The inside of the estate absorbed all light, leaving them in rooms of dark wooden barristers and rich green wallpaper. The matriarch, one Isadora Gillipea, greeted the two and welcomed them in her home, even going so far as to kiss Peter on both sides of his face, doting on him like any mother would. She no doubt heard about how he grew up without one.
All the same, the prince found himself left behind in the foyer as the adults conversed without him. He let out a heavy sigh, a moment’s respite before he was no doubt called upon again to be present, be involved. Be grateful.
And yet he could only briefly relish this fleeting moment he had alone before music reached him from upstairs.
The notes hung in the air, sounding without clear purpose, bridging a melody out of nothing at all. And yet one that caught his attention, guided him up the stairs, brought him to the second floor to stand at the threshold of an open drawing room.
The girl in the mirror shrieked when she saw the shadowed eyes peering from the hall, the music halting with a harsh grind of her bow. When she realized the prince wasn’t the threat she had thought, her fear flashed to a hot anger.
“I’m sorry-!” The prince stumbled over his own words in a panic, backing away as the girl was suddenly upon him with a glare that nearly killed him. “I’m really sorry, I was just— The music— It’s—!”
He breathed, the thrumming of his heart in his ears.
“Let me start over.” He straightened his back and looked her in the eye, holding out his hand to her in greeting. Like he practiced. “I’m Peter. It’s, ah, nice to meet you—”
“Peter…? Oh.” The girl took a step back, the raging inferno dissipated to an irritated simmer. “You must be the boy they’ve picked to marry me.” Honey brown eyes gave him a once over. “I thought you would at least be taller.”
Peter felt himself shrink under her gaze. “I’ve been told I’m still growing...?” He offered a sheepish smile, which clearly failed to impress his fiancee.
“Hm.” Was all she said. She returned her violin to it’s resting place and started down the hall, the way he came. “Well, Peter. If you’re done spying on young women in their drawing rooms,” Her tone was ice cold as she descended the stairs, “I’m sure my mother would be thrilled to see us together.”
“Right.” The boy followed without much enthusiasm, a heaviness setting on his shoulders.