"…a shame…"

"…such weak constitution…"

A weak constitution? More inappropriate giggles threatened. Those imbeciles! They could not be speaking of her prince. Cinderella fell to her knees. Unmindful of sharp gasps surrounding her, the outraged squawks of her stepsisters and Stepmama.

With tentative fingers she touched his hand. Warm fingers curled round hers. She could not see his face, the curve of his lips, or shock of dark hair. But there was no mistaking the crackle of awareness over her skin. The prick of cupid's arrow had already pierced her heart as stark as a bolt of lightning streaking across a blackened sky. Prince.

"Cinderella!" Stepmama snapped. Had she said his name aloud?

"Prince, Prince, please wake, my darling," she prayed under her breath.

"Stop that incessant muttering!" Pain wrenched through her jerked arm as she found herself hauled from her knees. Cold infused her hand without his touch. She resisted an urge to struggle, knowing the futility of resistance.

"Give the man some air," someone called out.

Tears blurred Cinderella's vision as she found herself jostled aside. Farther and farther she was shoved outside the ensuing circle that surrounded her love's lifeless body.

*****

Prince could only imagine how he appeared, sprawled on the flagstones like a bird shot from the sky. Horrified at what could not have possibly happened, yet what must have happened. Not a muscle flinched by sheer power of will, daring only to breathe shallow intakes of the mid-autumn air.

A gentle breeze rustled falling leaves and the cool stones seeped through the coat on his back. The chaos of shocked voices stayed him. There would be no facing down Maman after this disastrous debacle. She'd won the round, hands down, whatever her odd game.

A strange, appealing warmth caressed his fingers with a touch of familiarity. Every cell in his body ached to grasp that hold, secure it and run. A touch full of comfort, whispering he'd found where he belonged. Even flat on his back. An odd notion that made no sense.

The crass, brittle sound of his betrothed's mother chased away any remaining warmth-a sound he heartily wished to eradicate from recent memory.

"Cinderella," she snapped.

It was too much to hope no one had noticed his precarious position. Prince peeked through the barely raised lid of one eye. The sun still shined through fluffy white clouds. Yet brisk wind gusted that seemed to mock his very soul. What a perfectly wretched situation.

How could a man of nineteen years succumb to such a state? This had to be some dreadful dream. His mother barked an order to Arnald in a low commanding tone that could have raised France from the depths of despair over the years. Prince clamped his eyes shut, allowing his cousin to hoist him over one shoulder like a sack of turnips.




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