Achara...everyone calls her the Thai Nightingale. I call her the Ideal Princess. She carries herself regally, is kind and gentle, and that voice! I heard her sing Benedict's "Carnaval de Venise"and just when you think her voice can't go any higher...she hits the notes with such strength and clarity, you'd think you were in the presence of an angel.
-- the late Queen Busaba of Thailand, on her daughter
The Palace was a whirlwind of servants. Maids and butlers darted up and downstairs, dusting ancient tchotchkes and pouring drinks into crystal glasses. This was going to be the most important day in His Imperial Highness' gold-gilded life-- the day he met his wife.
The Princess stepped out of the limousine, accompanied her by her father and two burly guards. She looked exactly like her photos-- short, dark, and curvy. The Prince sighed. She wore a long black dress, matching high heels, and carried a black fan in her hand. Her father was tall and potbellied, with a stern, dark face and wispy gray hair. He looked a little more traditional, Prince Hinata thought, With a red-and-gold sash strewn across his white suit.
"I wish more hot guys sang opera," sighed the Princess, holding the fan to her lips.
"Achara," snapped the King, "What are you thinking?! Plum lipstick and dark eyeshadow are not appropriate for this occasion."
"But you didn't say anything in the car."
"I didn't see your face in the car! We were too far apart."
"Really, Father? I didn't see your face until my tenth birthday!"
The Prince chuckled. The more he watched them, the more he thought-- She must get it from her mother!
He couldn't laugh for long. His mother's heels clacked down the hallway. She was wearing her best outfit-- a silk light-blue dress with darker high heels, along with large, silvery snowflake earrings. Despite the crinkles at her forehead, she was oddly relaxed.
"Achara is such a good girl, Hinata," she purred, "She's perfect for you, dear. I think you're going to be amazed."
"Right." A handsome butler walked between them, carrying a full teapot. "Hey, Sakamoto, that goes upstairs. In the parlor!"
Sakamoto whirled around, blinking like he hadn't heard him.
"But, Hinata-Sama, the Emperor said...."
"Forget what I said!"
The Empress and Prince shuddered at the thunderous voice. The Emperor panted downstairs, struggling to tie his necktie correctly. A valet rushed at his heels, rubbing his jacket with a lint-roller. The Empress' jaw dropped, but the Prince erupted into laughter.
"Akio!" hissed the Empress, "How dare you arrive in such a state!"
The Emperor sighed as the valet finished dusting his jacket. His thin gray hair was combed and slicked back, but the rest of him were in various stages of disarray. His paisley gray tie was tossed over his left shoulder, his glossy black shoes were on the wrong feet, and, worst of all, his fly was wide open. Blue-black shadows curled under his eyes like bruises, like he hadn't slept in days. The Prince scratched his chin. Could he be...anxious? About me getting married? About him losing power? About meeting the Thai king? Who knows what wearing a crown does to your brain...!
"I-I'm fine now," the Emperor gasped, as the valet dabbed his wrinkled face with a handkerchief. "I can do that myself, Yamashita."
"Nonsense; this is an important event," the valet argued, dabbing his face like a canvas, "You need to make the perfect impression."
"Don't eat too much at the luncheon," the Empress barked at the Prince, "You don't want to get your father's paunch."
"I know, I know."
"Your tongue looks like a strawberry. If the girl gets too hungry, you might not want to talk for a while."
"I see. Thanks."
"To man or woman. The other day, I heard a man say to someone, 'Your tongue looks like a strawberry, and Daddy's hungry.' It's over. And don't say anything about the Thai royal family." The Empress folded her scrawny arms. "I can't have you getting arrested."
"Wouldn't that statement alone get you arrested?"
"Shut up! I'm too tired for semantics!"
Two massive wooden doors swung open, and the King and Princess entered. They almost looked comical next to each other, with the King's starched white suit, and his daughter's glossy black dress. They bowed low, and the Imperial family returned the favor.
"What a wonderful day to meet each other!" beamed the Thai King, speaking Japanese with a distinct accent, "I see you're looking well, Your Imperial Majesties."
"Y-You as well, Your Majesty," the Emperor stammered, threatened by the big man's presence, "And Achara has grown into a most beautiful young woman."
The Princess stepped forward. Her posture was perfect, as if she was balancing an invisible stack of books atop her head. With a stony expression on her glowing, darkly made-up face, she extended a hand to the Prince.
"Hello, Hinata-Sama," she murmured, enunciating carefully, "It's been too long since we last met."
"Y-Yes. We...what did we talk about?"
The Princess flapped the black fan over a well-carved cheekbone; cool air rushed over the Prince's face, filling his body with an odd, cozy sense of calm.
"Music, darling. Sweet, sweet music!"
"I...I think I told you I didn't like K-Pop."
"Would you like to hear me hit the high C? I am a col-or-a-tu-ra so-pr-an-o."
Before he could respond, the Princess took a deep breath and sang. It wasn't a specific song or aria, but one long, drawn-out note. The Empress threw her hands over her ears, and the butlers carried away some glasses, as if the sound would make them break.
When the Princess finished, she took a deep breath, and grabbed a glass of water from a butler's tray. She chugged it instantly, then grabbed another. The King slapped her hand away.
"Achara! What are you thinking?!"
The Princess ignored her father and turned back to the Prince, whose eyes were wide with amazement.
"So...did you like that? I haven't been able to hit that note in a loooooong time."
"That was...incredible," he gasped, "I've never heard anyone sing like that before."
The Princess giggled behind her hand.
"Thank you, Hinata-Sama! I knew you'd like my singing!"
"Well...." the Emperor remarked, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, "She hasn't lost her love of singing!"
"Of course not," she said, "This year, I'm going to play Lucia in Lucia di Lammermoor."
"What a challenging role!" cried the Empress, clasping her hands together.
Princess Achara's eyes gleamed sadly.
"It was always Mother's favorite. I know she'd appreciate it."
"Your mother...she...oh! I'm sorry about her!"
"I think she'd be happy to know we've met."
"Seeeendo Kawaaaiiiiya...." The Princess sang, soon completing the first lines of "Sendo Kawaiya," a Japanese folk song. The Empress grinned and dabbed her eyes.
"Such a beautiful voice, Your Highness!"
Princess Achara fanned herself and smiled gracefully. A faint blush tinged her cheeks.
"From a cultured woman like yourself, I am honored!"
The Prince eyed her for a moment. He wasn't sure what to make of Princess Achara; she wore a large, round diamond ring that glistened softly in the light-- the proxy engagement one --and it was so still and liquid, it was like looking into a pond. She was also sweet and eager to please his parents, who were so unimpressed by the world, they could have been ancient gods. He smiled. I like a woman with passion, he thought, All that passion is bound to keep us happy. It's such a royal problem, isn't it, the lack of passion and productivity? Almost makes me envy the servants....
"Achara-Sama," he said, "Would you and your father like to join us for lunch?"
"Of course! That sounds splendid! Doesn't it, Father?"
The King raised an eyebrow, his firm, straight mouth barely moving.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt. But you aren't children. You should have some time to yourselves." He rubbed the back of his head. "A walk in the garden, perhaps?"
"That sounds lovely," the Emperor agreed, nodding toward his son.
The Prince relaxed enough to manage a smile.
XXX
It's always risky to disguise in the Palace. Then again, what do I know? I've been loyal to the Crown since a young age, and I only recently began to wonder if my reverence is more from fear than love. This is largely thanks to my beloved Bathilde, how she insisted on creating that Perma-Golem of me. I nearly fainted! What was she going on about? But Perma-Golems are beautiful things…I can only truly thank the Jewish witches for that creation.
Nevertheless, creating a Perma-Golem is quite different than, say, actually disguising and going inside the Palace. I'm not in here as a servant, but an outsider. A commoner. A stranger.
—from the diary of Hajime Hamamura
Hajime crouched behind the massive plant, shielding his face with a long wrinkled leaf. Bathilde bustled by with a gap-toothed grin.
"What are you hiding for?" she demanded, making a feather-duster clean on its own, "We've picked our disguises, and they're good ones, if you ask me."
"Yes, but I feel bad taking other people's hair-- especially the eyelashes."
"Eyelashes are the easiest. They're always falling out."
"But that doesn't mean...!"
Bathilde admired her reflection in a small framed mirror-- the form she took was that of a stocky, older village woman with short gray hair and kind eyes. Hajime groaned and staggered beside her. His form was another village native-- this one a tall, middle-aged man with thick black hair and a strong underbite. Bathilde giggled and poked his chin.
"You look so cute with an underbite," she purred, "I mean, you'd be cuter if it was your face with an underbite, but...!"
"How can one live like this?" he huffed, popping his jaw, "It's quite a lot to get used to, you know."
"I suppose someone could say the same for your finger, or lack thereof."
Hajime lifted a hand. Oddly enough, this other man's right hand was missing the pinky finger. Bathilde nodded and continued dusting.
"So the man is also missing a finger. Small world."
"But he didn't lose it the way I did."
"You don't mean...attempting candle magic?"
Hajime recoiled, still wounded by the memory.
"Unfortunately. I-It's hard to keep up with all this hustle and bustle."
He yawned and twisted to crack his back. Bathilde shuddered at the hard snapping of bones.
"I don't know if they're onto us or not," she said flatly, "Do they usually call servants by their names?"
"I...They never used to, but now they do. I don't know who started that rule, but it gets my spine chilling when they start going down the line!"
"You made one up, though, dear. Very clever."
"Yes, but you saw the look the old lady gave me! She must have thought I was some sort of stalker!"
"But what if they don't know 'our' names? Is that really such a loss to an Emperor or Empress?"
"I'm sure the Empress would throw a fit! You saw her down there; she was yelling at Kanako like she'd killed someone!"
"Anything to escape her wrath."
"Hmm! Bathilde, I thought you were more confrontational than that."
The witch raised a wispy gray eyebrow.
"Confrontational? In what way?"
"In that, I think we should be going downstairs to get Pearl."
"Oh, ma bichette, I tried!"
"You tried? Have you exhausted every space possible? Under the bed? Behind the curtains?"
"Yes, but then I thought, why would Pearl hide there?"
"Well, it's in the house-- where she was last seen."
"You may be proper and logical, ma bichette, but you forget the other truth-- that Pearl is adventurous."
"She left the comfort of this big cozy castle? Impossible!"
Bathilde smiled and hummed nervously, straightening the pale-pink, millefleur blankets of a fluffy-looking bed.
"Oh, so you won't believe me?" Her eyes darted from side to side. "She left. I looked all over the guest house."
Hajime stiffened.
"What?!" His eyes bulged. "Where could she have gone? She's a tourist in a country she doesn't know-- worst of all, in a Palace most will never enter!" He shook his head. "She should come back soon. Otherwise, we'll have to use magic we're a bit too...old for."
"Pearl isn't lost. A foreigner, wandering a country she's never seen before, yes. But lost...no."
Hajime bit his lip.
"Bathilde, you trust the girl too much."
"I...I suppose I do. We had an awful time out there and...!"
She shook her head, and a tear dripped down her cheek.
"I-I'm sorry. This is all my fault. If we hadn't had such a fight, she'd never have run away!"
"Oh, now, that's not true...!"
He reached forward and wiped her tears with his finger.
"We'll find her," he promised.
"B-But you said we're too old for this complicated magic."
"Not when it involves love. That's more important than age or anything that tries to get in the way."
"Th-Then what do we do?"
"I'm not sure, Bathilde, let me think."
He folded his hands behind his back, pacing the room a few times. Bathilde trembled, gripping a sturdy bedpost.
"Mon Dieu, ma bichette! You always know!"
"Yes, but this is...different. Sensitive. More sensitive than any simple water or candle-trick!"
Bathilde coughed into her elbow, staining the black sleeve with a splash of blood. Hajime shuddered.
"Right...we'd better act fast."
They crept out of the doorway, scanning the hall for any possible staff. Hajime nodded at Bathilde, who winked. They walked downstairs and opened the door, unsure of where to look first.
"Bathilde, you can sense where people are better than I can," he pointed out, "Do you have any idea of where she is?"
The old witch closed her eyes and tapped a finger to her temple. It was getting harder and harder to access "Otherrealms" these days. Such a process was exhausting enough as a young woman, but now, the idea made her want to collapse onto the bed she just made. Still, her eyes stung. Her entire head throbbed with pain. Her neck twisted into a stiff, uncomfortable position. Several images swirled through her mind; Pearl shivering in a gray, barren field, the Prince smiling with wide, nervous eyes, a crumbling canopy of two ivory pillars. They never came together in one scene, but she saw enough to have an idea.
"Where is this place?" he asked, "Do you remember?"
No answer. Her eyes shot open. Hajime stood before her, but his disguise had worn off. The butler's suit was too long for his short, plump frame, and his old wrinkles and wispy gray hair returned. He popped his jaw and inspected his right hand.
"I should have known!" he cried, "The man didn't have four fingers...the potion was wearing off!"
"Sacrebleu! Let me check mine."
Bathilde turned to a large hall mirror, inspecting her face. She twitched. It really was her pale, round, gap-toothed face-- not the old woman's. Her breath slowed. No matter how many times she'd disguised before, it was always strange to see someone else's face in the mirror-- and a relief to see your own again.
"Ahh," she sighed, turning back to Hajime, "Did you see that place, too?"
He nodded gravely.
"Of course. It...baffles me to no end! I don't recall any pillars around here, not the type you saw. But there must be some explanation! Maybe the pillars represent something."
He removed and wiped his glasses. Bathilde frowned.
"Something strong...something that holds Pearl's life together...."
"It seems she's lost that," Hajime observed, "Since she's been kidnapped, she can't practice magic with me...or receive your gift!"
"I see, but she wasn't kidnapped, ma bichette. She left on her own. She didn't have to accept that servant-boy's offer, but she did."
"Then she got herself into this mess," Hajime grunted, "And only she can get herself out."
"Now, that's not true!"
"I don't mean to leave her on her own, Bathilde. We still need to help, but for now, we've no idea where to start looking. We must exhaust all other divination sources-- and then look."
"But divination," she reminded him, "Cost you your finger."
Hajime buried his hand in his pocket. His round face went pink.
"I-I...thanks for reminding me, Bathilde!"
Click-click-click. Footsteps. Several loud, thunderous footsteps darting down the hall. The couple leapt to the side and shuffled down a side passage. The footsteps stopped.
"Intruders!" barked a familiar voice, "Intruders in the guest house! I shall alert His Imperial Highness at once!"
Bathilde leaned forward to look, then gasped, before tumbling onto the rug. Hajime peered carefully. He knew the voice, but he certainly didn't want to believe it....
It was a short, plump figure with wispy gray hair and a black suit. The four-fingered hand gripped a warm pistol. Hajime's heart raced, and his stomach rolled with nausea. My Perma-Golem!