“Remember that the ball is meant to go through the hoop, Ms. Blackthorn,” Lucien said.
Ignoring him, Luci squared up her shoulders and eyed that bright yellow ball like it was an overgrown mouse. It might as well have been for how hard it was to hit it in the right direction.
The breeze rustled the trees that stood in observance of Luci’s lack of athleticism, and the smell of flowers ran over her. The courtyard was large and shadowed by the castle at their backs, but it still felt like a new world. Lush green grass that held a slight bounce to it, trees that witnessed thousands of years of history, and a maze of gardens to the north. It was beautiful, but Luci still preferred the hominess of Blythe.
“What? I’m trying to help!” Lucien said.
Raising her eyes from her quarry, Luci found Lucien holding his hands up and hiding a smile.
He should have been born ugly. It would have been more fair.
“You are doing great, Luci,” her traitorous best friend said.
If only glares were enough.
Pulling back her arm, Luci whacked the ball hard enough that it flew right over the magic damned hoop and into a solid willow tree that hung overhead with a resounding thunk.
“I can’t help but feel like she was picturing my head,” Lucien said. “I don’t think she cares for me much.”
“None of us do, but we tolerate you all the same.” Prince Ira said.
“Your form was– lovely.” Gladys tried.
Luci groaned and raised her eyes to the sky. If magic existed, may it strike her down where she stood and save her from this torment.
The sound of melodic laughter ripped Luci from her divine deliverance to find Brielle Treveon covering her mouth, a small snort ripping from her. Her eyes went wide as she took in the royals standing behind Luci, and for a moment, no one blinked. No one moved a single muscle.
Prince Ira’s deep laugh ricocheted against Luci’s chest and into the air around them, permeating the garden with its richness. Gladys was next to break, her chestnut hair tumbling forward as she bent over, holding her stomach as laughter erupted from her. An airy sort of sound that reminded Luci of the elves in stories.
Even Lucien, who might have been evil incarnate, shook with amusement.
“I’m sorry, Luci–” Brielle snorted once more, sending the royals into further fits. “It’s just you look–,”
The words were stolen from her as she struggled to rein in her laughter. Normally, the sound would have been music to Luci’s ears, but croquet was a crime against humanity.
Just as she was about to stomp back to the castle and lock herself in with potions that didn’t laugh, Prince Ira retrieved the ball and began walking towards her, tossing the ball up and catching it with a wide grin.
He should have been born ugly, too.
The green in his eyes reflected the garden around them, a shine echoing in their depths as amusement radiated off of him. Setting the ball down in front of her, he held out his hand.
“May I?” he asked.
“Probably not,” Luci answered on instinct.
He leaned in, the side of his mouth curling up, and Luci forgot to breathe.
“Are you ready to see my secret weapon?” he asked.
Luci choked out a sound that stuck deep in her throat. It only encouraged him, and he spun, facing Brielle, who was watching them with a wide smile on her face. All at once, it hit Luci square in the chest, and she was suffocating on the sweet flowers around them. Brielle was stunning in the way that poets spend their whole lives trying to put into words.
Happy. Fulfilled. Whole.
“Brielle, will you please tell Lucinda that she should refer to me as Ira?” The prince grinned wickedly.
Bastard.
Brielle opened her mouth and feigned shock that was undone by the color in her cheeks and brightness of her eyes.