The Wrong Prince by C. K. Brooke Page A

whom his mother had announced as his bride-to-be. What had been her surname—Carmelite? Chamberlain? Oh, well. He couldn’t remember now. And it didn’t matter, anyhow. He’d never take a wife, or know a woman’s touch.
    Good God. He was going to die a virgin!
    Two days passed in stark solitude, and he was ravenous. Rainwater leaked down from the open barred window, and he licked the stone wall. The hunger was excruciating, as though his stomach were caving in on itself. Meanwhile, his backside was numb from the hard floor.
    On his third morning in the dying process, an echo reached his ears. Dmitri sat up, shivering despite the room’s stuffiness. He’d not heard noise from any part of the fortress since he’d been imprisoned. Could someone be near enough to hear him, reach him?
    He considered shouting out, but thought better of it. If he caused a ruckus, King Ira might have him dragged to the dungeons and tortured in punishment for his disturbances. No, Dmitri would much rather starve to death.
    But the echoes grew louder. Someone was climbing the stairs. Curious, the man stood to his feet. Was a soldier coming to feed him, save him? Would he be given a trial, a chance to defend himself? Perhaps they only intended to check whether he’d died yet. Or worse, they were coming to mock and flog him.
    He was trembling with dread by the time the footsteps sounded unmistakably from outside the keep. The door slowly opened, and in scurried…a girl.
    She sighed, angular arms brimming with a heft of scrolls and tomes, and kicked the door shut behind her. She didn’t even notice Dmitri as she bustled over to the cobwebbed desk and plunked down her cargo. She tucked a sleek bob of straight, ginger-brown hair behind her ears and tapped her foot thoughtfully, scanning the room as if in search of something. She looked straight past him.
    Bewildered, Dmitri could only watch as she appeared to locate what she’d sought, and dragged an enormous, spindly candle stand from the far corner. He covered his ears at the deafening scrape of iron against the flagstone. When the girl had arranged the stand to her satisfaction, she withdrew a match from her skirts and reached up to light the wick protruding through the ancient wax. The old desk was illuminated by a pleasant glow.
    “Much better,” she declared to no one. “Although the sun has ascended, my eyes would be hard-pressed to imbibe your wisdom in this dingy chamber, dear ones.” She patted her parchments fondly, and Dmitri took a step closer to the bars. She spoke to her books, too?
    With tight, jerky movements, she pulled out a stool. There was something rather finch-like about her, in the hunch of her narrow shoulders and the way she craned her neck as she organized her materials. She looked young—quite young—but recalled to Dmitri something of a little old librarian.
    He could stand it no longer. Sooner or later, she was bound to notice him and shriek like a banshee. She’d think him some sort of pervert, spying on her in silence without announcing his presence. He cleared his throat. “H-hello.”
    One little word. That was all. A succinct, polite greeting.
    Her hands flew to her mouth and she stumbled, knocking over the stool. Down it fell with a crash. A scroll rolled off the desk as she whipped around to face him. “F-forgive me,” she stammered, backing up against the furniture. “I didn’t know…. N-no one informed me that a prisoner was housed here.” With haste, she gathered up her books.
    “Wait!” Dmitri reached a hand through the bars. “Please, do not go.”
    Terror in her eyes, she scuttled back to the door, struggling to reach the handle beneath her pile of literature. As she managed to wrench it open, Dmitri could not help but blurt after her: “What are you reading?”
    She went still. Slowly, she turned back around. “Alfred Meignon’s Order of Natural Philosophy: Volumes I, III, and V.” She hesitated. “And The Chronology of Extinct