CHAPTER ONE; NAMES OF WOMEN
My family, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, wouldn’t bow to the queen of England— would even expect her to show them such respect, and threaten vengeance would she refuse.
Some may ask; how could an entire house be so delusional to think themselves of more value than the royal family? But those who wonder are blinded to the real way of the world, they know not what we do— We are the royal family. And all others are nothing compared.
This, I learnt at a very young age. My mother, Walburga, would place special care in teaching us how to uphold our family’s reputation. There were rules and rules and rules. Never smile for too long or speak too loud, loose your composure or say a bad word. Use proper titles, big words, practice laughing lightly… By the time I turned seven, every blink was manual, every word and gesture carefully planned. I had learnt to do —and be— what was expected.
But I could play, still.
And that was a big deal.
None of my cousins could.
Not my brother, either.
I had to play alone, but I could.
It was big.
This was because, for better or for worse, I was expected to grow up a prince. Just a prince.
And just-a-prince is not expected to do anything but that— what I had already mastered at age seven. Create a good impression. Be charming and nice yet elegant and stoic. Say only what others want to hear.
By then, I did all that already. By then, apart from marrying a pretty young lady years down the line, my job was done.
Because, and I cannot stress this enough, I was never meant to amount to anything. I was never meant to be anything. And that was just how I liked it.
But then, the king had to go and fuck everything up.
ALINE.
‘J’avais dessiné sur le sable son doux visage qui me souriait.’
All I love, my father gave me.
I love music, as did he.
So much so, he had set up a record player in the living room and, when I was young(er) and could, I remember I’d step on his feet and he’d swing and sway me around the room. I would burst out laughing every time, falling over —we could barely ever finish a song—, in which case he’d continue, as if I’d only been holding him back, with a newfound enthusiasm, attempting to follow with his untrained gravelly voice, the melody.
‘Puis a plu… sur cette plage!’, he’d sing. ‘Dans cet orage… elle a disparu!’
And I’d stare with big eyes, envious. He looked free as ever when he danced. Happy.
‘C’mon, Reggie! Your presence is requested on the dance floor!’
It was requested so very often, at nine years old I already knew my way around it.
It wasn’t proper dancing — that’s exactly why I loved it— it was probably the only improper activity allowed in that house but, without meaning to, I’d started being properly good at it, or so my father would say.
And so, we would swirl and swing each other around, failing and, fewer times, managing to keep ourselves coordinated,
‘Et j’ai crié!’, we’d sing together. ‘Crié! ‘ALINE!’ pour qu’elle revienne!’
Mother would occasionally join us —when we were loud like that— just to sit in her dark leather recliner and stare. I used to think she wished to dance but didn’t know how to —perks of only learning things proper— and liked to keep us company.
I now know she only wished to keep an eye on us.
Mother liked being in control.
I saw her straighten up out of the corner of my eye that night, after a twirl.
‘Aren’t those lady steps, Orion?’
To the sound of her voice I had stopped moving, Christophe’s (and my father’s) singing becoming white noise in the background.
She did that a lot, my mother; pretend to be talking about us to talk to us.
I didn’t open my mouth —had she wanted a reply she would’ve addressed me. All she wanted was for me to take in the information —you’re doing something wrong. So I did that, instead.
‘Oh, give the boy a break, dear.’ My father was on me in a second, lifting me up and turning me around, forcibly moving my shoulders to the beat. I fought his grip to turn back around, to stop him- Stop. She wants you to stop, was all I could hear. ‘Does it look like he knows what he’s doing?’
It happened fast, so fast I thought, for a moment, it hadn’t —a new turn and it was gone. But it was too late; the image had already been carved into my brain to never be forgotten.
She had smiled. I had seen her teeth before, and her lips curve upwards, but I had never seen her smile properly until then.
‘Certainly doesn’t’, she said, softly. Suddenly, the music was too loud. And all I wanted to hear was her. ‘Maybe we could get you a teacher, Regulus. You’ll be old enough to come join us at events soon enough. Wouldn’t want you to make a fool of yourself.’
She meant it, I knew she did. But the tone was soft, not kind but calm. Almost no edge to it.
I really stopped moving then, to look at her, as if seeing her for the first time.
I would love that, I thought of saying, discarding it immediately. Don’t ruin this.
‘When could I start?’, I said instead.
I saw her shoot an amused look to my father. I heard him chuckle behind me.
‘As soon as next week.’
I nodded. Then paused.
‘Thank you.’
She smiled. It attempted to look like the other one, in shape and width, but was tighter, more firm.
I remember wondering if it was me. Her smile had been honest when I hadn’t been looking. When it wasn’t for me.
‘You’re welcome, son.’
‘Et J’ai pleuré, pleuré! Oh, j’avait trop de peine…’
The last chords sounded through the record player speakers, drifting into nothingness. Then, the noise of the needle being moved.
‘Orion, dinner will be ready soon…’, mother was quick to warn.
‘Oh, come on. One more time!’
‘No.’
‘Vous n’appréciez l’art de Christophe!’
To that, Walburga choked up a laugh.
‘Well, he has ten songs in that album, dear, it’s hard to appreciate it when you only listen to one.’
‘So if it’s another one…’
‘I didn’t say that!’
‘I think you did.’
I smiled. Not too big —or to anyone but myself— but I still did.
It felt precious seeing this side of them.
It felt terrible knowing it was not the side meant for me.
‘Where’s Sirius?’, I spoke up.
The laughs died out.
‘In his room. Doing some thinking.’
I looked at her, analysing. She was now leaning against the recliner, swaying lightly. For her, a careless stance. And so I spoke again,
‘Well, I’m good at that’, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Can I go help?’
She looked away and so did I, knowingly, staring at the carpet bellow me instead.
She was looking at my father, no doubt.
They were deciding.
‘Until supper.’
‘Until supper’, I agreed immediately, looking at her once more. Smiling. ‘Thank you.’
‘Off you go.’
I obeyed —almost immediately I was out the door.
Some familiar chords starting playing behind me as I did.
‘Orion, no-!’, I heard her say. Her voice, once more, light.
It brought it back— That image.
Sometimes, to this day, I think it was that moment that broke me, truly. That smile.
All the pain I could endure, but it was cruel, letting me in on the secret that there was something kind hidden inside there too, that I would never get to see again.
That I would never get to have.
Nevertheless I would spend the rest of my life trying— To have it. She never gave it up, never will, but if she did, just once, it would all be worth it.
I hate to say it, but even now. If she smiled at me like she did back then, I’d thank whatever led me to it. I could never regret anything again.
As I climbed up the stairs, I heard the first verse of that song start again, as if taunting me.
‘J’avais dessiné sur le sable son doux visage, qui me souriait…’