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From "The Prodigal Prince" "My son." The queen, his mother, swept into the receiving room in a rustle of black and gold finery. With a well-practiced flourish, she held out her knuckles for him to kneel and kiss in the courtly manner. Still fuming over his rough summons to court, he did not. After a moment she took back her hand and turned away from him until the serving ladies retired. "Your manners have grown coarse in these years away. It is ill-done to shame a queen before her servants." She looked tired. And older than he remembered. Though still beautiful, there was a looseness to her skin he'd never seen before. Shocking tributaries of silver threatened to swamp her auburn luster. That was her pride, he knew, of all her charms -- her crown of thick red hair. She in turn was regarding him: His stringy flaxen mane, longer than the fashion; and the blue eyes, his father's eyes, cornflower blue. Thin, flat-chested and altogether too small for his years. He could see her critiquing him as the product of her body; noting how the last five years had changed him. And judging how best to bend him to her will. Tired, yes. And thin. But still churning with the irrepressible energy of her ambitions. What was she up to, this warrior in women's robes? What was she plotting, this schemer? Was it as Jonathan said? Was he to be married off to some minor princess? I am not a boy anymore, he told himself. I am a grown man of 25 years. I will marry or not as I choose, queen be damned! Only I must be careful, for she is full of guile and manipulations.Thanks for subscribing!
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