“Everything tastes heavenly,” Elle proclaimed after sampling some of the dishes. The cheeses were sharp and potent, the rosewater taste of the snow cream was fabulous, and Elle didn’t doubt the wines were priceless and the teas were of the highest quality.
Severin, Elle was interested to see, ate using silverware, making precise cuts and eating tidily. The utensils looked ridiculously tiny in his large paws, but he maneuvered them deftly. Only his wine goblet seemed to give him any troubles as he wasn’t able to get his lips properly pursed against it thanks to his large fangs.
More courses were brought in. There were bowls of lamb stew and fish stock soup, trays of grapes and cherries and pears, beets, violet jellies, breadsticks, venison, and quail.
“I believe I may require an additional footman to haul my chair up the stairs after this meal,” Elle announced.
Elle was sampling a crisp breadstick when the dining hall door was pushed open. In toddled the fat Papillon. He made a beeline for Severin, barking ferociously. The small dog circled the prince’s chair and snapped at him.
The prince’s cat ears flattened and he briefly narrowed his eyes at the canine before returning his attention to his meal.
The Papillon stopped to breathe for a minute, snorting like a pig as he recovered. One of his giant ears twitched, and with a yip he launched himself at Severin, hooking his tiny teeth on the sleeve of Severin’s jacket.
Severin shook his arm, but the dog remained fastened. He growled as the dog hung in the air. “Heloise!” he bellowed, his voice as feral as a snarl.
The Papillon growled as it hung from Severin’s sleeve, its fat jiggling whenever Severin moved.
Elle smirked openly. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who disliked the illegitimate prince.
“Heloise!” Severin shouted again. “Get this mongrel out of my sight.”
Elle took a sip of her wine. When she set her cup down on the table with a clack, the small dog rolled his eyes to look at her. He abruptly unhinged his mouth from the cursed prince’s clothing, dropping to the floor with a splat.
The beautifully groomed dog scraped himself off the ground before waddling to Elle’s end of the table. It attempted to launch itself on Elle’s lap, but it couldn’t get off its hind feet, so it settled for sitting on her uninjured foot.
Elle pet the adorable creature, and Severin looked directly at her for the first time since her arrival. His beast eyes were narrowed, and his ears flattened.
Elle smiled at him and popped a cherry in her mouth.
Severin pushed his dishes away from him, opened his waterproof container and spilled his papers in front of him. He carefully sipped tea and immersed himself in letters, ignoring Elle.
He looked up only when Emele and the four footmen returned to take Elle back to her room.
“This dog, this wonderful dog, who does he belong to?” Elle asked, playing with the Papillon in her bed that night as Emele shut the curtains.
Emele paused long enough to place her hands on either side of her head, upright, in a mock pair of ears.
“The prince?” Elle asked.
Emele nodded and started fluffing pillows.
“He doesn’t seem to like him,” Elle said, looking at the fat dog. “You are a good dog. Never change!”
Emele nodded before pointing to the dog and then Elle and smiling.
“The dog was hurt like I was?” Elle guessed.
Emele shook her head and finally reached for her slate.
Keep.
“He can stay with me while I’m here?” Elle said.
Emele nodded and arranged the pillows around Elle.
Elle picked up the chubby Papillon, snuggling him against her for the moment. She hadn’t owned a pet since her father’s business failed. It would be fun to borrow a dog, even if it was only for a little while.
Emele carefully removed the splint from Elle’s leg, casting it aside before she helped Elle slide her legs under the covers.
“Thank you, Emele, for all your help,” Elle said.
Emele curtseyed and blew out the candles until the only light came from the fireplace on the far side of the room.
After a week of silent dinners with Severin, Duval presented Elle with two wooden poles. Each pole was topped with an oddly shaped pillow Elle saw Emele embroider during her bed rest.
“What are they?” Elle asked, for once not having to feign ignorance.
Duval presented a slate to her. Crutches.
The portly barber-surgeon passed the crutches off to Emele. The lady in waiting tucked a pole under each arm. She swung them forward and then stepped off a foot to glide forward, her weight resting on the crutches.
Elle didn’t understand quite how it worked, but she latched onto the important fact. “I can walk?” she said, barely able to contain her glee.
Duval hastily wiped his slate clean with a kerchief. SLOWLY, he wrote, underlining it several times.
“Of course,” Elle said as she hastily scooted to the edge of her bed. It was a difficult task thanks to all the underskirts and overskirts Emele had stuffed her into that morning, but at least Elle now understood why the ladies maid had fussed over her.
