23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"A woman laughing is a woman conquered." Napoleon BonaparteThe impromptu backstage buzzed with activity as dryads, nymphs, and satyrs hurried up and down, their pan-like harmonicas swaying from painted lips. Isabel rolled her shoulders. Soon it would be her cue. The last scene. Diomede’s play delighted her. His tale of young Hercules was witty and held a core of morality.

Isabel peeked through the curtains as Alfonso delivered a soliloquy about what he should do with his life. He had spoken his lines with articulation, and the toga displayed sinewed arms, but something was lacking. Ever since Henrique mentioned Hercules, she could not help seeing his face whenever she thought about the hero.

She glanced at the audience for what must have been the tenth time, but Henrique wasn’t on any of the velvet chairs her cousin had lined for the presentation. Neither was he near the Grecian columns supporting the ceiling. She bit her lip and tiptoed to inspect the shadows closer to the exit.

"Stage fright?" Dolly touched her shoulder.

She had been fabulous as Hera, performing the central part with humor and charisma. It had surprised Isabel, such theatrical talent.

Isabel kissed her cheek and tweaked her nose, now receding to its former glory. "I’m so proud of you."

"Lady Virtue is the perfect part for you. Break your tiara." Dolly beamed and skipped away.

The stage had been Isabel’s cradle. From the moment she fluttered her eyes in the morning until she turned on her side and embraced her pillow, she performed. The country needed the perfect veneer, the groomed princess who quoted Rousseau, who could inaugurate a setting stone with dignity and be sent to diplomatic missions. At least this part of herself she performed flawlessly.

Henrique appeared from nowhere. Women around her giggled and pretended to cover their dishabille.

"Are you ready?"

Her lips parted as Henrique circled around her. Other men should be forbidden from wearing evening attire. They couldn’t compare to Henrique in formal black and white. Tonight he had the red scarf around his neck, and the splash of color emphasized his blue eyes, making them magnetic. As if he needed more power. Shivers raced up her spine as his eyes took in her bare arms. The Greek gown woven with silver thread showed more skin than she’d ever exposed in her life.

Her mouth turned so dry she feared for her stage lines. "I thought only people involved in the production could be here."

He halted and touched a freckle above her elbow. "I am involved in the production."

Isabel stared at his lips. Sinful, they were, and so firm. She should’ve licked them when she had the chance. "How do you fit in a heroic play?"

"You can call me summer." After declaring such cryptic words, he passed a harness around her waist.

Isabel’s breath caught. "Summer? The play is about the choice between virtue and vice."

"Indeed. It’s time the cicada had a little push."

He so bemused her she only noticed he had strapped her to a ropy contraption when he guided her atop a makeshift stair. Even then, she was more preoccupied with his scent and how she could keep it inside herself.

They arrived at a wooden platform at least ten feet above stage level.

She would be above the stage when the curtains opened, facing the audience. Understanding of his plans dawned on her. Her stomach fluttered, and she held his arm. "What should I do?"

"Jump." The glow of stage lights played on the planes of his face. He bent to speak close to her ear. "Have a pleasant flight."

Slowly, he moved away from her, his expression an odd mixture of anticipation and worry.

She waited, brushing her ungloved hands against her bare arms. She barely recognized this Isabel, and yet, she didn’t want to descend the stairs back to safety.

With a swoosh, the curtains opened. The light dazzled her. Her heart sped up, and the air solidified. Henrique demanded too much from her. Flight? It wasn’t for her. On the stage, Alfonso sat on a throne, posing as Hercules. The rows of chairs were filled with aristocrats, their faces blurring into one flesh-colored mass. Her gaze flitted aimlessly, looking for purchase in a world that moved too fast.

Then she found Henrique.

The invisible threads stretched until they connected her with him. She placed higher trust in their bond than the ropes strapped over her waist. She took a fortifying breath and then two. Keeping eye contact, Isabel jumped. Airborne, her center of gravity tilted. Her tummy tingled, and laughter choked out of her.

While she floated above the stage, the audience cheered, awed by Henrique’s creation.

All she could feel and see was Henrique staring at her. He made love to her with his eyes, but his lust did not reduce her womanly power. It enhanced it. He laughed as if her delight made him weightless.

She loved him. The realization arrived in a rush. Instead of alarming her, it made her soar and glide, unburdened by matters of state, by appearances, by playing a part. It was air, and Henrique, and those blue eyes staring at her.

Isabel missed her cue to speak.

Shaking her head slightly, she lifted her palm. "My name is Virtue. I came for you, Hercules. If you take the road to me, you will do great and noble things. Listen well, for nothing worthwhile comes without work. To earn the favor of the gods, you must worship the gods. Desiring the love of friends, you must do good for them ... and if you want your body to be strong, you must make it the servant of your mind and train it with effort and sweat."

Rafaela sashayed onto the stage, her dress displaying a naked shoulder, and offered Hercules a red apple. "My dear hero, I want to be your best friend. Follow me, and your road will be pleasant and easy. You won’t know hardship, and all the sweet things in life will be yours. Forget wars and worries—your cares will be what food or drink you prefer and what sights and sounds most delight you. What touch or perfume most pleases, whose tender love you most enjoy, and what bed yields the softest slumbers."

"Lady, what is your name?" Hercules asked.

"My friends call me Happiness. Those who hate me call me Vice." Rafaela curtsied, and the audience laughed.

Rafaela clasped Hercules’ hand. "The road to virtue is hard and long. Let me take you down the short and easy path to happiness."

Isabel inhaled to speak. "Choose me. Vice will lead you to despair. Stay with me, and I will lead you to happiness." Choose me, Henrique. Stay with me. If she thought it hard enough, he would listen. He mouthed something, but the noise of wood scraping startled her.

Hercules had risen from the throne. While he looked from Rafaela to Isabel, the audience hooted, some calling for him to choose vice. The women laughed. Isabel forced herself to pay attention. Just a few more lines and the play would end, and she could listen to what Henrique had to say.

Hercules cleared his throat and pointed his club in her direction. "I chose you, Isabel."

The audience cheered at Alfonso’s faux pas, and they clapped when the curtains closed.

For a disconcerting moment, all was black. A rush of energy floated through her. As the crank of a pulley signaled her descent, she was lowered slowly, but her spine tingled as if she was ascending still. In the dark, she waited for Henrique to help her out of the contraption.

Hands circled her waist.

Isabel opened her eyes in time to see Henrique’s retreating figure. Her breath caught, and she blinked repeatedly. In his place stood Alfonso, his enraptured face lowered to her.

"You were amazing," Alfonso said.

"Oh, I’m glad you liked it." Isabel tried but failed to keep the disappointment from her voice.

"Like it? You were exceptional. I will hire whoever created this to be my main engineer."

If he waits long enough to be caught,she thought bitterly.

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 precious pundonor, 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?"