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“Love you? Seriously? Look at yourself—covered in muck! How could I possibly love you?”
He spat on the ground and then turned his attentions to his friend. “Come on, Gaston, let’s leave this stinking place. I have nothing further to say to this filthy farm girl.”
And the two men rode off, leaving the beautiful maiden covered in mud and a cloud of dust kicked up by their wild horses.
The Prince sat alone in his study, sipping a drink by the fireplace. Images of Circe haunted him. They flashed between the bewitching young beautiful woman he wanted to marry and the sickening scene he’d witnessed earlier that day.
He almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
But he could not soften to her, not after she had tried to trap him into marriage by weaving such horrid lies. As he sat there, sinister shadows danced on the walls. These were created by the firelight and the giant antlers mounted on the wall above his chair. He remembered the day he’d killed the largest trophy—the great elk. He had almost been sad the day he finally took him down. He’d been tracking the beast for years. But when he’d killed him, he felt as if he’d lost an old friend. He sipped some more, remembering that hallowed day. Just then the porter poked his head into the room.
“Prince, sir, Miss Circe is here to see you.”
The Prince sighed with annoyance. “I’ve told you, numerous times now, not to admit her! Send her away!” And he turned back to his musings.
The porter didn’t leave. He stuttered his reply. “I haven’t let—let—let her in, my—my lord, she is standing out…side, but refuses to—to—to go. She says she will not leave until you speak with her.”
“Very well, then.”
Putting his drink on the little wooden side table next to his chair, he stood with a heavy sigh and made his way toward the grand entrance.
There stood Circe, a pathetic little creature holding a single red rose, looking downright diminutive in the gaping arched doorway. Her eyes were sad, swollen and red from crying. She looked nothing like the ravishing beauty that had once stood in his rose garden all golden, silver, and light. If seeing her mucking around in the mud that day hadn’t vanquished that memory from his mind, then this encounter most surely would.
He’d never again be tempted by memories of her beauty, trying to fool him into feeling sorry for the lying little creature! She had a ratty shawl around her shoulders that made her look like an old beggar woman. The light and shadow on her face made her look old and haggard. Had he not known it was her, he would have thought her an old beggar woman indeed.
She spoke with a small voice. She sounded like a little crow—her voice scratchy and hoarse from long crying.
“My love, please, I can’t believe you would treat me so poorly. Surely you didn’t mean the things you said to me earlier today.”
She broke down sobbing, her tearstained and swollen face buried in her small white hands.
How could he ever have thought her adorable?
“I cannot marry you, Circe. You must have known that from the start. I’m guessing that is why you tried to keep your parents a secret.”
“But I didn’t know, my love! My darling, please take this rose and remember the days you still loved me. Won’t you please let me come inside, away from this cold? Do you hate me so much?”
“Your beauty, which so captured my heart in my very garden, will forever be tarnished by the grotesque scene I witnessed today, and by this shameful display.”
When Circe’s shawl fell back, the Prince was
startled to see, her eyes were no longer swollen and her face was not splotched and red from long hours of crying. Her skin was pale and glowing as if she were infused with moonlight—and her hair was bright and shimmering with little silver adornments, like sparkling bits of stardust were captured within. Her dress was opalescent silver, and everything about her seemed to glow with enchantment, but nothing shined brighter than her pale blue eyes. She had never looked so beautiful.
“I’ll never be quite as beautiful again in your eyes because you think I’m the daughter of a pig farmer?”
Then he heard their voices, climbing out of the darkness, like a chorus of harpies swooping up from Hell.
“Farmer’s daughter?”
“Our little sister?”
“Why, she is of royal blood. She is cousin of the old king.”
He couldn’t see who was speaking; he only heard three distinct voices coming from the darkness. Something about the voices unnerved him. No, if he were completely honest with himself, he would admit the voices frightened him. He wanted nothing more than to slam the door and hide within the walls of his castle, but he stood his ground.
“Is this true, Circe?” he asked.
