pal but won’t allow myself to think I will ever be anything more to him. I can’t, Astrid. I must protect myself.”

Astrid nodded. “Pen pals, then. Friends across the oceans and the pages.”

“Yes. Yes, I can live with that.”

“Let’s begin, then.”

“Let’s. How?” I asked, still in something akin to shock at this turn in my life’s fortunes.

“An acceptance of his apology to begin. And then follow his lead. Did he share himself with you? Or was it polite mentions of the weather and asking after your family?”

Though Astrid’s eyes burned with curiosity, I knew she’d never ask to read the letter. But I could share titbits with her. Enough, at least, for her to guide me in this endeavour. She was, after all, the only one of us to ever have had a romance.

Three hours and almost two bottles of wine later, Astrid and I had achieved…nothing. Nothing but a growing pile of discarded pages filled with unsatisfactory words and sentiments. Too impersonal. Too cheesy. Too verbose. The list went on and on as to why we’d vetoed every attempt at return correspondence.

“We are wordsmiths, Presti,” Astrid bemoaned. “Why can we not compose a suitable letter?” Astrid took a sip of yet another glass of wine.

She and I were not typically big consumers of alcohol, following some rather unfortunate incidents, but strange times called for strange behaviours.

“I expect it has something to do with Prince James’s lips,” I replied.

“His lips?”

“Mm.”

Astrid’s brows furrowed as she stared at me, seeking an explanation. “How so?”

“I can’t seem to stop thinking about them. How glorious they felt pressed against my own—” Too late, I realised what I’d just blurted. At least I had my wine-addled brain to blame for my blabbermouth.

“Aha, I knew it,” Astrid crowed. “I knew he kissed you. You came back with that same look of awe you had after Silkie introduced you to pornography.”

“I had no idea that could go there and that—by all accounts—it would feel so good.”

“I do not want to have this conversation again. I do think we’ve analysed that particular sex act to death. So, may we get back to Prince James and his luscious lips?” Astrid, astonishingly, waggled her eyebrows.

“Don’t ever do that thing with your eyebrows again, As.”

“Sorry. I blame the wine.”

“I certainly hope so, and I never said his lips were luscious.”

“But they were?”

“Oh yes, they were indeed. Like warm, soft pillows pressing against my own,” I replied a little too dreamily for my liking. I had imbibed an awful amount of wine.

“That’s not quite as erotic sounding as you think it is, Presti.”

“It is.”

“Hmm,” Astrid murmured thoughtfully. “No. I stand by my original claim.”

“Well!” I rather too aggressively shouted while reaching for my phone. “We’ll see about that.” I dialled.

“Who are you trying to call, Presti?” Astrid leaned against my side, trying to keep upright or see whose name was on my screen.

“I’m calling an adjudicator to—oh, hello. Yes. James. Sorry to trouble you and all, but I was hoping you could settle a matter between Astrid and myself.”

“Presti?” James asked, sounding adorably perplexed.

“Yes. Yes, it is Presti. Now, I ask you, James, do you not think it is somewhat erotic to describe lips as soft, warm pillows?”

Silence.

“James?”

“Yes. I’m still here. I’m just not sure what’s happening.”

“You’re adjudicating a disagreement between Astrid and myself. I think I should put you on speaker. Let me put you on speaker. Astrid should be able to hear your chrysostomatical voice when you agree with me about the eroticism of your lips.” I fumbled about, searching for how one utilised the speaker function on my phone. Astrid remained still at my side, unhelpfully gaping at me.

Finally, I managed the feat. “Right,” I said with utter confidence in my chosen course of action. “Now, James, do you not find it quite erotic that I described your lips as soft, warm pillows when we… Well, I shouldn’t say it over the airwaves. Anybody might be listening in, unless, of course, you’ve likely got some measures in place to prevent eavesdropping. Wonderful spy stuff. But do you agree with me? You, James, not Astrid, because she does not.”

“Have you been drinking?” James asked.

“I have, but my sobriety is not the issue here. Choose a side, James.”

James chuckled before offering an answer. “I find it adorable that you think that of my lips.”

“But adorable is not erotic,” I replied.

“How diplomatic,” Astrid gushed. “Isn’t he diplomatic, Presti? You are quite right about his chrysostomatical voice. He might easily be a voiceover man if he weren’t a prince.”

“Adorable is okay, I guess,” I continued somewhat sullenly, “but I was aiming for something a little more erotic.”

“Dare I ask what is going on over there?” Prince James asked, sounding more perfect than any mortal should.

“I received your letter.”

“And it warranted alcohol and a discussion over how to describe my lips.”

“It was unexpected,” I replied.

“I wanted to apologise and also,” James said, his voice dipping into a whisper, “I didn’t want to say goodbye to you.”

“Yes, Mrs Jones,” Astrid yelled, “I can help you polish the silverware. One never does know who might show up for dinner.” Astrid fled my room with a wink and a slight wobble on her unsteady feet.

“That was subtle.” James laughed.

“We don’t have silverware,” I replied, feeling quite tongue-tied over the developing events.

“You are wonderful, Presti.”

“Are you certain you have the right person?” I asked, convinced James thought he was conversing with some other Presti. I really must add wine to my list of banned consumables.

“I only know one Prestidigitation, and he is quite wonderful.”

“I did like your lips,” I exclaimed.

“I’m glad. I liked kissing you too.”

“I’ve been trying to reply to your letter, but, well, I can’t express what I want to express. Words are failing me,” I sighed, frustrated by my lack of skill with the written word. “I guess I’m not sure I’m doing it right. Letter writing, that is. And then I began fearing you might suffer from epistolophobia, but of course, if you had a fear of receiving correspondence, you would not have asked me to write back even if I do it wrong.”

“There is no right or wrong way. Just write…whatever is on your mind. Whatever you wish to share with me.”

Huh. Indeed, I could do that. “Even if it’s to complain about that uncomfortable feeling of wearing new underwear?”

James barked a laugh, a sound I wanted to hear more of. “Yes, even if it’s that. I don’t have many friends, Presti, and I greatly enjoyed your company. I want to be your friend.”

“I would like that too.”

“Well, it’s settled then. We’re friends,” James declared.

“Pen pals,” I agreed. “And as your friend, may I congratulate your family on your brother’s upcoming nuptials? The media here is quite gaga over it all.”

“And here,” James sighed. “Listen, Presti, I’d love to stay and talk with you, but I’m afraid you did call me at a somewhat awkward time. I’m in the middle of a public engagement.”

“Right. Sorry. Time differences and all that. It isn’t the middle of the night over there.”

“Nope. And I’m about to step out into the opening of a youth centre. But promise me you’ll write. Anything at all, Presti. Just write me.”

There was that thread of vulnerability in James, the one that tugged mightily on my heartstrings. “Well, it wouldn’t be much of a penpalship if I didn’t write you. So, I promise,” I vowed. “Take care, James.”

“And you,” James replied. And then he was gone.

Before Astrid returned to my room three-quarters of an hour later, I’d penned seven pages of utter nonsense to Prince James of England, thus beginning our penpalship.