The Courting of Princess Astoria

“Are you paying attention, Prince Ben?”

Ben blinks. He can feel Grayle sitting next to him, the goatley’s warm fur brushing against the bare skin of his arm.“I am, and very much so, Grayle,” he says politely, although admittedly he had let his mind wander for a moment.

Grayle shifts beside him, the wood of the bench creaking against his weight. “I guess I’ll just have to trust your word,” says he, a hint of amusement sparking the raspy bleating of his voice. “This is very important, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” Ben feels himself smile, a bit unconsciously. He sits beside Grayle, his goatley, his assistant, and, personally, his very best friend, on a wooden bench in the courtyard just behind the castle. He can hear the gentle tinkling of the water in the fountain as it splashes. He can feel the sun’s heat lessening as clouds float gracefully in front of it. He knows, as far as his spatial awareness will allow him, that in this courtyard wander many wingedmen- they would be his fellows, some in the Royal Family’s extended reach, some not. Along with the wingedmen would be their animalfolk, some as servants, some as friends, and some as simple watchers; the sounds of their different hooves and paws scraping against the brick interest him deeply, as he wonders what each of them are. And he also knows, in the center of the courtyard, sitting perched atop the stone wall of the fountain, is his sister, Princess Astoria, a figure of beauty and elegance who is here for a most important day: the day of the Wingshow.

Ben finds himself wondering why the Wingshow is all so important; after all, if Astoria is to fall in love with some boy of another ‘Wing, wouldn’t it be by way of silent greetings and held hands and other romantic things, and not by way of showing off what amazing things you can do with your wings?

But such is the way of being Royal. And he shouldn’t question it- and, really, he typically doesn’t. Or he questions it, but at least he accepts it. It is at is is, and maybe one day, when it is his turn to court some lovely young woman of another ‘Wing family and he must perform a Wingshow for her, he will understand why it is so necessary.

Grayle pokes him in the side; he can feel the goatley’s hoof-hands gently scrape the fabric of his tunic. “Don’t you understand how the Wingshow works?”

Ben raises his brow, a bit conscious of the fact that Grayle seems to always know his thoughts, especially, and unfortunately, whenever his thoughts happen to be something negatively questioning. “I know a little bit,” he admits hesitantly, leaning toward his assistant in an effort to keep their conversation quiet. “But I don’t understand how this is meant to make her fall in love.” He doesn’t know exactly what the wingedmen suitors do during the Wingshow, but he knows that they must do something impressive in order to catch his sister’s eye.

He hears Grayle go silent for a moment, and he wonders if his goatley is blinking, trying to decide what to say to him. “It isn’t so much about love,” begins his assistant, with a goat-like snort. “It’s more about… finding someone.”

Ben tilts his head in confusion. “Isn’t that what love is? Finding someone?”

“I don’t think you understand.”

“I don’t think I understand, either,” Ben says, with a slight, whispery giggle, and at this Grayle joins in giggling, too, until they are both only two boys sitting on a bench and giggling about how stupid love is.

Grayle sneezes; Ben feels him shifting around on the bench, his hoof-feet dangling over the edge. “Forgive me, Prince Ben,” mutters the goatley, as is required, but Ben makes no response to him. He doesn’t much like to be snooty, especially to his own best friend, and part of being royalty, he thinks, is just being snooty to everyone else.

Of course, he knows, eventually being snooty will be part of his very nature, and he’ll be asking everyone to stand up when he enters a room and to hand him his cane and to bring him a glass of hot tea. But he hopes that day will be very far away, because for now he only wants to enjoy his time with Grayle and be a boy until he is forced to be a man.

He swings his legs beneath the bench, enjoying the thump-thump of his boots upon the old wood, leaning back against the boards behind his head. “Do I have to stay here for the whole thing?” he whispers to Grayle, making sure his nose is just close enough to graze the goatley’s ear fur. Such is how he knows how close he is, and how quiet to be in order to only be heard by Grayle instead of some off-put bystander.

Grayle gives a sort-of mixture between a snorting and a bleating. “You should stay for the beginning of the ceremony,” whispers he. “That would be polite to your sister, wouldn’t it?”

“You didn’t answer,” says Ben, scooching closer to Grayle. “Do I have to stay for the whole thing?”

Grayle says nothing, and Ben is about to push him for more answers- maybe he really doesn’t have to stay for the entire thing at all, and will be able to leave just as soon as everyone is too distracted to see him go- but his ears catch the sound of wings, flying wings, swooping and soaring in the air, and he realizes that the ceremony is about to start. He listens intently, fascinated, as the different ‘Wing suitors descend from the sky. From the sound of their wings rising and falling he can almost distinguish their families: the gentle whistling of feathered wings tells him that there are Graywings about, as expected; the rapid buzzing of veined wings helps him recognize the Brittlewings, and he starts, since he’s surprised that their family would bother to show at all; then, with the silence, followed by the gentle sound of two feet impacting the ground, he knows that a Lightwing has arrived.

So these are the suitors who decided to come, he wonders, listening to the shuffle of their shoes against the bricks as they stand to line up in front of the princess. Grayle leans over to him, one of his warm ears brushing Ben’s own, and whispers, “It’s the three Graywings, the one Lightwing, and the two Brittlewings today,” to which Ben’s response is a thankful nod, although he probably could’ve figured out on his own how many suitors had come. He enjoys it when people help him, especially Grayle, as he knows that Grayle doesn’t know what he can and can’t figure out by himself. He doesn’t blame everyone for trying to help.

But he does notice that there’s a strange emptiness to the space around his sister. There are six suitors lined up in front of her, and by themselves they have enough energy and excitement to fill up the whole courtyard, but he knows there’s someone still missing. There is an empty space which should be full. Someone is not here yet.

Someone is late.

He turns to Grayle again, being sure of his position, before whispering, as quietly as he can manage, “Is someone missing?”

Grayle shifts beside him. “The Redwing suitor.”

Just as he speaks, from the sky comes a terrible swooshing sound, and Ben hears the whistling of wind through feathers as another wingedman descends. The air around him cools abruptly with shadow, then warms again, then cools again as the suitor makes his way to the courtyard in a rather unruly fashion. Whereas the other ‘Wings had descended gracefully in the way of their families, this suitor is flying in circles, disturbing the air around him with a series of rugged flips, until he lands, the soles of his boots thumping down not in front of Astoria, but in front of Ben himself.

Quickly the prince stiffens, clasping his hands together in his lap like he was always told by his mother, and beside him he can feel the shift of fur as Grayle bows his head in the manner of any servant. But the ‘Wing who has landed in front of them both doesn’t seem to care.

Ben’s eyes widen as he feels the shadow leave his face. Hands touch the ground by his feet. The ‘Wing is kneeling to him!

“It’s good to see you, Prince Benjamin,” says the Redwing boy, his harsh voice muffled by the bricks below him. He stands, bows again- Ben feels the shadow shift over his face- and then strides toward the other suitors, lining himself up against them in front of the princess. The air in the courtyard is now full, full of energy, excitement, tension, and a splash of humor, too. Everyone has arrived.

The Wingshow has begun.

Ben hears the surrounding audience of wingedmen and animalfolk begin to chatter amongst themselves as the suitors introduce their heritage and their purpose. Of course, everyone here already knows their purpose, and the suitors know that everyone knows their purpose, but it is simply part of the ceremony, just as leaping into the air and flying in circles is part of the ceremony. It is ceremonial; it doesn’t have to make sense.

In fact, he often finds that many ceremonial things don’t make sense. And he doesn’t mean to be rude about them; he just doesn’t understand what purpose they serve. Every year at his own birth ceremony, his mother and father recite the words they spoke on the day of his birth, the prayer and the speech, but it doesn’t really do anything for him, and that is why he now knows that ceremonies are not for doing. They are mostly for entertainment, like the Middlewings’ circuses. They don’t do anything efficient. And so is the Wingshow: it doesn’t do anything efficient. It is mostly for entertainment, and perhaps for the purposes of Astoria to choose a husband,

“Shall you begin?” Astoria’s voice, clever and quiet and sharp, cuts through the din of the crowd, and immediately the area all around falls silent, waiting for the suitors’ reply.

Feathers rustle and wings buzz as the suitors prepare for their flight. Ben knows by now that they all must be bowing their heads, as is appropriate for the beginning of their flight. A rumbling note of “yes” comes from all of their throats- average and almost desperate, the Graywing boys; a little frightened and yet determined, the Brittlewing boys (who, everyone knows, are brothers); wise and ready, the Lightwing boy; and last of all, almost carelessly, the Redwing boy.

Ben feels something, suddenly. He feels it in the air, just like he feels the warmth drain from his face as a bird crosses over the sun, or like he feels the freshness of morning dew against his back when he lays on the grass. He feels it. He knows it. And he can’t really hear it, not quite, but he knows it’s there.

There’s something in the air. It seems as if everyone else can feel it, too, although from his vantage stuck in between Grayle and the armrest of the bench he can’t quite tell. It’s something… tense, and fiery, but not fiery as in anger. It sparks against his skin. It buzzes like a firefly. It almost stings, but not enough to hurt. It tingles, actually. It comes from the direction of the Redwing boy, and it is returned by the princess, except the princess’s feeling is less of an uncomfortable sparking and more of a subtle buzz beneath the skin, like the blood in his veins has turned to sunlight. Comfortable, pleasant, and almost happy.

The boy leans over to grasp Grayle’s arm, his grip a little too urgent, a little too tight, but he hasn’t the chance to say anything of significance before the suitors suddenly fly up into the air. Gusts of wind come from underneath their wings, pushing back the audience, who erupt in giggles and gasps. Ben can feel the shadows flit over his face as the suitors, having risen high enough, begin their circling, and since he cannot see exactly what they are doing, and he does not need to, he leans fully against Grayle’s side as if his assistant is a furry pillow and fakes a subtle yawn.

Grayle does not move out of the way, partly because the king and queen are watching him (even from here Ben can feel their stares- his mother’s, soft and pleasant like a butterfly’s wings, and his father’s, warm with the safe heat of a flame in a hearth), partly because he must obey Ben’s orders (even if it means allowing the prince to use him as a pillow), partly because he doesn’t mind at all (because he and Ben have been friends since the day they were born and he trusts Ben with his life). “Are you bored, Prince Ben?” the goatley asks playfully, his hoof-hands shifting so that the boy can be more comfortable.

“No, actually, I’m perfectly entertained,” Ben mumbles, amused that his assistant is playing along after all. “I like it when boys try to impress my sister.”

Grayle’s fur twitches, and Ben knows that he must be trying not to laugh in the presence of, admittedly, a ceremony which is at least partly serious. “Why is that?”

“Because they never do.”

In the few moments where no one can hear them, and the audience is gasping and pointing and commenting loudly on the abilities of the seven suitors, Grayle and Ben share another moment of boyish giggling; Grayle’s is more of a staggered, hearty bleating, while Ben’s is more of a human sound, twinkly and young, but laughter is laughter, as the wingedmen and animalfolk have discovered over their many years, and as Ben has discovered in his times of meeting the different ranges of animalfolk. Most of them have some sense of humor- though, Ben thinks, goatleys have the best- and those that don’t typically have enough sense to at least pretend to laugh whenever one of the Whitewings finds something humorous. It’s one of the many things Ben enjoys about being a Whitewing, apart from the main one: that he is royal, and his family is built around love and truth.

Ben sits up, reaching blindly around his back to be sure that he hasn’t lost any feathers from his wings; too often he loses a feather or two in a moment of laughter and his mother fusses over him for days. To his luck Grayle touches his hands gently, a signal that he hasn’t lost anything, and he tucks his wings, half-grown and small but large enough to be a nuisance on a bench, neatly behind his back. “What’s going on now?” he asks, having not paid attention to the rise and fall of shadows over his face.

He can hear the shift in Grayle’s voice, upwards, almost, as he responds, clearly gazing into the sky. “The suitors are flying,” he bleats, obviously, pausing to consider what Ben would like to know and what is really happening. “I think they’re all doing their usual routines, mostly. Your sister- the princess- I think she’s most enamored with the Redwing boy.”

Ben arches a brow. “Really?” So there had been something between his sister and the Redwing suitor after all. “Is everyone else noticing?”

Grayle pauses, gazing around at the crowd. “I don’t know if they’re paying much attention,” he bleats, setting a hoof-hand against Ben’s hand to guide him. “They’re more interested in the suitors themselves.”

“Are they doing anything interesting?”

“Just flying, my lord.”

“Then what is the Redwing boy doing?”

“Flying.”

“Then why is Astoria so interested in him?” Ben huffs. “He was late!”

“Prince Ben,” bleats Grayle hesitantly, his hooves clicking together, “I think that’s why she’s interested in him.

Oh.

Ben listens to the whistling of wind and the flutter of wings. He turns his face toward the sky, feeling for shadows and light to tell him the location of the suitors. He realizes that he doesn’t really understand why Astoria would be interested in the Redwing boy at all. There are much better suitors, much more polite young men, than he, even if they didn’t all come to this specific Wingshow. The Graywing boys are all noble and righteous on their own, if a little haughty. The Brittlewing boys might be shy, and feisty, since they’re brothers, but they’re sweet at heart. The Lightwing boy would be a particularly good father, he thinks, quite brave and wise and honest. But the Redwing boy is annoying, and demeaning, and, Ben thinks, immature. He has no place in Astoria’s heart.

But that isn’t for me to decide, thinks Ben. A little cold shiver runs down his spine at the idea that his sister could marry someone whom he doesn’t like. How am I meant to know where her heart lies? Or with who?

“Prince Ben?” Grayle whispers gruffly into his ear, and Ben nods in response, paying too close attention to the Wingshow to respond. “Would you like to leave?”

Now he doesn’t know. “Maybe I’ll stay a bit longer,” he admits, leaning away from Grayle’s muzzle. The goatley has always been a kind friend, sweet when need be, friendly in that boyish way, but Ben has never gotten over the haybale-stink of his breath.

Grayle, sensing this, leans away from him in turn, and both of them stifle a laugh.

The audience mumbles. A catley yowls, and gasps ripple through the crowd which stands around the fountain. Ben starts, just before he feels something tickle his face, brushing lightly against his nose before falling steadily into his lap. He reaches for it, feeling around his trousers, until his fingers graze the tips of it, soft and gentle- a feather!

“Leonidas Redwing!” At once his sister’s voice shouts from the fountain, and with a hurried fluttering of wings all the suitors land back in the courtyard. Shuffling tells Ben that the crowd has moved to make space for them, and the clack of boots against brick lets him know that they’re all walking back toward his sister to line up in front of her as they did before the Wingshow. But this isn’t the end- these things often go on for much longer than this. It must’ve been interrupted by something uncouth.

What can interrupt a Wingshow? wonders Ben, running his fingers along the fine edge of the feather. He would like to know what color it is, which family it belongs to- is it a ‘Wing feather, or a birdley feather, or just a bird feather? Whatever it is, if it’s clean and not sickly, he’d very much like to keep it in his quarters as a trophy. Not that he did anything in particular to earn it, but it fell right into his lap, and-

“What was the meaning of that?” Again his sister’s voice disturbs his thoughts, and from the way the sound echoes he can tell that she has stood up suddenly. He raises his head, slightly disturbed, until he realizes that Grayle has straightened appropriately beside him. Is everyone looking at me? he wonders, but the tension in the air is so strong and indirect that he cannot tell if it’s aimed at him, at his sister, or at the suitors.

One voice, gravelly and low and yet still marked with the odd playfulness of boyhood, speaks up from the line of ‘Wing boys- it’s the Redwing boy! “I just thought he could use a bit of fun, Your Highness.” Feathers shuffle as he folds his wings. “Doesn’t your brother deserve some play, too?”

Astoria sighs softly. Hints of amusement, however small, lace her voice as she says, as sternly as she can manage, “That was unnecessary, Leonidas. I believe you should apologize to the prince.”

Grayle sits up even straighter, laying his hoof-hand over Ben’s again, and Ben sits up straighter, too, although he’s worried that he’ll seem too snooty if he sits up even more than he already is. His back is beginning to ache. “There’s no need to apologize,” he says quickly, trying to make his quiet voice sound louder in the suspended silence of the courtyard. “I think that was a fine trick you performed, Master Redwing.”

The Redwing boy snorts, and Ben knows that he must be smiling- all Redwings snort before they give one of their arrogant grins. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he responds; then, to the princess, “Would it please my lady to withdraw me from the Wingshow, or shall we continue?”

Astoria shifts. “Continue,” she says promptly, and sits patiently as the fluttering and buzzing of wings continues yet again and the suitors draw up into the sky.

“Grayle…” Ben leans over and whispers in his goatley’s ear. “Do I have a Redwing feather in my hands?”

Grayle nods, the slope of his horns gently grazing Ben’s forehead. “Yes,” he answers, almost solemn, almost surprised. “You have a feather of Leonidas Redwing.”

***

Ben holds the feather in his hands curiously. The air around him is cool with the shade of his room, and he can feel the plushness of the chair beneath him, but his attention is focused solely on the feather.

It’s red- whatever that means, really. Grayle tells him it’s from a Redwing, so it must be red, as all Redwings are red-feathered, just as Whitewings are white-feathered and Graywings are gray-feathered. His sister has told him in the past that the Redwing feathers are actually not as much red as they are rusty-brown, but he doesn’t know what that means, either, so he chooses to believe that all Redwing feathers are as red as they can possibly be.

He runs his fingers gently along the tips of the feather. It’s big, he recounts, feeling it tickle his palms. It’s… soft. Some feathers, at least Graywing feathers, have rather jagged edges. And birdley feathers are typically uncomfortable to the touch. It’s… red?

He lifts it to his nose and sniffs it gently, wondering if red is a smell, but all it smells of is something musky and vaguely alcoholic. The smell of the Redwings, of course. Ben knows, not from experience, but rather from tales, that Redwings are known for being rustic and nasty. They enjoy a bit too much wine at every event, and even without event, and they’re not quite in well relations with the Whitewing family, but for some reason they still send a suitor whenever a Whitewing princess is of age. And, as far as he is aware, a Redwing has never been chosen, never been married into the family, never married into the family, so his blood is clean of them.

Ben sets the feather back into his lap. “Grayle?”

Grayle’s hooves thud gently on the thick carpet. His voice, muffled with chewing, comes from a few feet away, where he sits either reading or awaiting a charge. “Yes, my lord?”

Ben sets his fingertips lightly on the feather, though he doesn’t want to bend it. “Why does Astoria care about Leonidas?”

Grayle goes quiet for a moment, besides the continuous clamping and unclamping of his jaws around some hay. He snorts, sniffs, and then bleats, “Why do you ask?”

“You know,” says Ben, “it isn’t polite to answer me with a question.”

“I never thought I’d see you become snooty with my own two eyes.” Hoof-hands clack as he pulls a slip of straw from his jaws.

“I’m not snooty!” Ben’s voice rises to the shrill squeak it becomes whenever tainted with even the mildest anger. He grasps the feather by its tips and sets it on the table to his right, being sure to pat it down firmly before turning his attention back toward his goatley. “I just want to know.”

“Well… it’s a little complicated.”

“Is it?” Ben’s head tilts.

Grayle chomps. He says nothing for a few more moments, chewing and clacking and thudding his hooves against the carpet in his strange habit, and then, swallowing, he confesses, “I don’t think you’re old enough to understand.”

“I suppose not.” Ben straightens, as if better posture will make him old enough to know why Astoria adores a stupid rebel like Leonidas Redwing. “But you could at least try to tell me.”

A knock at the door. A voice, crisp and clear, whispers through the peephole. “You’re right, Ben; he shouldn’t be so rude to you.”

Ben slides out of his chair, feet touching the floor, gliding across the carpet, counting the steps to the door with a subtle, uncontrollable smile on his face. He grasps the handle, turns it, swings it open. “Astoria!”

His sister bends down to ruffle his hair, tousling it gently between her fingers, and then turns promptly toward his assistant, who is still sitting, and, incidentally, still chewing. “You!” she snaps, swiping the door shut with one quick hand. “You silly goatley!”

Ben hears the sound of a quick gulp. “Pleasant greetings, my lady?”

“Pleasant greetings, my foot,” mutters the princess, sighing. “What is wrong with you? And not you- yes, you, too, Benjamin!” Her voice swings toward him and he realizes she’s now glaring at him. “Why did you act so off today? The Wingshow is a very important event, you know.”

Ben reaches out and grazes his fingers against Astoria’s dress. It’s silky today- she must’ve changed into something more comfortable. Presentable enough, if anything were to occur, but lazy enough to recline on the chaise lounge. “I don’t think we acted off,” he murmurs in response, withdrawing his hand out of respect for his sister. “We were just having fun.”

“Benjamin-” Astoria’s footsteps lightly tread the carpet as she walks toward the windowsill and sits, hands folded in her lap, “-I know you were just poking fun, but the citizens don’t. And it’s not the place of an assistant-” she glares toward Grayle, “-to make such jokes with his master.”

Ben frowns. He hadn’t known that his sister had become so snooty. “My assistant is my friend,” he declares pointedly. “Only I can tell him when he should and shouldn’t laugh.”

“You shouldn’t be so close to your assistant,” murmurs Astoria.

Grayle snuffles. “She’s right, you know, my lord,” he bleats. “You don’t really have to pay so much attention to me. If you wanted to, actually, you could send me away, and I wouldn’t sit next to you, or-”

“No.” Ben feels his face harden with emotion. “Why should I send you away?” He walks over to his goatley and, shuffling about to get a feel for the lounge, sits down beside him. “You haven’t wronged me. And you are my friend. You can be my friend and my assistant.”

Astoria goes silent. “It’s your wish, Ben,” she admits softly, and now he knows assuredly that she was only cross because she was worried about him. She turns away, with a shuffle of cloth and skin, and suddenly he feels that her attention has turned to the feather on his desk. “Is this the feather…?”

He knows that she must be holding it in her lap. “Yes,” he answers softly, his fingers flexing as if he’s already holding the soft plume. “It just… dropped on me.” Idly he taps Grayle. “Grayle- Grayle, how did I get it?”

“It fell from the sky, Prince Ben,” Grayle explains. “The Redwing boy flipped overtop of our bench so one of his feathers would fall onto you.”

Ben blinks. “Why would he do that? And- wait, Astoria-” he turns toward his sister, “-why were you so upset at him? Wasn’t he just poking fun?”

Astoria does not answer him. Curiously he wonders if she is still looking at the feather, and hesitantly he realizes that there’s a spark of something coming from her, the very same something which he had felt out on the courtyard. It might be love, he thinks, although it doesn’t feel like the same type of love that’s in his mother’s glance or in his father’s voice. It’s less of that love, that already-knowing love, but kind of… exploratory.

Is she in love with Leonidas? he wonders, not wanting to probe deeper than he must. But why him? I think the Lightwing boy was quite nice. And it would make sure her descendants had white-feathered wings, too.

At least she doesn’t have to marry somewhere in the family. There are plenty of other Whitewing boys and cousins and second-cousins that would gladly marry into her obvious royalty; the Whitewing family is quite large. He has many relatives that he knows nothing about, except that they live in the richer parts of the kingdom and are usually invited to every significant event.

“Benjamin?”

His sister’s voice intrudes on his thoughts. He lifts his head, blinking, only to feel one of Grayle’s hoof-hands graze his arm. Astoria must be walking over to them. “Yes- what is it?”

“How attached are you to this feather?” asks Astoria softly.

Ben shifts. “How attached are you to Leonidas Redwing?”

Something smacks his wrist- softly, entirely unharming, mostly chastising, but it’s enough to make him gasp quietly and withdraw his arm. Immediately his goatley is grasping his wrist and inspecting it closely, however closely he can with his panoramic sight, and Ben lets him, knowing that his assistant won’t be satisfied until he’s absolutely sure there was no harm done. “What was that for?” Ben asks Astoria, his wrist still in Grayle’s hoof-hands.

Astoria’s tone sharpens. “You’re very rude.”

“Am I?” Maybe he’s never noticed it before. Or maybe he hasn’t been taught how to be polite. Or maybe he doesn’t want to be snooty. Or maybe he’s just a boy. “You could just answer me.”

“Yes, I could,” she says coolly. “And you could just answer me.” The end of the feather brushes his nose; she must be holding it in his face. “How attached are you to this feather?’

He reaches forward and steals it from her hands. “I want to keep it.”

Astoria hesitates. “What for?”

“It’s my trophy.” He holds it tightly, but not too tightly, because already he can feel the pluminess folding and bending in his warm grip. “I got it.”

“But you didn’t earn it.”

“Why argue so much?” asks Grayle, setting Ben’s hand back in his lap. His question is followed by a sharp spike which Ben knows must be Astoria glaring at the goatley, and quickly, recovering, he says, “I just mean, you could answer each other’s questions. It would be much more polite, Your Highness.”

“Cheeky goatley,” mutters Astoria under her breath. She sighs, shuffles, and then Ben feels her weight added to the chair as she sits beside him. Now all three of them are on the lounge, and Ben can feel his sister’s wings, long and thin and plumy, brushing his. Consciously he folds them tighter. “What interest have you in who I love, Benjamin?”

Ben blinks. “I’d like to know, that’s all.”

“What do you think, then? Who do you suppose I should marry?”

Ben scoffs. “I can’t tell you who to marry!” He turns toward her, not because it matters to him, but because he knows it must make her feel like he cares when he looks at her instead of away. “I think… you should marry whoever courts you.”

Astoria pauses for a moment. All he can hear is her thoughtful breathing. “Do you think Leonidas Redwing is courting me?”

“I think every suitor is courting you.”

Astoria pokes him gently in the shoulder. “I know you don’t really think that,” she says. Her voice turns toward him. “Why don’t you like Leonidas?”

He straightens his wings. “Who says I don’t like him? I told him he didn’t have to apologize.”

“Yes- and that was partly why I came to talk to you,” admits Astoria. “You were both acting funny, and you needn’t be. The Wingshow is a solemn ceremony.”

“Excuse my words, my lady,” bleats Grayle with a snort, “but I didn’t think it all too solemn.”

Ben hears a sigh. “It isn’t meant to be solemn as in upsetting,” she begins, “but it’s meant to be appropriately… serious. That is the only reason Leonidas was chastised, Ben.” She turns back to the prince. “He wasn’t meant to play any tricks, not on you, or anyone in the audience. He was meant to be impressing me.”

“Did he impress you?” Ben perks up.

Astoria takes pause, again, and Ben wonders why she is being so strangely quiet. When they talked in the past she would willingly go on about her day, about the food she was served, about what Maylee told her of the affairs of the animalfolk, but now she seems queer. Why won’t she speak about the Wingshow? Or about her preferences in suitors? Or about Leonidas Redwing?

“I don’t think…” begins Astoria, before Ben hears her shift and motion something, and then Grayle gets up and excuses himself from the room with a goatish snort, and only once the door has opened and shut and the sound of hoofsteps has faded does she start to speak again. “I don’t think he impressed me, really. Honestly, I think I could be impressed by just about any wingedman.”

Ben blinks at her in surprise, shuffling over to sit where Grayle had sat, enjoying the warmth of a saved seat beneath him, though the cushions are littered with tiny specks of hay. “Then why do you bother with the Wingshow at all?”

“It’s part of tradition.” He can hear her straightening her dress, lace and silk brushing against lace and silk. “A bird could impress me. In fact, they still do. Hummingbirds especially-”

“Why are you so down, Astoria?” Ben turns to his sister, speaking as bluntly as he can without being standoffish. “I just wanted to know if he impressed you.”

“All of them impress me,” Astoria says firmly. “The Lightwing boy- I don’t know his name, and honestly, it’s awful of me- he’s incredibly silent, and he flies just like an owlley. The Graywing boys are all sweet, but they’re too…” Ben knows that she must be searching for a more polite term to describe the Graywing suitors, but there is no polite term for them. They are as jealous and greedy as snakeleys, even with their occasional bravery, and nothing can convince him otherwise.

“I just think they’re improper,” she continues graciously. “And the Brittlewing brothers…”

“They’re a bit nervous,” Ben interrupts, folding his hands. “Aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t want to marry any of them,” finishes Astoria. “Yes, their wingmanship impresses me, but I don’t… like… any of them.”

“There are more suitors, aren’t there?”

“Yes…”

“And there are more Wingshows, right?”

“Occasionally… I think they’re considerably far-apart, though, Ben, and I-”

“But there are also dinners? Aren’t there? And you can meet any of them any time, out in the marketplace, and you can invite them into the castle- with permission. Oh- and! Astoria, you could even go to the different ‘Wing families and invite them here! What if you found a Middlewing circus? Then maybe you’d have Middlewhitewings… but how would that work?”

Astoria grasps his wrists, both of them, and pulls him toward her, so suddenly that he gasps, though he knows his sister wouldn’t hurt him for anything. The feather flutters into his lap. He can feel it brushing his elbows, and he would like to reach for it, but Astoria says, abruptly, certainly, and with a mild hint of annoyance to how long he rambled on for, “None of them are Leonidas Redwing!”

Ben goes silent. He knows, from the breath brushing faintly against his eyelashes, that his sister’s face is only a few inches away from his, and he doesn’t really know how to react to her. He lets her breathe into his face for a few more moments before leaning back slightly, gently sliding his hands from her grip, and taking hold of the feather in his lap. “Do you love him, Astoria?”

He can feel her staring at him. Her breathing echoes in the silence of the room, more silent than ever now that Grayle is gone and it is only the two royal siblings. Ben hears her wings shifting as she folds them, feels her thoughts buzz against his head, before she says, in an almost fearful whisper, “Will you tell anyone?”

Ben’s eyes widen. He leans back further. “So you love him!”

Astoria grasps his wrists again. “Be quiet!”

Again there is silence. Grayle is not standing right outside the door- this Ben knows because there is no incessant goatley-snorting. Maylee is not outside, either; perhaps she’s busy doing Astoria’s laundry. There is no one around. “We’re alone,” he says accurately, with a subtle tilt of his head. “Could you just answer me? Do you love him or not?”

His sister releases his hands and turns away. “I barely know him.”

“But…?”

“But…”

“But you don’t seem to pay attention to anyone but him,” Ben continues. “And I knew you were looking at him before the Wingshow began, when all the suitors were kneeling. I could sort of…” He makes a vague motion with his hands, some kind of circular woosh. “...feel it. There was something else, too, kind of… sparking off of both of you.”

“Sparking?” He hears Astoria shift uncomfortably. “What do you mean, sparking?”

“I mean, I could feel it. Like you feel the rain, or hear the thunder, or feel the stickiness when it’s hot outside.” He stops, just to let Astoria understand what he knows, before saying, “I think you love him.”

“It’s nice that you know that.” Astoria stands, her weight gone from the lounge, and walks toward the window. “I’m not even quite sure.”

Ben turns his head in her direction. “Have you ever been with him before?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever… well, you have seen him before the Wingshow, right?”

“Silly Ben,” Astoria mutters. “Of course I have. I haven’t just met him.” She folds her arms. “That would be ridiculous…”

“How long have you known him for?”

“Since my courting began.”

“So… as long as the other suitors?”

“Yes.”

“And have you ever found the time to speak with him before? On your own? Do you know him well?”

“It is rude for any suitor to speak privately with me,” says Astoria, but Ben can tell that she doesn’t entirely mean it, and she must’ve talked with Leonidas at least twice before this Wingshow, otherwise she wouldn’t be so enamored with him. “But… yes. I have. We have.”

“When?”

“Benjamin!”

“Sorry.” He blinks, aware on a limited level that he might be a little rude with all his prying questions. “What did you talk about!”

“Benjamin!”

Someone taps at the door. Hard. Not knuckles- hooves. “Prince Ben?”

Ben turns his head toward the door. “Grayle!”

Astoria glances at him.

“Come in!”

The door swings open, after a bit of scuffling with the handle; his goatley has always had trouble opening doors, and such is why every doorknob in the castle was eventually replaced with a door lever. Hoof-hands are only so efficient. Wingedmen are lucky; they are still one of the few creatures in all of life that have usable hands. “Did you call for me, my lord?” asks Grayle.

Ben shakes his head. “Not exactly.” He listens for any sign of refusal from Astoria and feels a buzzing against his skin, more like frustration and a little tang of anxiety, and he wonders if she wants Grayle to go away or if she wants to leave. Personally, he himself would like their talking to continue. He might be able to give her advice, if she has told no one else about her secret meetings with the Redwing boy. “Go and talk with Master Reeder if you want. Please, if you could, be back in maybe thirty minutes?”

Grayle gives a goatley grunt. “O’ course.” He leaves, pulling the door shut behind him, and Astoria and Ben are left in silence again.

“Are you satisfied?” asks Ben.

Astoria is silent.

“If you love Leonidas, why don’t you marry him already?”

She turns to him- he can hear the flow of her dress, the sharpness of her stare, and he feels a little off-put. “What do you know about marriage, if you’re saying stupid things like that?” she says promptly.

The prince stiffens. “What should I know about marrying?” he says. “I’ll never marry.”

Astoria is silent, again.

“Is something the matter?” he asks her. “Have I upset you?”

“Has anyone told you that you’ll never marry?” Her voice is much closer now, as if she’d walked toward him and he hadn’t noticed.

The question catches him off-guard, for a moment, and his mind goes blank. He doesn’t know how to answer her, he realizes. How can he answer her? It would be rude, wouldn’t it? But it would also be rude not to answer her. “Not directly,” he admits, feeling the feather in his hands. “But I don’t think I’ll ever marry, will I?”

“You’re only twelve,” says Astoria.

“Yes,” Ben answers. “And you’re only sixteen.”

Astoria is silent, again. “I think you will marry,” she says eventually. “What a silly thought, that you’d never court. Who says you can’t marry?”

His brow creases. “Please, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t… be that way.”

“Be what?”

“Oh, stop it!” He hands her the feather, quickly, if only to get her to leave the room. “Take your lover’s feather. He must’ve meant it for you, anyway. Ask Maylee to frame it for you. Or put it in a necklace. I don’t care. It doesn’t belong to me.”

“But- Benjamin, you rude boy!”

“Take it!” Ben insists. “Please leave now. And see if you can find Grayle for me.” He folds his hands in his lap, waiting for her to walk to the door and leave. “What are you waiting for?”

“Ben…”

Ben turns his head away. “Leave, please.”

“Ben, see, I’m sorry if I-”

“I’ll call for Luke, Astoria.”

Astoria hesitates. “You’re rude,” she mutters. Her voice fades as she heads toward the door, grasping the handle and swinging it open. “You’re very rude, stupid boy…” He hears her meaningless, whispered, affectionate insults as she walks down the hall, and then he gets up and counts his steps and pushes the door shut.

It’s incredibly lonely without Grayle.

Who says you’ll never marry…?

Just about everyone.

Who would marry the blind boy, anyway?