The Swan's Wish

Robby

Robby

The outline of London whizzed past the pane of the car's window. The sun was out, the sky clear for once, but I was barely paying attention... so many cities looked the same. The energy of a city was the lifeblood everyone else seemed to crave. Everyone but me.

It wasn't that I hated London, or wished to be somewhere else. It was just it didn't excite me like it did others. The incessant buzzing and humming didn't sing to me a lullaby... it created a headache.

I had seen the sites, great and small, and felt nothing close to emotional conviction at any spot. The statutes stood, the waters rippled, parliament was held... but Robby von Rothbart held very little interest in any of it. I appreciated the architectural feats, and the art, and the culture. It was just I could appreciate them without having to experience them endlessly, and without having to conjure up a multitude of fake smiles to haplessly pin to my cheeks.

Certainly someone at school was catching on. I knew I wasn't that good at acting. And those kids were constantly trying to form groups to further "explore" the city. Ugh.

Twiddling the pages of my book between my thumbs, I chanced a fancy at daydreaming of a fire snapping in some stone pit somewhere, happily lapping up the logs laid... while rain might patter against a window, and the wing of the chair I might occupy cradled my head just so... That was how I would paint an envious evening. Away from folks that loved small talk, and wrapped in the wool of my sweater with Tolstoy or Dostoevsky drumming through my head in the original Russian.

Maybe not in the original Russian.

It was getting rather rusty.

Counting up the years on my fingers, I guesstimated that it had been close to three years since my feet had stepped on Russian soil.

No, it wasn't that I hated London, or wished to be somewhere else. It was just that St. Petersburg excited me beyond any other place I had lived. Munich was a lively beat as well, but it didn't hold a candle to the roads of Moscow or the culture of St. Petersburg. They held everything I could have ever cared for.

And everyone. But that tender memory isn't ready for inspection, as it tends to cause an incurable sullen cloud upon my mood.

Tonight promised a different sort of company, since my father had actually decided to grace me with his presence and take me to an event. Normally, I was treated as the bad luggage that was taken from place to place and dumped unceremoniously onto a new house staff that would then have the pleasure of being my placebo parents until my real ones would remember that they had a son. Imagine my surprise when I'd received the call days earlier. "Robert, it's your father. Be ready when I call you. I'll have my assistant email you the details, but we're attending the Wine of the Worlds. There is someone I need to introduce you to."

And just like that, I'd heard the ping of the notification laying out the day, time, and dressing requirements of my "outing with father." The problem was, I was supposed to have closed rehearsal with Madame and Master studying for Prince Siegfried. I had the strength and technical grace, but this was the part of a lifetime. It required mastering balance, mastering classical artistry - especially with my arms - and miming. Acting. Not my strongest trait. Flexing the triangle between my shoulders, I could already feel the burn from upped strength training. My pas de deux partner hadn't been cast, so I wasn't sure who I'd be carrying.

My head held all the different possibilities, ranking my personal picks from 1-5 for every class. Madame had said that auditions had gone well, but they were torn between two specific dancers, whom she had not disclosed, much to my chagrin. Whoever they didn't go with, I knew it wouldn't matter. The same choreography had to be mimicked between three dancing partners. My feet needed toughening. I'd have to be dancing barefoot for the next three months.

I could hear the low murmurings of my father's voice from across the car, relentlessly plotting, no doubt. His ever present "Schmee" (as I'd nicknamed him) sat loyally beside him -- rather like a labrador. The two of them were quite a pair. My father had brushed the same mustache in the mirror since I had been alive, and well before that, I was told. His darkened skin and dark eyes gave him a rather sinister appearance, framed by conspicuous wrinkles collecting at the corners of his mouth and eyebrows. His eyebrows were very striking, honestly; they sat rather like giant black caterpillars across his forehead. Watching as he ran a finger through his red, pointed goatee, I wondered what I would look like in another 30 years.

Surely, not that. Scratching my chin, I hoped that my beard would match my hair.

Schmee, however, lived up to his name. He resembled the character from Peter Pan that I'd seen as a child. Portly, and diminished in height, he had a pair of glasses that sat perched upon his rather large, rounded nose. He stumbled over his words, and I swore he kept a nip of brandy or rum in his jacket pocket at all times. He was the perfect bumbling imbecile that would cry "Yes!" to every single scheme my father could concoct.

Eyeing him as he took a secret swig from his black coat, I sniggered to myself. There had to be intelligent life in there, or he wouldn't have lasted this long. But where?

My father was not one to clean up messes. He executed plans, and rarely did he fail. To be honest, I found the move to London rather abrupt and alarming. I had never been here, but I'd heard whispers about my father and a plot to kill King Charlie. My dad may have appeared sinister, but I couldn't imagine him killing someone. To what gain? He had power and money enough to rule the world with his checkbook. Every rumor that had been brought to me, I'd scoffed.

They didn't make sense.

Why King Charlie?

But why haven't we been back here since if he was innocent?

"My Lord, we've arrived." The car came to a slow stop, and I watched my father and Schmee close their conversation.

"Robert," my father addressed me as he gently straightened his tie. "How are things at the ballet?"

Cocking an eyebrow, I waited until we had been properly placed on the curb before answering. Turning my face towards him at an angle, I felt my tongue wrap around my teeth. "What do you mean?" I asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's good, I guess. I'm going to be Prince Sigfriend in the showcase this term." I shrugged to show my indifference, hoping he wouldn't press the matter.

"I hear that Odette Cromwell attends the ballet, same as you?" He stated, more than asked, breezing past my answer. Schmee stood behind him, dusting the shoulders of my father's suit before clasping the brocade of his cape. I hadn't paid attention until now as to what my father was wearing.

He was wearing his royal colors.

Odd. His pin and crest were securely attached to his breast pocket, the von Rothbart emblem gleaming in the sun. I knew it well. The owl with his spread wings and talons carrying a snake's body were almost horrifying to look upon as a child.

"Yes, sir. I think, anyway," I responded, quietly confused, but wise enough to keep that confusion to myself. Dread started to knead in the bottom of my stomach. I smoothed the front of my khaki's as we started trudging up the steps of the hall, when BOOM!

Thunder caused my head to jerk back in surprise. When had a storm come up? The rumble from the sky captivated everyone's attention for a short span, until I heard my father's voice break through.

"Introduce me. Tonight." His father's dark green cape that rested atop his black suit whipped in the wind that cut across my face as we stepped forward to the entrance. The sky was darkening dramatically with each step that we took.

Without further warning, rain cascaded from the sky, sending the photographers and outside staff into a tizzy. Trays of glass crashed, shouts of surprise intermingled with the pounding onslaught of the watery punishment. The crowd behind pushed us into the building with force, several onlookers experiencing the trample of impatient feet.

Cracks of lightning flashed through the sky, causing the electricity to teeter. Swaying with the motion of the room, I grabbed the arm of my father's suit. "What a wild storm!" I exhaled, bewildered but amused. I was soaked from head to foot, catching the brunt of the storm as I was the last in our group to make it through the door.

Unamused, my father's thin lips pursed together. "Clean up. Then FIND HER."

I sulked to the bathroom, muttering all kinds of rebellious nonsense along the way. Locating the sign for the bathroom, I noticed the poorly lit hallways was surprisingly bare. Every step I took fed the fire of fury burning in my gut. "I never even wanted to come to this stupid party, but here I am, doing your bidding once again, you pig-headed bully..."

"You stole the words right out of my mouth." A figure said from the shadows.

Surprised, my feet automatically went from fourth position to full tour on lair. Landing with a hand beat into my chest, I heard a whimsical chuckle of an entertained female. "You scared me! I didn't know anyone was back here!" Heaving in relief, I watched the figure emerge. Catching my chin as it tried to slam into the floor, I recognized it as none other than Odette.

Odette Cromwell.

I had never seen her... like this before. The red lace that was scattered across her body highlighted only the best details of her form. She brushed her long blond hair across her shoulder, a wide smile inviting me in.

"I don't think we've ever formally been introduced to one another," she shyly giggled. "I've heard plenty of you though, trust me."

Gulping past the nerves in my throat, I just nodded. "That's... interesting." Rolling my eyes, I tried again. "Sorry, I am not in the best headspace right now." l pointed to the dripping blazer that hung haphazardly around my body.

"Yeah, but you now have the best excuse ever to leave this stupid party. Am I correct in thinking that?" She flashed a smile, so brilliant that it took my breath away. I was still looking at it when the lights cut out over head, followed by another loud BOOM of thunder.

Odette shuddered. "I've never liked storms." The rolling and the cracking had ceased, but the lights had yet to return.

"Me either," I sheepishly admitted, running a hand through my slicked hair. "Uhm, let me get a towel in here, and I'll be right back. I believe I'm leaving quite the dangerous puddle on the tile here. I would hate for someone to slip in this darkness on my account."

"Oh, that's very thoughtful of you."

Speeding into the nearest doorway, I scrounged around for something to soak up the water saturating my clothing. It looked like an empty cafeteria, filled with folding tables, cabinets, and a large sink under the far window. Opening and slamming cabinet doors, I looked for anything that would help me. Grabbing something close to what I would consider a rough towelette, I slid back into the hallway, only to find it empty.

"Where'd she go?" I mumbled, half upset that she had gone, and half disappointed that I had even cared. Throwing the towel on the ground, I edged my way back down the hall toward the center festivities. It seemed the power had gone out everywhere. Security was rounding people up to escort them to their vehicles. The valet's were working furiously as the rain refused to cease.

I stood watching the pandemonium for a second, glad to not be part of the chaos. The vendors all wore expressions of regret as they begrudgingly packed up their wines and tools.

"Robert!" My father loomed over me, his frame still towering over mine. "Did you locate her?"