“Grumwald?”
“Who lived in a far-off land where being a prince was, well, just not that fulfilling. Or impressive. He hadn’t been elected to it. He hadn’t earned it with good deeds or quick thinking, clever problem solving or hard labor. He was the prince for the same reason princes are always princes. Because their fathers are kings and their mothers are queens. And yes, he had his own wing in a castle with that funny roofline that looks like bad teeth.”
“Crenelated.”
“And yes, he had robes and crowns and those sticks with balls on the end.”
“Scepters. God, Penn, I thought you were a word guy.”
“I’m tired.”
“What are those things even for anyway?”
“That was Grumwald’s question too. What was the point of any of it? It’s true there was an actual suit of armor in the hall right outside his bedroom. But otherwise, he was a fairly ordinary guy. He cleaned his own bathroom. He saw no use for sticks with balls on the end. The crown gave him a headache.”
“Cranial neuralgia due to continuous stimulation of cutaneous nerves.”
“And it seemed that his friends, with their ordinary lives, who had summer jobs, whose rooflines were flat or at least roof-shaped, were a lot happier than he was.”
“How did he meet these friends with ordinary lives and roofs?”
“High school,” said Penn.
“He went to public school?”
“His parents—”
“The king and queen.”
“—were progressives who believed neither money nor class nor royal status meant that one child deserved a good education while another child did not. They realized the world would be a better place if all children had knowledge, intelligence, problem-solving and critical-thinking skills, and a fair shot at a good career which supported them financially as well as spiritually.”
“Enlightened.”
“Yes. But hard for Grumwald, who had no career to prepare for, who would not be going off to college, who thought it unlikely his parents, no matter how liberal, were going to be wild about his dating a peasant, no matter how impressive her bootstraps. He was allowed to play sports but couldn’t because no one would throw a pitch inside to the prince or try to sack him or block his shots. The school dances that so thrilled his friends with their opportunities for fancy dress and limousines and expensive meals were just an ordinary Tuesday night for poor Grum. He skipped graduation altogether because he couldn’t stomach one more moment of pomp and circumstance in a life made up of little but. His world, though beautiful, shrouded in layers of purple mist, warmed by a sun that seemed to shine just for him, smelling of forest and the promise of adventure and the possibility of magic, proved, however, very small indeed. Education served only to show him what was out there, not to offer it as an actual possibility.”
“But the birds were his friends?” Rosie asked hopefully, sleepily. “He had long, deep, middle-of-the-night chats with the mice who were his bosom companions?”
“This is a fairy tale, Rosie. A real one, not a Disney one. The mice can’t talk. The birds seemed to mock him by being so much more free than he was. He had friends from school, sure—he was SGA president, of course, and met a lot of kids that way. Plus Mathletes—but no one who really understood him. Until he looked in the suit of armor.”
“What suit of armor?”
“The one in the hall outside his room.”
“Did you tell me about that before?”
“I did. Pay attention.”
“I was paying attention. I was falling asleep because you said it was a bedtime story. If I’d known it was a fairy tale with hidden information, I’d have tried harder to keep my eyes open.”
“It wasn’t hidden information. I told you: roofline like teeth, sticks with balls on the end, suit of armor in the hall, cleans his own bathroom. The whole story’s right there. That’s all you need to know.”
“What was in the suit of armor?” She had her hands pressed together underneath her cheek like a little girl going to sleep on a greeting card, smiling at him sleepily and trying, failing, to keep her eyes open.
Penn reached out and smoothed her hair, her forehead. “I’ll tell you the rest of the story in the morning.”
“Is this just a ploy to keep me here?”
“You live here.”
“Like Scheherazade?”
“Scheherazade lives here?”
“Don’t forget where you are in the story,” Rosie said just as she was falling finally asleep. “When we wake up, I want to pick up right where we left off.”
When they woke up, however, they picked up somewhere else.
“Last we discussed the matter,” Penn reminded her helpfully, “you said ‘we’ll see.’”
“Well, let’s see then,” she said.