“These dratted skirts make it impossible to correctly use my crutches. Who designed such foolish feminine wear? The proletariat class would never wear something so irrational,” Elle said, balancing on her good leg as she removed the crutches from under her arms to try and push the puffy skirt of her dress backwards.
Pinching her mouth in a grim line of determination, Elle replaced the crutches beneath her arms and moved forward. She did not take the small, careful strides she had used to hobble down the hallway. Instead she swung the crutches forward with faked expertise before pushing off her good leg.
Sometimes Elle hopped too high—like a frog clearing a lily pad. Other times she moved too slowly and her shoulder blades uncomfortably pinched. There seemed to be some sort of trick to keeping the crutches from moving. Half of the time they slipped when she hopped, and her shoulders hurt from pushing them forward like the oar of a boat. Elle was positive the volume of the dress was making the exercise more difficult than it needed to be. They forced her to keep the crutches angled out.
Twice Elle had to lunge forward to borrow support from the armchair to keep upright. Her underarms ached and the thigh muscles of her good leg burned as she charged ahead.
Occasionally Elle glanced at the library doors, but she never heard another set of footsteps, so she kept practicing.
Once Elle accidentally put her bad leg down. Pain shot through the limb. Elle narrowed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from yelping as she stood still. She shook her head, as if shaking the pain off, and grimly hobbled forward.
Elle was exhausted and ready to face the most likely murderous Emele when it happened. Her crutches slipped. The left one shot out from under her arm when Elle was hopping forward. She landed heavily on her good leg, spinning oddly with one sided momentum.
Elle knew she was going to fall, so she avoided calamity by falling into the armchair. Unfortunately she fell at a very awkward angle and was wedged into it, her good leg straining to keep her aloft.
“Oh dear,” Elle said, feeling her leg shake. She would have to figure out a way to slowly lower herself. Maybe she could slide to the floor and—
Elle’s thoughts were interrupted by the click of claws on stone.
A beastly, hulking shape emerged from the bookshelves. It was Prince Severin. He glided across the floor in his rolling gait, his velvet black fur gleaming dully in the torchlight.
Elle should have known someone was in the library with her. But she hadn’t heard him at all, were her skills slipping?
Elle’s leg almost gave out when Severin stopped next to her. The cursed prince reached out with clawed hands and gently—but impersonally—picked Elle off the chair. He set her on her good foot and presented her fallen crutch to her before he glided off.
Severin left the library, closing the door behind him.
Elle stared at the door, a puzzled frown slipping across her lips. What did that mean? Elle always thought Severin was the type to stand on top of those who had tripped and fallen. He was the master mind behind his inept brother. Helping peasant girls stand was not a character trait Elle would have thought he possessed.
Elle shook her head and limped to the door. “I must find Emele and repent. I really am famished now.”
At dinner Elle thoughtfully chewed her fish as she stared at Severin. He still ignored her as he tidily ate, reading papers and scribbling notes in between courses.
Elle slurped her tea, noting with interest when one of Severin’s cat ears twitched—in irritation most likely. At least he was aware of her, even if it was only auditory.
As Elle took care to slurp especially loudly, she wondered why the prince hadn’t sent her from the room. An illegitimate prince was still a prince, after all, and she was nothing but a supposedly ignorant peasant. An idiot, he said, as Elle recalled.
A maid glided forward, refilling Elle’s teacup when she set it down. Elle gave the masked girl a quick smile before she selected a few grapes to eat.
“The food is fantastic,” Elle said, speaking loudly enough for Severin and the servants to hear.
Severin didn’t so much as move a muscle, so Elle turned her attention to the servants. “Really, it is,” she said to the silent maid closest to her. “You must give Bernadine my compliments and highest praise. She brings credit to the already honorable occupation of cook.”
The maid curtseyed with the whisper of crinkling cloth.
Elle smiled at her before her attention began to wander. She eyed her crutches, which were placed near her on the ground.
A manservant noticed her gaze and swept her crutches out of reach before she could make a move. His lips formed a sweet smile as he leaned the crutches on the wall, aware of Elle’s aspirations.
“So, this is a big castle,” Elle said, folding her hands in her lap.
Severin turned a page in his book.
“It’s very nice. It’s well… furnished,” Elle said.
