Sohna and Vivian - My Brother's Keeper

The crowd reminded her uneasily of the dream she’d had during the last full moon. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she turned guiltily from the window she had been peering out of to look at Abby.

“You don’t have an extremely large family that W ... Simon forgot to tell me about, do you?” she asked.

The girl laughed.

“No,” she replied. “I have no idea who they are, either. But if it’s any consolation, they’re probably not anyone you know. They’re probably just the people royals are required to invite to any function they hold to avoid bruising egos.”

Virginia stared at her dubiously.

“It’s true,” Abby insisted. “In some ways, it’s NOT good to be the king.” Her father chose that moment to poke his head around the door and ask if she was ready.

Virginia stiffened.

“So soon?” she asked, her voice nearly failing. She felt suddenly lightheaded. Had she eaten enough? She hadn’t been very hungry at all this morning. What if she passed out in front of all those people? Her feet felt suddenly chained to the floor while her stomach fluttered nervously.

“Are you okay?” Abby asked her. Receiving no answer, she suggested, “Look, why don’t you just take it in small steps? We can just go downstairs. Can you do that?”

Yes, she thought. She could do that. She nodded.

They made it out to the vestibule of the conservatory in this fashion, a little at a time. Abby managed to keep her talking, to give her mind something to think about besides the crowd waiting for her, though the wedding was what they discussed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear a mask?” Virginia asked her again.

“No,” she insisted. “You don’t have one on and neither do Simon, King Wendell, or your father. I’d be the only one in the wedding party wearing one, and that in itself would seem suspicious. And it’s not like Simon and I look so much alike - if I had Diedre’s looks I’d probably take you up on it - so that people will automatically guess. I’m betting they think I’m an old friend of yours, or your sister. In a way it will be rather a lot of fun for me to see who they think I am!”

The music abruptly changed from a light background accompaniment to the beginning of a processional. It wasn’t the Wedding March, but it was easy for Virginia to tell that it had the same purpose.

“Well, that’s my cue,” declared Abby. She shook each of her hands into the air, then wrapped them around her bouquet. Nearly set to go, she looked back at Virginia and paused. “Don’t look at the audience,” she told her. “Just look at Simon and don’t take your eyes away.”

Then she was gone.

Virginia felt her dad’s arm lock around hers.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispered, and they started forward.

A sea of faces, all wearing masks, turned in unison to look at her. She felt her face go pale as her steps faltered and her hand tightened on her father’s sleeve. Her legs felt suddenly boneless. Why hadn’t she worn a veil, she wondered? At least then no one would be able to see her face. She was never going to be able to go through with this.

With great difficulty she forced herself to not turn and run. She couldn’t do that to Wolf.

Wolf, she thought, and remembered suddenly what Abby had told her. She looked ahead, down towards the end of the makeshift aisle. He was standing there wearing the same formal silk suit he’d had on at the awards ceremony and banquet. He was smiling at her.

Everything else went away, and she walked towards him as if she were in a dream, reminded suddenly of her nightmare in the swamp and how he had been running to get to her at the end of it. She’d awakened in his arms, shaking, and the shell around her heart had cracked open, a momentary pain that felt better than anything she’d ever imagined. She barely noticed when her father let her go and Wolf took his place at her side. Just like on that long-ago day, he was suddenly simply there.

Queen Riding Hood III sat in the back row of chairs they’d brought into the conservatory, terribly bored. She couldn’t actively begin her plan until the reception, since everyone at the wedding itself was masked and quite subdued. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to her how easily wolfs could blend in with humans, though she knew it should have - how else could some of them go unnoticed for so long in a village? It wasn’t as if it were full moon. Wendell at least had known better than to schedule the event at that time of the month. She knew other royals besides herself had to be present - she could in fact easily recognize Leaf Fall by her wings and the dwarf king by his stature, despite their adherence to the rule requiring a mask, but was unable to distinguish the wolfs as being somehow different. Nor could she identify them by any tell-tale bulge on their hind ends where their tails were concealed: The men all had on long, formal coats, while the women were virtually all sporting bustles. And despite the camouflage it provided, this little fashion affectation was no giveaway: bustles had recently become all the rage and Riding Hood herself was sitting on one. It was, she thought, probably her only opportunity to take advantage of current fashion.

She had, all her life, been required to wear nothing but riding clothes, and always red riding clothes. It was true that for formal occasions the clothes would be modified a bit to fit in, but they were riding clothes nonetheless. She’d been told it was a matter of tradition - that, as queen, she had an image to uphold. Further, because she was queen, she had a duty to be prepared at all times, and that was why, even if she was spending the day alone in her own rooms, seen by no one except her servants, that she was still required to dress befitting her title. After all, she might need to be seen riding at a moment’s notice, she thought sourly. Riding Hood hated the tradition like she hated the color red, but she’d gone along with it anyway. Until now.

This masked wedding had given her the excuse she needed to break the mold, at least for one day. How could she attend a masked affair, she had argued (to her advisors, who had predictably been shocked), if she were instantly recognizable anyway in her red riding clothes? They, of course, had argued back that the queen of the Second Kingdom HAD to be recognized, but she had overruled their objection. She was the queen, after all. And, now she sat here luxuriating in her form-hugging satin gown of rich peacock blue, with its long train of peacock feather panels streaming from the small bustle. She loved how she’d looked in it - how the color brought out the blue of her eyes - and had almost wished she could forget about the mask, but that would have ruined her plans entirely. At least the mask matched her outfit, sporting a male peacock’s crest archly over one eye.

But the decorations hung in the lush conservatory merely depressed her. Not that they weren’t well done - she suspected Lord Rupert had been behind them - but because she knew the decorations for her own upcoming wedding were bound to be ... well ... red. She would be lucky if she could avoid wearing a red gown to it, she thought, though perhaps she could talk her advisors into a white gown with some red accents. It would inevitably be suitable for riding, however. Of that she had no doubt.

Here, however, Rupert had taken full advantage of the fall season in his color scheme: Garlands of multicolored fall leaves, intertwined with ribbons strung with tiny bells and tied with wheat, hung from the iron framing. The glossy green of the orange trees, around which they were seated, provided a solid framework in which he had worked in minimal bursts of discrete color. Containers of cattails stood on both sides of the aisle near the vestibule, and the far end, where the couple would say their vows, had been adorned with several more of the wheat knots that were symbolic of fertility. It was quite appropriate for a wedding, she knew, but remembering who - or rather what - was getting married here, the idea simply made Riding Hood’s gorge rise.

Abruptly, the music changed. A door at the far end opened, sending a breeze through the glass building. The little bells on the ribbon streamers tinkled. Two men, not masked, entered. One she recognized as King Wendell, tall, thin and blonde, his curly-haired head uncrowned for this occasion. With an uncomfortable start, she realized she recognized the other - the wolf - as well. He had been at the coronation, dressed in a servant’s livery - the one who had served her that awful concoction which had made them all pass out. Not that she held that incident against him - since Wendell’s stepmother had fully intended the stuff to be deadly poison. No, her discomfort came from the fact that she clearly remembered ogling him and thinking that maybe she could begin to understand a bit of what made some women of rank engage in a fling with a servant. Her face flushed, and for once she was truly glad of the mask. A deep shame washed over her, not for the thought she’d had about the wolf, but for the contempt she’d always secretly held for their victims. Although she’d never said so out loud, she’d always wondered how a girl could be so mindless as to let herself be victimized. After all, it wasn’t as if they weren’t informed of the consequences: Riding Hood herself had implemented a national campaign designed to educate the young people and their parents about the dangers of involvement with wolfs. There were public service announcements everywhere, education packets for schools and teachers, workshops, and more. But Riding Hood had never actually seen a wolf herself to know she was looking at one. She had no idea they could pass for human quite that easily. No wonder the poor girls had been led astray. Even now she found it hard to keep from staring at him; knowing beyond a doubt he was a wolf seemed to evoke an almost visceral reaction in her. When everyone turned to look at the bride, she had to force herself to tear her eyes away.

The single bridesmaid entered first, of course. She, also, was unmasked (apparently the wedding party felt no need for concealment, thought Riding Hood). She wore a long-sleeved deep violet dress with a scooped neckline, fitted waist and, of course, the obligatory bustle. Her long, thick brunette hair hung to her waist, braided in places with ribbons of violet, gold, and green, flecked with violets and tiny wild asters. Those flowers were echoed in her bouquet, a tumbling mass of violet salvia, purple asters, sweet violets, green ivy and a few well-placed yellow marigolds. Then it was the bride’s turn.

Riding Hood had seen her before, when she’d had to be carried from the ballroom at Wendell’s coronation after having done in her own mother in self-defense. That, she’d thought, had truly been an heroic deed worthy of song. The sheer tragedy of which it spoke proclaimed her strength; Riding Hood had thought for awhile that Wendell might proclaim the heir to his throne through her line, since he would have no children of his own. But the girl had succumbed to temptation and that was not to be. Now, even her father was leading her to her doom.

The sight made Riding Hood want to shout to him, “Don’t you know what you’re doing, you idiotic fool?” But she held her tongue. This was not her kingdom; she was not the queen, nor were these foolish people children. No doubt they thought the wolf to be sincere, since he had offered marriage - which she had never heard of one doing before - but she was not fooled. It wouldn’t be long, she thought, before this Virginia met with some unfortunate ‘accident.’

She looks almost stricken now, she thought. Perhaps she’s having second thoughts? If so, it’s a bit late, though I for one wouldn’t blame her if she woke up and ran the other way. Riding Hood had to give her credit for one thing, though - Virginia was definitely not a slave to fashion. Her gown, though somewhat similar in cut to the bridesmaid’s, was the only one present without a bustle. Nor was it the customary blinding white, but a soft parchment shade perfectly suited for the season, which blended in with the other colors of the wedding in a way that stark white never would have done.

When she’d reached the end of her march, Riding Hood lost interest, however. She was well aware that listening too closely to the wolf lie shamelessly to the poor girl would only anger her and give her a headache. So she decided to devote the time to re-thinking her anti-wolf educational campaign. This little venture had taught her that needed doing if it had done nothing else. She had to take into account the wolfs’ ability to blend in so completely with the human population (when it wasn’t full moon, anyway). And her original purpose in coming was a complete waste of time for the same reason, so she might as well make up for that with something else to show for her visit, she thought.

A late arrival - a tall, thin man in a dark formal suit and black half-mask - sat down quietly beside her then, and folded his hands in his lap. He appeared to be listening raptly to the ceremony, so she was surprised when he turned and nodded to her in acknowledgment. She flushed and looked away, doubly embarrassed, not only to have been staring at him in the first place, but because he’d caught her at it. Yet it seemed she could still feel his eyes on her.

She chanced a glance back at him and found herself staring into his eyes, glittering green through the slits in the mask. Something inside her shifted; it was as if she recognized him though she was almost certain she’d never seen him before. She couldn’t look away.

But he could. His eyes dropped to his hands, which she saw now were clenched tightly in his lap. A ragged sigh escaped him, and she saw the muscles in his jaw work with the effort of regaining his composure. He glanced back at her once, his thin-lipped mouth set in sorrow, his eyes wet and beginning to redden. Then, abruptly, he rose and exited the way he had come.

She wanted to follow, but her dress made her too conspicuous, she thought. Especially, with the train, it would be difficult to simply sneak away. Fabulous! she thought, exasperated. The one time in my entire life I actually need something easy to move around in like riding clothes and I’m not wearing them! Oh, well, I suspect he’ll be at the reception. I’ll see him then. She refused to think about what she would do if he wasn’t there.

Virginia and I are married! I’m married to Virginia! Virginia is married to me! The litany ran through and through Wolf’s mind, over and over. The entire day had been like a dream and he was a bit afraid he would wake up from it to find it wasn’t true. He knew he would never forget the way she looked walking down that aisle toward him: an absolute vision! Not that she wasn’t always a vision to behold, he thought, but there had been something special about her this time. She had been coming to marry him. And now she had!!!!!

He had known she was frightened when she’d walked into the conservatory. Despite all those people, he could feel and know what was in his Virginia’s heart. But it wasn’t fear about marrying him anymore, no. It was all those people staring at her - at his Virginia whom he knew had once longed to be invisible. Of course she would be frightened by hundreds of eyes on her!

He’d known this as soon as he’d seen how many guests there were himself, and he’d had to fight hard to keep from biting Wendell. But he hadn’t. That wouldn’t have been appropriate for a wedding, and Virginia certainly wouldn’t have approved of him doing that either. Still, if the huge crowd had made her change her mind - and he’d been half afraid it would - he’d have done a lot more than just bite the king.

But she’d looked up at him then and overcome her fright. Her steps had been firm as she’d walked up to him, let go of her father, and taken his hand. He’d thought his own legs were going to buckle; he was so happy and giddy he’d been holding his breath, fearful that everything would somehow disappear if he let it go. Once he felt her hand in his, however, he could breathe, knowing it was all true, was becoming true, would always be true. They were married. He still had hold of her hand now, after the ceremony, as they waited for the guests to be seated at the reception dinner before the wedding party made their grand entrance.

He became suddenly aware that Wendell had been speaking to him.

“I said,” the king repeated, “Were you still wanting to use my hunting lodge in the Disenchanted Forest for your honeymoon or had you decided to go off and look for that ancient dryad ruin in the Second Kingdom?”

“Well ...” he began. The problem with looking for the ruin was that they’d have to spend too much time looking for it. He really couldn’t remember exactly where it was, though he didn’t think it was more than two day’s journey from where he’d grown up. That, however, was exactly what made him rather disinclined to go look for it. He’d end up paying courtesy visits on old family acquaintances instead of spending a glorious amount of time alone with his Virginia. Not that he didn’t want them all to meet her, but ... He had just begun to explain this to Wendell when his Auntie slipped into the room, her eyes wide with both worry and suppressed excitement. Curiously, he sniffed the air and would have staggered himself with what he discovered if he hadn’t been sitting already, snugly next to Virginia on a divan.

His brother walked in.

Rafe was thinner than he remembered (though he had to admit his brother probably thought the same thing about him), but just as tall and straight. He reached up with one hand and untied the black mask that covered half his face, shaking his wavy brown hair loose as he pulled it away. It shocked Wolf how much older Rafe looked, although he knew he should have expected it; they hadn’t seen each other in ten years; not since that last time they’d argued. Even now his Auntie was glancing fretfully back and forth between the two of them as if she expected it to start up all over again. But so far as Wolf was concerned, the heat of that quarrel had long since cooled - the perspective of spending nine years in prison would have seen to that, even if he had not found his wonderful Virginia. And if Rafe still somehow felt the antagonism keenly, Wolf doubted if he’d go so far as to make a scene at a wedding. At least, he wouldn’t have done so when he was younger, so Wolf reasoned that age would not have made him less mature. But his aunt would know this too, so what was she worried about, he wondered, as he rose and turned to lift Virginia by the hand to meet him?

One of the fragrant double daisies that garnished her hair was starting to come loose, he noticed. In his opinion, this made her look even more engaging (if that were possible!), but he knew that she’d want it to be in place for meeting someone new. So he fixed it. When he turned back around, his brother was standing at his elbow.

Subconsciously, Wolf threw his shoulders back. Rafe and he were the same height, but his brother had always looked taller because he stood so straight, while Wolf, since childhood, had a tendency to slump. Life in prison had only exacerbated this problem, and he felt the shortcoming keenly now, as he did the difference in their voices when his brother asked to meet his wife. Rafe’s voice was, and had been since early adolescence, a smooth, musical baritone, while Wolf’s had always had a tendency to dissolve into gravel at inopportune moments. But the inadequacies which had always before plagued him seemed almost trivial now that he had Virginia. Happily, he introduced her. And when Rafe took her hand for the greeting, Wolf was completely unable to suppress his own smile at his brother’s surprise, though Rafe said nothing about her condition other than a lilting, “Congratulations - twice,” before favoring Wolf with an unreadable expression.

Anything else he might have said was lost, however, because Wendell, having heard the introduction, pounced forward and began pumping his brother’s hand. Wolf did get the satisfaction of seeing the shock on Rafe’s face when he found out the man yanking his arm in greeting was the king of the Fourth Kingdom, but it was rather short-lived, since the king immediately seized the opportunity to return to the problem he’d been discussing before Rafe entered: Did Rafe happen to know where the ruined dryad palace was?

“Yes,” his brother replied, surprised at being asked such a question (for which Wolf could hardly blame him). But with a bit of encouragement, having been told why they wanted to know and shown the scrap of verse Tony had found in the records room, Rafe freely provided directions using landmarks Wolf remembered. Strangely, to Wolf, he made no comment on his brother’s faulty memory, but Wolf shrugged this off. In ten years, Rafe had probably matured beyond such a need to prove his dominance - especially as Wolf had been absent all that time. In fact, he would have dismissed all strangeness in his brother’s behavior entirely if his Auntie had not continued to regard Rafe with trepidation. He’d just decided to ask her what was the matter when a servant entered and announced it was time for them to be seated.

Rafe and Aunt Millie had left at once, as they were not part of the wedding party and had gone masked as the rest of the guests had done. Wolf immediately returned his attention to his new wife and promptly forgot about his brother.

Queen Riding Hood finally spied him coming into the banquet at the last moment. Of necessity, he’d taken a seat quite far from hers, so that she was forced to wait until the end of the last course before hoping to speak with him again. It made the meal seem interminably long and rather tasteless, she decided. But she was also aware that he was consuming her thoughts a bit too much. She was betrothed to Prince Gunther, second son of King Gregor of the Eighth Kingdom. They were scheduled to be married next spring. So, she knew she really had no business fantasizing about the Mysterious Man (as she thought of him). Unfortunately, she could do little else. Simply meeting him had done nothing but drive home the difference between her reaction to him and her reaction to Gunther. The marriage had been arranged. She had approved the choice of course - she didn’t find Gunther objectionable - but it was basically a business arrangement. At the time, Riding Hood had seen nothing wrong with this. She liked everything planned out in advance and her life was no exception; she was quite sure she’d have been perfectly happy with Gunther as her husband if she’d simply never met Him. He’d touched something inside her that Gunther hadn’t and probably couldn’t; something she’d been quite happy never knowing existed, but which begged to be fulfilled now in a way she couldn’t ignore. At the table, she’d completely forgotten the abhorrence and revulsion she’d expected to feel while eating in the company of numerous wolfs and focused her complete attention on thinking of some way she could contrive to be near him when the meal ended.

It happened slightly sooner than she’d thought. He’d refused the dessert course - she’d seen him shake his head. In fact, he’d barely eaten anything, she noticed, though she was seated half a table away from him. Quickly, she took the opportunity to refuse the last course also, rose, and followed him from the room.

He’d gone outside. She found him standing in the garden, his hands clasped behind his back, staring at a fountain sparkling in the late afternoon sun. His head turned towards her sharply as if he’d heard her walk up behind him.

“Hello,” she said, trying not to sound too tentative.

He nodded amicably to return the greeting, though he remained silent. His eyes looked wet, as they had in the conservatory during the ceremony.

For a brief moment, she wondered if that was what really attracted her to him; if, by his obvious sadness, he simply embodied some romantic notion she had of high tragedy, but she immediately discarded this notion. It had been his eyes that drew her, yes, but not their sadness (though she did ache to comfort him). It was the recognition she’d seen there, the sense of knowing that he was the person she’d been looking for, though she hadn’t been aware of the searching. He’d recognized her, too - the inner her, not the queen of the Second Kingdom, she was sure. She’d seen the briefest flicker in his eyes before he’d looked away. Yet he had looked away, and he had left. He’d left twice.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have intruded,” she murmured, starting to turn away.

“No,” he declared sharply. “No, it’s all right. It’s just me. I shouldn’t have come to a wedding, that’s all.”

The deep, rich baritone of his voice thrilled her. If asked before what she thought an ideal man’s voice would sound like, she wouldn’t have known, but she did now. The words, however, perplexed her, although she thought they might give a clue to the reason for his sorrow. Might he have had a wife or sweetheart that had died, she wondered? Bravely, she asked him, as gently as she could.

He nodded again, without speaking, then added, “But that was more than a year ago. I really need to get over it. I know my aunt is still worried about me.”

Mention of an aunt sent her mind to work. She’d assumed previously that he must be some relation of the bride’s, since she was acquainted with most of the royals and thought she would have recognized one, masked or not, at this level of intimacy. But if he were some royal cousin or nephew ... Cinderella’s children had quite a few offspring, she knew, with whom she had not kept up. And, he did have a slight bit of a reddish tinge to his wavy brown locks, she’d noticed.

“I shouldn’t have said anything about my aunt, should I?” he asked as if reading her thoughts. “We’re supposed to be in disguise ...”

“I won’t tell anyone,” she assured him, then reached up to untie her mask. “But the disguise is beginning to chafe a bit.”

His hand reached up to touch hers as the mask dropped. It remained there, frozen, for just a moment, touching her cheek before he dropped it to his side.

“Is there a name to go with the face?” he asked softly, “Or is that too much of the disguise to ask you to give up?”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’ve always hated my name. My parents named me according to a family tradition, and it just sounds so contrived. I’ve always wanted to be called Claire instead.” She had no intention of telling him she’d been named Claret in an effort to give her a “red” name. Not only was it, in her opinion, quite awful, it might instantly identify her to him as the queen of the Second Kingdom, and she wasn’t quite ready for that.

“Claire,” he said slowly, as if tasting the sound. The vibration of his voice sent a little thrill down her spine. He reached up to untie his mask. Involuntarily, her hand reached up at the same time. For a moment, they both hesitated.

“May I?” she whispered.

He nodded in acquiescence. She pulled at the string. As it fell away and she saw his face for the first time, his eyes - eyes the color of the forest at midsummer, she thought - looking into hers, she became aware as she hadn’t been before of his physical nearness. His hand caught hers, still holding the fabric mask aloft. Suddenly frightened, she jerked her hand away and jumped back.

“Do you have a name?” she asked abruptly, latching onto the first innocent question that popped into her mind.

He smiled.

“My parents named me Rafael,” he told her. “But everyone calls me Rafe.”

His face had none of the bland handsomeness of the courtier, with its narrow breadth, thin but firm lips and high-bridged nose, but with the unmasking she had suddenly seen more, recognized more. She was about to make a terrible mistake and there was nothing she could think of to do to prevent it. The arrangement with Gunther had been made. She couldn’t go back on it. Her advisors would never approve another in his place. Would they?

“You don’t ... happen to be royalty, do you?” she blurted.

His lips twitched in a little smirk that told her before he spoke that he was far from it and her heart sank.

“No,” he said, then asked the natural corollary, “Are you?”

Mentally she cursed herself for asking the question in the first place, since it had only shortened their already short time together. But, she reflected stoically, she supposed it might be best. A real relationship with him could never be. It would only be cruel to prolong the agony of separation.

“Yes,” she admitted, her voice small. He heard it nonetheless.

“Who are you then?”

She was sure his voice sounded as disappointed as she herself felt. That in itself made her heart ache more than her own longing. Best to hurry and get it over with, she thought.

“I’m ... I’m Riding Hood III, queen of the Second Kingdom.”