Chapter Text
Iris peers over the lip of the well, resting her weight against the old, grey stone. Beside her, Linda, her lady-in-waiting and closest friend, lets out a muted sound of horror, presumably at Iris getting her pinafore mucky. Iris ignores her as she holds her lantern above the darkness, letting the warm light glitter over the water below. It’s dusk, and light is quickly receding over the West kingdom.
Her father had been listening to complaints about people stricken by vomit spells all week. He had feared a plague, but all were well again within a few days. Iris had happened to hear him complaining to one of his knights, “We just can’t pinpoint where it’s come from, that’s what’s frustrating. There’s no common food, no foul meat, or even a witch sighting. Nobody has any idea.”
And, well, Iris did have an idea.
So here she is, dragging Linda out after supper to one of the city’s wells, on the north side. Winter is drawing over the West kingdom with its usual grace, as trees lose their final leaves and the city markets start to display their best fur coats. The first snow is always Iris’ favourite time of year, and not just because it usually falls around her birthday.
“I still don’t see why you’re so sure it’s this well,” Linda says, folding her arms even as she leans over the opposite side.
“I asked for the records of all the sick, and just marked their homes on the city map. They all get their water from this well.” As she explains her theory, Iris frowns at the lack of illumination further down the hole, standing on tip toes to hold the lantern as low as possible.
“So they all live nearby - then maybe it’s a contagious sickness,” points out Linda.
“Then why hasn’t it spread further?” Iris counters. “I asked Caitlin, and she said a vomiting bug passes across the city much faster - even those in the villages or farms would be sick by now.”
Linda purses her lips in consideration; Caitlin Snow, the castle’s chief doctor, was certainly respected enough for her opinions to be considered fact.
Iris lets out a muted sound as an idea strikes her. She reaches for the wooden pail hanging above the well, and dumps the lantern inside. She then reaches for the brass handle controlling the pulley mechanism and begins spinning it. Both she and Linda lean over again as the lantern descends and illuminates the well’s depths.
They both hold their breaths.
“Ah-ha!” Iris crows.
Linda groans. “Fine,” she concedes. “You were right. The water’s contaminated.”
The lantern has lit the very bottom of the well and its water reserve, revealing the floating body of a rather dead rat.
“Now,” Iris says, leaning on her elbows. “How exactly do we get it out?”
Linda twists her lips. “There’s not many tools around.” She’s right - they’re in the more rural outskirts of the town, and they’d have to walk half a mile only to find most of the shops shut for the day. “Unless we got some long sticks and tried to pinch it?”
Iris makes a non-committal noise, mind whirring for an idea. She hardly wants to leave the decomposing rat for another night, not when so many people rely on the water supply. “We really need a net of some kind…” She trails off, and her chin darts up with another idea, locking her animated gaze with Linda’s.
Linda narrows her eyes in suspicion. “What are you thinking?”
“Don’t kill me,” Iris says, before quickly whipping off her pinafore.
“Iris!” But Linda’s cry of admonishment falls on deaf ears, and Iris grips the fabric tightly as she tears it in half, leaving two long strips of white cotton. Her yellow dress underneath is still intact, and she has plenty of pinafores back at the castle anyway. Linda lets out a defeated sigh. “I’ll go find some sticks.”
“Thank you!” Iris replies brightly as Linda makes her way over to the forest’s entrance, where the trees are still sporadically spaced.
They’re outside the city walls, which might have been a cause for concern when Iris was a little girl. Now, she spends as much time in the towns and the forest as she does within the castle grounds, and her parents have given up on trying to enforce the usual royal parameters on their children. The West realm is expansive, and exciting, and often beautiful, and Wally and Iris have never ceased to try and explore all its depths.
As Iris fashions one strip of fabric into a kind of net shape, Linda comes back with two sticks a few feet tall. They manage to attach the pieces together, though the ever-dimming light of the evening makes it difficult, as does Linda’s continued grumbling about the ruined pinafore.
“I’ll sew it back together!” Iris protests, only inspiring a scoff from Linda.
“Yeah, right. You’ll start sewing it, and then get distracted by a new book, or something new to investigate. Remember when you were supposed to be helping trim the gardens and you ended up proving the gardener’s son was selling opium?”
“Well,” Iris defends, “He was.”
Linda rolls her eyes, though she can’t hide her smile. As much as she might try and scold Iris, they both know she loves the adventures as much as Iris does. “Whatever. Let’s catch this rat and then get back before your father notices we skipped on your economics lesson.”
They manage to attach the rope to the sticks, and then attach another stick to each handle for good measure using the spare fabric. It’s a rickety-looking device, but it seems to hold up well enough when they test it with the spare candle they brought for the lantern. They decide that Iris will try to fish the rat out while Linda looks from a different angle to give any advice.
And that’s how Iris finds herself leaning her belly on the edge of a dirty well to pull out a rotting rat. All in all, it’s probably not what her royal tutor was hoping the future Queen of West Kingdom would be spending her evening doing.
But the device is just an inch too short to comfortable scoop up the vermin’s body, no matter what angle or force Iris attempts. She huffs in frustration as the fabric only brushes the rat. If she could just get a little closer-
Linda’s watching the rat, so she doesn’t notice that her friend is getting perilously close to topping straight over the well’s edge-
Iris manages to loop the fabric underneath the rat, balancing on the tips of her toes - but as she tries to pull herself, and her victory, back up, she feels the shift of gravity, of vertigo-
Suddenly, she’s grabbed, just moments before she goes over, by a strong set of arms from behind her.
But the momentum of pulling her back up sends them falling the other way and onto the grass with breath-stealing impact. As she, and whoever saved her from a nasty fall, go tumbling backwards, the makeshift net comes with them, flying straight up through the air. Iris rolls to the side, dazed, and hears the wet splat of the rat’s impact.
She sits up, both to survey the damage and see who exactly her rescuer is. She looks to her side, to see none other than Sir Thawne, looking traumatised, with the sodden and decomposing rat smacked just beside his ear.
Iris claps her hands to her mouth. “Oh my god, Ed- Sir Thawne!”
“Hi, Princess,” he smiles weakly.
Is it possible to at once feel mortified and exceedingly pleased at someone’s appearance? Iris stands quickly, all rapid apologies as she holds out her hand to help Eddie up. He ignores it, pushing himself just as Linda reaches them. “Iris!” She exclaims. “Are you alright? Sir Thawne, what are you doing here?”
“I’m fine,” Iris assures, cheeks hot. “Although I’m sure I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Sir Thawne here.”
“It was my pleasure to help,” he says, in that throaty, delicious voice of his. His blue eyes glitter in the sunset’s light, blonde hair almost glowing. He is dressed as impeccably as always, a knight by trade but noble by birth. His horse is waiting calmly a few feet away, not even tied up. Iris feels a flutter in her gut at the idea of Eddie rushing to dismount for her safety.
She remembers seeing Eddie for the first time - he had only arrived to the West kingdom six months ago, moving into the nearby Thawne Manor after staying with a relative - and he was as gorgeous then as he is now. He had been riding past the castle, and had dismounted specially to help her carry some of the spare bread and vegetables she had been taking to the children’s home. He had talked to her so normally, unlike most of the other eligible bachelors she’s met, too obvious in their knowledge of her royal blood. He was so charming; he still is.
All the ladies at court adore him, obviously, but he’s been spending enough time around the castle, visiting her father and walking her around the West gardens, that she really believes he might return her feelings. Certainly, the private smile he gives her now does nothing to dissuade her hope.
He cocks his head, tilting back to appraise the small corpse still pathetically lain on the ground. “Uh,” he says. “Can I ask what you two ladies were doing?”
“Saving the village,” Linda replies, and Iris rolls her eyes, fighting back a laugh at her friend’s humour.
“Not quite,” Iris says. “We think the rat was contaminating the water supply, that’s why the villagers have been getting sick.”
Eddie nods thoughtfully. “That’s a good idea - and what did you use for the, ah, catch?” He nods to the sticks-and-fabric piece, now falling apart a little after the dramatic lift.
“My pinafore,” Iris says. With that, she abruptly remembers she’s wearing one of her plainer dresses, a less formal sunflower yellow flowing down the natural line from her hips to rest at her shins. She quickly explains, a little embarrassed, “I didn’t want my usual dresses to get dirty.”
“You still look lovely,” Eddie says, and Iris feels her whole world light up. “And that was clever of you.”
“Thanks,” Iris says, trying to tamper down on her smile.
“So what are you doing over here, Sir Thawne?” Linda asks. “Thawne Manor’s much further south, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Eddie’s smile dims a little. “I was actually hoping to find you - I’m afraid I have to leave for a while.”
Iris feels her blood freeze, and struggles for words.
“I’m going to go, um, look at that tree,” says Linda, rather unsubtly, before walking away to give the two some privacy.
“I wanted to speak to you later, or at your home, but I don’t think time will allow for it.” Eddie twists his lips, looking away before back to Iris. He really does look upset by the news he bears, which at least gratifies a small part of her. “One of my friends from my time away has taken ill, and I’m afraid his landlord is a cruel man. I need to go sort out his estate, to make sure his wife and children will be okay if the worst does happen.”
Oh, of course he’s going for a noble reason, one that Iris can hardly fault. “But- how long will you be gone?” She doesn’t dare to say what’s on the tip of her tongue, knows that any declarations of her feelings would be inappropriate. She had thought they were so close, that soon he would come talk to her father, talk to her, and maybe- but that would have to wait.
“A few months, I think.” Iris can’t help her expression at that - she was expecting only a few weeks! He looks as miserable as she feels - could he be as upset as she is?
“Oh.” Her hands wring, and her gaze drops to them, unsure of what she should say. She jolts with surprise as his own hands cover hers, stilling them.
“Princess,” he begins. He takes a deep breath - is he nervous? “You must know my feelings by now.”
“Your- your feelings?” She almost can’t believe this is happening, the moment she’d been hoping and daydreaming about for so long.
But he doesn’t expand on what those feelings are. “I know your birthday is tomorrow, and this year you’ll be eligible for marriage.”
Though there is nothing forcing her to marry as soon as she turns twenty-one, it is the age for matrimonial consent. (Some will marry younger in the more rural areas, but it would be unheard of within noble circles.) At twenty-five, she’ll be expected to take over the throne, as is custom in the West kingdom, so those four years are simply most practical to find a husband or wife in.
Eddie takes a breath in and his fingers curl around Iris’ hand, surrounding it with soft, warm skin. “I know I cannot ask anything of you, but I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering whether you might consider waiting for me to return.” He looks back up at her with those blue eyes, pupils dilated in the low light. “I was wondering if, then, maybe I could ask you another question.”
Iris bites her lip against the crazy grin threatening to split her face in two. She tries to remember everything her etiquette tutor had tried to teach her about proposals, and maybe wishes she hadn’t spent most of those lessons reading the adventures of an explorer who claimed to be magic. She settles for smiling, and turning her hands within his so their fingers entwine. “Sir Thawne,” she says, quietly so as not to betray her wild enthusiasm. “I would hope you might guess what my answer will be.”
He lets out a shaky breath, and it’s the first time Iris considers that maybe his composure isn’t always further than skin deep, that maybe he’s feeling as wild and crazed and excited as she is. “That’s- Princess, that’s a wonderful thing to hear.”
Her mood dampens when she remembers the reason Eddie is telling her all of this is only because he will be leaving for so long. She doesn’t think she can even bear it.
“I’ll back before you even miss me,” he says, obviously reading her expression perfectly.
“I doubt that,” she replies.
His lips quirk up, just for a moment, before he lets out a deep exhale and steels himself. “I should go,” he says. “I still have to return to the manor to pack for my travels.”
She wishes he’d kiss her; in one moment, it seems as if he will, leaning his face just that inch closer to hers. But he takes a step back, bending at the waist to kiss her hand instead, still held loosely in his.
“Goodbye, Princess,” he says, and all Iris wants to do is try and convince him to stay, a selfish part of her stamping its foot selfishly.
But no, she decides. She won’t wallow. She might have to wait a few months, but at least now she has something concrete, something closer to a promise in the way he had come to say goodbye to her. Her heart flutters to think of Eddie proposing for real, how happy they could be together.
“Goodbye, Sir Thawne,” she replies, voice soft and private in their own shared moment, only the trees and birds around them.
He goes back to his horse and climbs on gracefully. With one last look and a shared smile with her, he kicks his heels into the horse’s belly, and leaves southward-bound.
Iris watches him go, and feels, rather than sees, Linda come closer to stand beside her. “I can’t believe he’s leaving,” Iris says, softly.
“He’s coming back, isn’t he?” Linda doesn’t seem quite as bothered as Iris is.
“Yes, but-” Iris struggles to find the words, the sense that his leaving means a change from her plans that she can’t quite put her finger on.
“I don’t understand you around him.”
Iris feels her face heat, embarrassed at the idea of being so obvious. “What do you mean?”
“You know the rat was poisoning the village water,” Linda says, frowning a little. “I don’t understand why you phrased it like that.”
“Like what?” Iris asks, defensively.
“‘We think.’ Like you wanted him to confirm your theory.”
“I was just being modest,” Iris dismisses.
“Yeah, that’s my point. The Iris West I know is smart as hell and twice as nosy, and she knows it.”
Iris frowns, not wanting to acknowledge her friend’s words. “It was just phrasing. It doesn’t matter - especially when he promised to ask me to marry him when he returns.”
At that, Linda’s eyebrows raise, her previous doubt about Eddie apparently pushed away. “He did?”
Iris nods, biting back her grin as she finally allows the happiness to wash over her. “He did!”
Linda looks thoughtful as she looks to the road down which Eddie had gone. “Well, he is handsome,” she muses. “Your children would probably be unfairly pretty.”
Iris feels her cheeks go hot. “No-one’s thinking about children yet!” But her embarrassment only makes Linda laugh out loud. To try and hide her red cheeks, Iris busies herself with wrapping up the dead rat in the ruins of her pinafore dress, trying not to look too closely at it, or breath in.
“So, you’d say yes?” Linda confirms. “When he asks?”
“Of course,” Iris replies, as she walks with the wrapped body towards the edge of the forest. She deposits it behind a thick nettle bush, letting nature do with it what it wants. At the very least, it will probably be an excellent fertilizer.
They begin the walk back to the castle, after collecting the lantern to illuminate their way in the surrounding darkness. From here, the route is a safe one. None in the city would dare to harm Iris so close to the castle with city guards patrolling, and though a monarch could never be universally loved, King Joseph West came pretty close.
“You wouldn’t consider any other options?” Linda persists, her voice just a shade too innocent for Iris not to be suspicious.
“What are you getting at?”
Linda lets out a little laugh, shoving her gently. “I’m talking about the fact you’re already engaged!”
For a second, Iris is confused, wondering when on earth she had been proposed to. Then she realises what Linda’s talking about. “Oh, that doesn’t count.”
“Um, pretty sure it does,” Linda disagrees, obviously taking pleasure in how much Iris hates talking about this subject.
This subject being, of course, the very technical matter of being betrothed to a nearby prince since birth.
Theoretically, Iris has always known that in her father’s study, there is a piece of parchment, an engagement contract, that states that she, Princess Iris West, will marry Prince Allen, son of King Henry Allen of Central City. (She’s sure someone’s told her, years ago, what her betrothed’s name is, but, well, she’s quite clearly put it all to the back of her mind.)
But isn’t that her point? She doesn’t even know the man’s name, never mind what he looks like, or what his personality is like. The contract is obviously just a few words to ensure pleasant politics. And Iris knows for a fact that Henry and Joe are good friends, and she certainly isn’t intending to start a war with Central City. So there’s no real issue - she isn’t particularly worried about it affecting her future marriage to Eddie.
“Mother always said I could choose who I marry,” Iris says, reaching up to fiddle with her necklace. “She wouldn’t make me marry anyone, I’m sure.”
They pass into the city walls, nodding at the guards who know their faces by heart, as Linda points out, “But wasn’t your parents’ marriage arranged?”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t love each other,” Iris replies - because she knows, deep in her heart, that her parents do. She sees it in the way they support each other, the way Francine can make Joe laugh until he cries, the way her father brings her mother flowers every time he leaves the castle.
“Oh, no, I wasn’t-” Linda looks contrite. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Iris assures.
“I was just teasing.”
“I know.” Linda still looks worried, though, so Iris smiles, elbowing her friend gently before linking their arms at the elbow. “Come on, it’s fine. All that will happen is Father will write a letter asking for the contract to be annulled, and Henry will surely say yes.”
Iris had met Henry a few times - though she had never left the border of West Kingdom, a fact she was just a little sore about, he had visited for many of the balls thrown in the castle. He had even been there when the Thawnes had thrown their banquet a few months ago to celebrate Eddie’s official return home.
He seemed a kind man, always quick to smile and never scolded Iris for asking too many questions, both as a child and an adult. Other nobles were always telling Iris she shouldn’t care so much about things that didn’t concern her, both as a lady and a future royal. Like she shouldn’t even notice if the Rainbow Bandit was still loose on the north borders of Central City, or she shouldn’t care what had happened to the missing boy from Gotham. Like all her mind should be filled with is how the annual grain reserves are faring and how soon she can pop out an heir.
“You’re sure?” Linda asks, and Iris realises that underneath the teasing and gentle laughter, Linda really is concerned at any obstacles that might arise.
“I’m sure,” Iris says, firmly, as the castle looms into their sight. Its familiar turrets and beautifully carved stone are always a welcoming presence. “I’m probably never even going to meet Prince Allen.”
-
“What?” Iris asks, sure she can’t be hearing this right.
She’s standing in her father’s study, on the other side of his huge desk, as King Joe West and his wife try to defuse their daughter’s outrage. It’s an impressive room, though much smaller than the more official throne room where ceremonies take place, and slightly smaller than the war room, where he meets with his advisors and generals.
Linda had left to her own chambers barely an hour ago, as Iris had excitedly filled in her brother on the news. While Wally hadn’t particularly seemed bothered either way, too busy trying to keep Linda in conversation (her brother’s crush on Linda is well-known gossip around the castle, to the point where Wally doesn’t even bother to try and deny it anymore). Unbeknownst to her, however, was that her father had been just outside the room.
Apparently he had been ‘just walking by’, but Iris would far rather call it ‘eavesdropping’.
And somehow, that had led to him wanting to see her, and talk to her. She had expected him to be happy - delighted, even. But then she had walked in the room, and seen her mother there as well, standing by the bookcase, a carefully neutral expression on her features, and she knew something was afoot.
“Don’t you like Eddie?” she had asked, confused by their less-than-thrilled expression.
“He’s fine enough,” Francine said, gently, which is hardly the adjective Iris would use, but whatever.
Her father had rubbed at his temples. “Look, Iris, I wasn’t going to tell you until tomorrow, because I didn’t want you to worry or stress. But this complicates things.”
So, her parents are apparently keeping something from her - and they know well enough by now how little she likes things being kept from her.
Iris crosses her arms as she repeats the question. “Tell me what?”
Her father takes a deep breath. “Prince Allen and his party are visiting tomorrow.”
Iris blinks. “I don’t understand. Why?”
She had been joking with Linda just an hour ago, as if it was just a wild concept, the very idea of even having a fiancée. But here it was, slapping her in the face just as everything with Eddie is finally falling perfectly into place.
“It’s your twenty-first birthday. You’ll be eligible for marriage, you know this.” Francine says. She uncrosses her arms to hold them apart a little as if welcoming with her body language. But Iris has seen her pull similar mind games on diplomats, too focused on the threat of the king to focus on the queen. “Isn’t it natural that he’d come to visit? Surely you must have been expecting this.”
She shakes her head because no, she certainly hadn’t. Maybe she should have, but having lived her whole life with a fiancée never there, she had gotten used to it. “Do I-” She’s afraid to ask the question.
Luckily, her mother reads her expression, and mind, and quickly says, “We won’t force you to marry someone you hate. I’d go to war before you or Wally were unhappy, you know that.” She frowns. “Don’t you?”
Iris looks at her feet, not wanting to admit that for a few moments there, she had been worried. She loves her parents, and knows they are good, reasonable people; but they are also monarchs. They ruled over an entire kingdom, not just a household. And if there was one thing that her tutors had managed to drum into her mind over the years, it was that the kingdom comes first.
Anxiously, she fiddles with her gold locket necklace, which is probably reply enough.
Before she can look back up, her father has crossed around his desk to wrap her in a hug. She melts into him, letting her worry wash away.
“We’re not asking you to marry him. The contract is a piece of paper, and I certainly know Henry wouldn’t want either you or his own child in an unhappy marriage. But,” he continues, after the gentle press of his lips against her scalp. “But, baby, at least consider him. Don’t discount him straightaway.”
“I’ll try,” Iris agrees, though, privately, she can’t imagine how on earth she’s supposed to do that when she’s so sure her heart is already decided for. She asks, lightly, “So, you’ve met him?”
“Oh no,” Joe says, stepping away having known his daughter too well for too long to fall for her innocent expression. “You’re not getting any information from me. You’ll meet him properly at the ball tomorrow.”
Francine puts her hand to her forehead at her husband’s loose mouth.
“There’s a ball as well?” Iris exclaims. “Father! Mother?”
“Linda already has your dress prepared,” Francine quickly placates.
“Linda knew as well?” Iris is already getting ready to let her friend have it, teasing her like that.
“No, no,” Francine says. “She just knew there was a surprise ball for your birthday, not that Prince Allen would be coming to it.”
Iris twists her lips, her outrage deflating. “Ah.”
“You know,” Joe says thoughtfully. “I wonder if that’s why Eddie was so eager to speak to you before he left. When I sent out the invitations for the ball, in your name, I’m sure many must have guessed, what with it being so close to your birthday.”
Iris frowns at the thought - though the interpretation lets a bit of the air out of his sort-of-proposal, she must admit that the timing is too coincidental. Also: “Did the whole damn kingdom know Prince Allen was visiting before I did? Have you sent out the wedding invitations as well?” Her voice rises in its growing anger.
“Iris-”
She lets out a sharp exhale. “I’m going to go sleep. I should be well-rested for my betrothed.” The last word seethes from her lips as she stalks out of the room, shutting the door as sharply as she dares behind her.
It’s just so much to take in, and the idea of it all being deliberately kept from her, while all the nobles and the court was gossiping behind her back, is what stings the most.
She ignores her father’s calls for her to wait, far too angry right now to listen to him. She loves them, and she’ll get over it, but she needs at least tonight to collect her thoughts.
She makes her way to her bed chambers. She sends away her maid after she’s heated the bed. She should sheath her dress and change into her night clothes, but her head’s too busy, whirling with Eddie, Prince Allen, and her parents. She’s tempted to go talk to her brother, but she doesn’t want to disturb him if he’s already gone to bed. The same goes for Linda.
So, she goes to the only other place in the castle that’ll clear her mind and put her at ease. She goes to her favourite room, her own safe haven; she grabs a torch, and makes her way to the library.
-
She opens the wooden door as she comes to it, but is surprised to see candles already lit and the room bathed in gentle, warm light. “Hello?” she calls, edging around the door. It would be a bold servant who’d come in here themselves. Neither her brother nor father would be likely suspects, and her mother usually keeps her books in the bedchambers she shares with Joe.
There’s a scraping sound, wooden legs pushed back on the stone floor, as someone quickly stands from one of the chairs, hastily putting down the book they had apparently been reading. “Uh, hi.”
She steps further into the room, examining the stranger. It’s certainly no one she recognises. Light chestnut hair is unruly above unfamiliar green eyes and high cheekbones, freckles are only just visible in the dim light. He’s tall, and gangly for it, dressed in fine clothes - though his jacket has been discarded on the back of the armchair (her favourite one, she notices) and his shirt sleeves have been pushed up his forearms.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, which, okay, is probably a little rude of her.
“Right,” the man agrees. He seems nervous, for some reason. Does he think she’s going to report him to the guards, or run screaming? “I was just lost around the castle, and thought this was my room, and then, well, I must have gotten distracted by all these books and lost track of time.”
She frowns. If he was lost, he must be a guest, or a new servant, though she certainly hadn’t heard of anyone new being hired. And if he’s a guest, then, “Are you here for the ball tomorrow?”
His eyebrows raise at that. “Yes?”
She can’t help but let out a small laugh at his expression, like a worried puppy, feeling her previous mood lighten by this strange interaction. “Why are you making that sound like a question?”
“I’m not? I’m not,” he corrects, with a cough. But he’s smiling as well, if a little bashfully. He must be a relative, or one of the lower nobles - they always get a little star-struck by the Wests, as both a royal and, if she does say so herself, a rather good-looking family.
She moves further into the room, letting the door shut behind her. She can’t see even a holster for a sword, never mind a weapon, and her gut instinct identifies him as a definite non-threat. “So, which family are you from? I don’t think I’ve seen you at any previous balls. Oh,” she has a sudden thought. “Do you know the Allens?”
He’s staring at her with a curious expression, some strange mix of anticipation and confusion, and she can’t work him out at all. “Yeah, you could say that.” He seems to make something up in his mind, and then he steps forward, with a hand outstretched for her to shake. “I’m Barry.”
She’s surprised at the gesture, staring at the offered arm, and he visibly falters. But she jolts out of her brief daze, and grasps his hand, shaking it firmly. “Sorry” she says, one side of her lips curving in a rueful smile. “Not many men shake my hand. Or, uh, introduce themselves by first name.”
“Oh!” His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, probably to apologise, before she hurriedly explains.
“No, no, it’s a good thing! I much prefer it. Most men kiss my hand, and, well, if I don’t consider them a suitor, or…” She trails off, not sure how to explain how people struggle with the respect they must give her as future monarch and the respectability they must follow as a woman. “Is that how they do it in…?”
“Central City,” he confirms. “Ah, I’m not sure. I was never good at listening to the etiquette tutor my father hired.” He looks worried. “Is that offensive here? Should I kiss ladies’ hands?”
“Probably,” she admits.
“But they’d prefer to have their hands shaken?”
She pauses. “Um, yeah.”
“Right,” he nods to himself. “Good to know.”
She can’t help a smile at that as she sets down her lantern and blows it out with a sharp puff of breath, seeing as not much reason for it still to be lit. The smoke rises in a small wisp of a trail, and she moves towards the bookshelf, looking for a book and the reason she’d even come down her in the first place. She has no quarrel with this ‘Barry’, and they can sit comfortably together and continue to read.
“So,” he starts up conversation as she browses, brushing the pads of her fingers against the leather spines, imprinted with titles and authors. “You’re Princess West?”
She gives him an odd look over her shoulder, since that should be obvious. “Yes.”
“And you’re engaged to, ah, Sir Allen?”
She shrugs, turning her attention back to the books. She’s looking for one in particular, one of her favourites from childhood, that should ease her nerves before she goes to sleep. Although, she’s certainly feeling calmer, even just from talking to Barry, a total stranger. “I suppose,” she says in answer to his, again obvious, question. She twists her lips at the bookcase, a wry smile. “I meet him tomorrow, apparently. But it doesn’t matter, really.”
“It doesn’t?” He sounds surprised; even, strangely, hurt.
She realises her mistake. She shouldn’t be even hinting to insult him in front of one of his civilians. “Oh - I didn’t mean offense!” She spins to face him properly, to see him frowning at her, his book lying forgotten on the small table. His expression is unreadable. “I’m sure he’s perfectly nice. But I won’t be marrying him.”
“You’ve already decided you won’t?” His expression flinches at her words, and then recovers. “But aren’t you already betrothed to him?”
Perhaps it will embarrass the people who came to see a wedding if she rejects their Prince - but she doubts Sir Allen even wants to marry her, either. He can’t want to spend the rest of his life with a stranger.
“Only on an old piece of paper,” she defends. The main reason she’d come to the library was to get away from this very subject - with that in mind, she pointedly turns back to the bookcase. As she does so, a title catches her attention from her peripheral vision, and she explains, “It’s an old arrangement, and I’m going to marry for love, not for a contract I didn’t even sign. Anyway,” she adds, “I doubt he wants to marry me either.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says, almost too quiet for her to hear.
She shrugs again as she pulls her chosen book down from the shelf and goes to sit on the sofa. To her surprise, he sits down at the other end of the piece of furniture - even more surprisingly, she finds that she doesn’t really mind. She asks, eager to change the conversation in the lull, “So, what were you reading? When I walked in.” She nods to the book he had left on the table.
He startles a little at the abrupt topic shift. “Oh, well. I noticed you have an amazing encyclopaedia collection, especially for science. I was reading the ‘I’ section.”
One corner of her mouth lifts in a smirk. “You found a whole library and you went for the encyclopaedia?”
“Well, what are you reading?” he defends.
He’s caught her there. She lifts her own book, a little guiltily, and reads aloud, “A History of Bigfoot, by A.R Milke.”
He stares at her for a moment, and then his face breaks out into a grin. She notices it reveals dimples in his cheeks, and makes his eyes crinkle in a way that, if she were inclined to think so, could be described as adorable. “Not what I would have pegged a princess to read.”
“I’m not just any princess,” she refutes, but with humour; for some reason she knows Barry is only teasing her, unlike so many others she had meant who really would be surprised.
But his face loses its joviality, and he looks away, twists his lips. “No, you’re not,” he agrees, quietly.
With that admission, the bubble of their own little world seems to shatter.
“Well,” Iris says delicately as she stands. “We both have the ball to go to tomorrow, and I know my lady-in-waiting will not be pleased if I have bags under my eyes.”
“Oh, yes, I should probably-” he stands as well, and gestures awkwardly to the book by the armchair. “I should probably put that back.”
“Yeah, ‘J’ can wait for tomorrow,” she teases.
He grins, letting an exhale of laughter through it. “Right.”
She leaves him, and the whole strange encounter, holding her book to her chest as she walks back to her room. It’s only when she’s out the library door that she realises she left her lantern down there - but to go back would be too embarrassing, so she navigates by the moonlight and her own practiced instinct.
At least going to the library managed to take her mind off tomorrow, and off Prince Allen.
-
Breakfast the next morning is awkward, which Wally delights in, as he does every time he’s not involved in family tension. It hasn’t missed her attention that her father just happened to have an early morning ‘thing’ in the town court to explain his absence at the table.
As Iris picks at her fruit, and Francine barely says anything with her oatmeal, Wally asks, “So, Iris Allen, looking forward to today? Or, wait, would you hyphenate?”
Iris is sorely tempted to just throw the apple at her brother’s head.
“They’ll obviously hyphenate,” her mother replies, almost instinctively, and then avoids the sharp look Iris throws her, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m just pointing out the West name has a long history.”
“Well, thank you for your input, but it’s not going to be Allen, or West-Allen, so there’s no point really discussing it!” Iris takes a pointed bite of her apple, as if that’ll finish the conversation.
Unfortunately, Wally has never responded to social cues like that, especially coming from her. “Are you going to have your honeymoon in Central City? Or will you go further, to get some real privacy for all that rampant heir-making - ah!” He narrowly dodges the half-eaten apple aimed directly for his face.
“Iris!” Francine scolds. “Future queens do not throw fruit at their brothers.”
“They do when he’s being irritating,” Iris mutters darkly.
Her mother sighs. “Look, Iris. I really am sorry for not telling you earlier. We didn’t want you to worry.”
The fight goes out of her. She must admit, last night was spent being anxious enough that she wouldn’t have wanted to extend it; perhaps her parents did have a point. “It’s okay, I suppose,” she says.
Then she realises a way she can get back at Wally, and she turns to him with a gleam in her eye. “So, Wally, are you going to be bringing a date tonight? I know Linda is certainly going to be looking just lovely.”
Wally goes a deep red, and her mother’s pealing laughter fills the room.
The day goes by quickly - Iris talks to a grateful mother who had heard about the well, and she finishes her book from last night, though her mind flits from the pages to her own worries frequently. All too soon, it’s time to get ready for the ball and begin the undertaking of washing and plucking and dressing.
“Are you excited?” Linda asks from behind Iris, fastening the stays of her corset tightly. “You’re going to meet your betrothed!”
The maids all share a giggle. But Iris is disinclined to join on the joke - what has always been a teasing subject is now a sore one. She’s tense, and uncomfortable. “Linda, the corset’s too tight.”
Linda sounds confused. “It is? It’s the same as I always do it.”
Iris takes a deep breath and realises her friend is right - she can breathe fine. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m-”
Some of the other maids are obviously listening for gossip. Iris must’ve done something spectacular in a past life to deserve Linda, who lightly says, “I’ll bet it’s the extra scone you had at lunch. Not that I blame you, Cook’s baking is just heavenly.”
“Yeah,” Iris says, feeling her momentary panic ebb. It’s natural to be a little nervous about a man she’s been hearing about for a whole life. “I heard she’s made wonderful things for the buffet tonight.”
Iris knows she should’ve looked out from her bedroom window when the Allen party arrived, or so she presumed from the sounds of the wheels and the horses and the chatter. But there’s a large part of her that wants to put off meeting Sir Allen for as long as possible - as long as he’s just a name heard through her childhood, similar to Rumpelstiltskin or Snow White, none of this is real. None of this she has to deal with.
The other maids leave as soon as the dress is done so Linda can do Iris’s hair. Iris sits down at her dresser, and surprised at how easily she can read the trepidation in her face in the mirror’s reflection. “God, I look awful,” she comments.
Linda rolls her eyes, reaching for the hot curling rags. “Oh no, you don’t.” At Iris’ unimpressed glare, she admits, “Alright, you look stressed. But still lovely.”
Iris fiddles with her gold necklace. “I shouldn’t be stressed. It’s just a formality.” But her tone lifts into a question and Linda clasps Iris’ shoulders gently. “Isn’t it?”
“Iris, the only thing tying you to Sir Allen is an aged piece of paper,” Linda assures. “Paper burns away. Love doesn’t.”
Iris reaches up to hold her best friend’s hand, grateful for her support in ways she doesn’t have words for. “I suppose you’re right.”
“As always,” Linda says, smugly, and the tension dissipates as Iris laughs.
Linda curls Iris’ hair in record time, tying up some of the waves up in a pretty style that Iris would never be able to manage by herself. She can hear the music from the ball wafting up through the castle, jovial tunes and pretty string instruments twanging.
As Princess, she’s supposed to be the last one to arrive, but she’s now itching to just get it over with. She’s been imagining what Sir Allen would look like for so long: is he short? Dark hair? Ugly? She’s tempted to ask Linda what he looks like, but decides against it, knowing that Linda’s perception of all eligible men is sorely bias thanks to her brother's very existence.
Finally, it’s time for her to make her entrance. Linda accompanies her to the huge wooden doors leading to the great hall, and goes first to make sure they are ready to announce her. There’s a knock a few minutes later to prepare her, and then the doors open.
She fixes her prettiest smile on her face, and starts forward, walking down the ornate staircase to the crowd watching her. She sees plenty of people she doesn’t recognise, as well as those she does. The ball has been decorated with the West colours of gold, and it looks beautiful, though she’s too preoccupied to really notice.
Her brother is waiting at the foot of the stairs, looking handsome in a golden suit. He holds out his arm and she takes it. Of course, the whole regal elegance is ruined when he leans in to whisper, “I honestly thought you were going to trip.”
Her smile doesn’t waver, but she does pinch him in retaliation.
The crowd parts, of its own accord, and her brother says, out loud to the waiting guests, as rehearsed, “Ladies and gentlemen, Princess Iris West is introduced to Prince Bartholomew Allen.”
Wait- Bartholomew?
Someone walks closer, as her brother’s arm slips away, and she slows her pace to stop in shock. Because she recognises that face, those green eyes, that tall stance and that unruly hair.
Prince Allen - no, Bartholomew - no, Barry - bends down on one knee, in front of the entire hall, and reaches for her hand.
She’s sorely tempted to wrench it from his grasp as he kisses it and says, with a twinkle in his eyes and a private smile, “Please, call me Barry.”