#I think this is a story better suited to the capabilities of fictionadventurer than to me!

[isfjmel-phleg]

@inklings-challenge here is my contribution to day 19's prompt, "amateur."

This is an excerpt from a Coregean novel, The Amateur Princess, as described here. It's not the brilliant extravaganza I had in my head, unfortunately (I tried something more detailed but it was too ambitious for my current capabilities), but hopefully it gets the idea across.

Loriston society seldom had anything notable enough to warrant the rapt attention of throngs of ennui-stricken aristocrats. They were already accustomed to the ways of the Coregean royal family. They yawned over the most sensitive of poets, whispered through the performances of musicians whose work was renowned on the Continent, and favored the world’s greatest thinkers with only a half-hearted “how do you do?” It required a truly exceptional human being to command the regard of these jaded creatures, and at last society had found such a one: the exiled Princess Grayce of the tiny nation of Anatavia, somewhere in the southeastern mountains of the Continent. No one quite knew where to locate this land on a map. But one could locate Princess Grayce any evening at the residence of the Duchess of Ampnowle, surrounded by admirers. For not only was Princess Grayce amiable and beautiful—golden-haired and blue-eyed, with a foreign, high-cheekboned face—but she also told the most engaging tales.

That night a crowd had gathered around, begging for an account of how she alone of her family had escaped from the turmoil that deposed her father the king and brought a usurper to the throne.

“It really is quite painful to recall it, I am afraid,” said Her Royal Highness in a tremulous voice. She spoke excellent Coregean with hardly any accent, for it was one of the languages of the court in her homeland. “Surely you can imagine what a heartbreaking thing it is to lose everything you love in one night.”

The nobility, none of whom had lost anything more devastating than a small fortune at the gambling table, groaned in exquisite sympathy.

Princess Grayce acknowledged their kindness with the slightest smile and a regal little nod.

“For your sakes,” she said, “I shall do my best.”

And she did. She related an account full of palace intrigue, concealed crown jewels, faithful retainers, a daring plan for escape, and a devastating betrayal, resulting in the Princess Grayce getting separated from her mother, brother, and sister while en route to safety in neighbouring Ivica, only to hear upon arrival of the tragic assassination of her father at the hands of the conquering King Jellick’s supporters, while the rest of the royal family remained missing. 

Amid the cries and gasps of her audience, Princess Grayce had managed to maintain most of her composure, but it was at this point that Her Royal Highness’s eyes filled with glittering tears that trickled down her stately nose like fallen diamonds. For a time, she could hardly speak. The Duchess placed a gloved hand on hers and patted it with the tenderness of a mother. Not a soul in that room was unmoved by the sight of the Princess Grayce as her delicate form shook with sobs.

As she was starting to recover, a gentleman asked, “Where did you go next?”

She dabbed at her face with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I had nothing left but a locket that my parents had given me for my sixteenth birthday. I sold it and bought a train ticket to Vischland, which was as far away from Jellick’s influence as I could afford. From there, I earned my passage to Corege as a lady’s companion until I reached Loriston and made the acquaintance of the dear Duchess.” She smiled a feeble little smile at her hostess.

“But why,” persisted the gentleman, “did you not go to Ivica as you originally intended? Your elder sister is their queen; surely she would have taken you in.”

Princess Grayce said nothing. She clenched the arms of her chair and went white, then red.

When at last she spoke, it was with a note of reproach. “Do you not,” she said, “recall that Ivica itself is under threat? A party not unlike Jellick’s is gaining power, and my brother-in-law King Kostandin has pleaded with your own king for aid. How could I enter that country without causing greater problems for my dear Viera? I wouldn’t wish what I suffered on anyone, least of all my own sister. For her to accept me into her home now would be to acknowledge and give credence to…what happened in Anatavia, which would only send a message that if one deposition can be managed, so can another. I couldn’t go there.”

“Is that why you haven’t presented yourself at Rhosemore…Your Royal Highness?” asked the gentleman.

“Your gracious king,” said Princess Grayce, “has not yet invited me. Whenever he does so, I shall be delighted to accept. But at the moment I cannot intrude upon his hospitality. The generosity of the Duchess has already been more than I could have hoped for.” She went misty-eyed again but collected herself. “And if there are no further questions tonight…?”

Even the inquisitive gentleman had nothing further to add.

Princess Grayce rose and curtsied in the elaborate Anatavian fashion. “In that case, I shall retire for the evening, but I would be delighted to meet with you all again soon. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

And with a regal wave, she swept out of the room in a cloud of white lace.

#

Away in the Duchess’s finest guest bedroom, a golden-haired young lady had put aside her lace finery in exchange for a silken wrapper and had dismissed her maid (loaned to her by her boundlessly munificent hostess) for the evening. She sat for a time at her dressing table, studying her reflection in the glass in various attitudes, ending with disgust.

“Who does he think he is?” she muttered in tones quite unlike the silvery ones heard in the Duchess’s drawing room. “Thank heaven I remembered.”

Within the drawer of the dressing table lay the evening newspaper, folded as small as possible. Snatching this up, she strode near the fire and paced in front of it for a time, reading every article of world news as religiously as a university student “cramming” for an “exam.” Unlike a diligent student, however, she took no notes. When the final article had been pored over, the newspaper fluttered onto the grate and began to darken and shrivel into ashes.

“I’ll be ready for him tomorrow,” vowed Tresta Gild.

Nature had granted her the gift of total recall of anything she read, a talent which had served her well in her years as a confidence woman. From the time the identity of Princess Grayce had fallen into her lap, her knowledge of Anatavia and its former royal family, gleaned from every book, newspaper, or magazine on which she could get her hands, had increased until she had nearly encyclopedic knowledge of the subject—inasmuch as was written and published.

And much of the life of Princess Grayce, whatever had truly become of her, remained locked away in the memories of those close to her.

Cresta began to suspect that she had just met one of them.