The Rejected She-Wolf

Chapter Five

Prince Vaughn

Still standing on the balcony, I wish to tell Bigail to fck off, that I don’t wish to see her paintings.

But my mouth opens and says something entirely different. “I’ll join you soon, Bigail,” I murmur. “I’m trying to catch some air here.”

Without looking back, I can accurately tell that she is disappointed at my response, although when I look back eventually, she isn’t showing the disappointment on her face. She only says “Okay, Vaughn,” and turns around towards the room while I tighten my fists around the balcony’s railing.

From my position, the wall construction site at the boundary is visible, a clear beauty to behold. It might only be halfway built but it currently defines the distant horizon as far as I can see.

That is where I should be—at the wall with those workers. Not with Bigail.

While thinking these thoughts, something catches my eye far beneath me.

Someone is moving carefully towards the valley where the queen grows her flowers. This figure moves suspiciously as if trying not to get caught. He or she has a cloth over their head that reaches to their knees and carries a basket hanging from their arched arm.

She must be a woman. Her cover is old and worn out so I figure she must be a slave too. What is she up to?

She ambles straight to the part of the field where herbal plants are cultivated, bends over to start plucking and, in few minutes, as if my prayer is being answered, she uncovers the cloth from her head, pulling it backwards to let it fall on her shoulders.

Her face is now revealed, and I am gobsmacked to find it is the werewolf girl.

What does she want?

My immediate instinct is to query her from up here on the balcony, to ask what the hell she’s looking for, but I remain quiet and observe her like a hawk.

But when she stands erect, I’m reminded once again of why I’m developing a soft spot for her. Her shape alone sends ripples down my legs.

Could this be because of prohibition? Everyone knows that prohibited things are appealing. You start craving sugar, for example, the moment you’re told to stop taking sugar. I’m probably craving the girl because foxes are told never to be with werewolves. Or maybe it’s mere curiosity. She’s the only werewolf in the entire fox realm and such uniqueness increases her magnetism.

I tell myself to stop sounding ridiculous.

The girl isn’t even looking clean. She'd just returned from the worksite, yes. She hadn’t had her bath yet, true. Or maybe she has. One can’t tell with these slaves, always looking unkempt and shabby.

At any rate, one thing is clear. When you’re that strikingly beautiful, layers upon layers of dirt won't be enough to conceal you.

I want to leap from my balcony to the valley to hold her, even if the balcony is about seven stories from here to down there and the fall might kill me. But I wish to kiss the girl's muddy lips. I wouldn’t want her to know I’m the one, of course. It would be dreadfully shameful. Absolutely disgraceful. A prince like me kissing a common slave.

I snap out it and come to my senses. A line of frown knots over my eyebrows and I get a little angry at the illegal feeling welling up like active volcanoes in my stomach. It is poetic and ridiculous all at once.

Without warning, suddenly, I am caught off guard.

The girl looks up at me from beneath the valley and causes my heart to lurch in my chest.

She must’ve felt my eyes really, really heavy on her. But the most vital question remains: why is an ordinary slave doing this to me?

Instantly, she bows and knees on the spot, showing reverence. And as quickly as it had come, my feeling of anger melts like candle wax in the sun.

I don’t know what else to do with this emotional rollercoaster. I end up awkwardly signaling to the girl with both my hands to rise up.

She does.

She then snatches her basket from the ground and hurries out of the valley of flowers, heading straight for the entrance that leads to the palace underground, disappearing from sight to where her type belongs.

Such a relief for me.

And such a feeling of discontent too.

The next time I see her, I’ll treat her like trash. Because, truthfully, without sounding derogatory, it is an undeniable fact that she’s trash.

I can’t help thinking, however, about what she’s to to do with those healing herbs.

I decide I'll have to find out.

Is she fine? The sun flares red hot over the horizon, further tanning up my face. Where do I tell Bigail I’m going? What excuse should I give?

I honestly want to know if the werewolf girl is okay. I saved her earlier on at the worksite, right? So the responsibility lies on me to know if she’s fine. That's all. Maybe I might go ahead to confront her a little for stealing leaves from my mother’s garden. Just a little. No shouting. Who the hell gave you the permission?!

Already, from my corner eyesight I can see Bigail sitting on a short stool in my royal room with a canvass stretched before her. She's trying to finish up on her usual travesty of an artwork.

I shake my head in pity. If you want to take painting as a hobby, you should at least get trained by a professional on the basics.

Turning around, I walk majestically into my room. “I need to go check up on my mother,” I lie to Bigail.

“You should,” she replies and applies her brush's tip to a colourless area on her canvass. “I also wanted to check up on her. So we can just go together?" she adds.

“Woah,” I scream and stare at her painting. “This is really nice.”

She looks over her shoulder at me, visibly startled, her face all blushy but bright.

“Thanks,” she says, giggling. “I’ve never heard you say that, Vaughn.”

She’s right. Me too, I’ve never heard myself say that as well. Truth be told, the painting is not nice. But anything to make Bigail’s bu.ttocks remain glued to her stool while I go check up on that werewolf.

I take a second look at Bigail’s painting. There’s something resembling a mother giraffe on the canvass. If you look more closely, though, it starts to seem more like a camel than a giraffe. If you look too long, you might start to see a dinosaur. You can never tell what Bigail is drawing.

“I don’t want to break your concentration,” I say to her, shining all my thirty two teeth. I’m not usually this dramatic, and I hope she won’t be able to see through my ulterior motives. “Just try finishing up your masterpiece while I go check up on my mother, okay?” I add, rubbing her shoulder. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Sure,” she says without looking at me. “Don’t be long.”

Excitedly, I stop massaging her shoulder and wear my royal sanders, like a kid whose mother has finally let him have those prohibited sweets.

I stroll out of my room, fully adorned in my regal attire, stepping unto a particularly long corridor and turning left.

The palace structure itself is built on over twenty acres of land. It’s like a five minute walk past several hallways and passages before I finally reach a closed door from within the palace that leads to the underground.

Servants stare at me as I open that door. It has been a while since I’ve bothered myself with the underground’s existent. It is a part of the palace, yes. But it is almost in another world of its own, like a pair of rich and poor roommates sharing different realities in a single room demarcated by unfairness.

I clamber down the stairs and eventually land on a muddy, terracotta floor.

It is not right.

A final door leads to the underground and I knock on it. Once. Twice. After waiting a little, thrice.

Eventually, someone answers.