Happy Bookiversary, Prince Nácil!

 

Imagine, if you will, a cozy little cottage, with rose-vines rambling up the whitewashed walls and thatched roof, bees buzzing and butterflies fluttering among the flowerbeds before its front stoop. A charming wooden sign hangs from the rose-laden arbor at the head of the flagstone path to the door, bearing the words, The Rambling Rose.

Imagine, upon entering, a spacious yet inviting area, full of bookshelves boasting many familiar and beloved titles, comfortable seating of a slightly old-fashioned nature, and a beautiful floral arrangement in the fireplace, in lieu of a fire, for the Summer.

Seven people fill the main room of the cottage—people of such varying types that their appearances might startle anyone not familiar with them.
A tall, handsome fellow with twilight-gray eyes and a kind smile leans against the fireplace mantle, dressed in sagey gray-greens accented by silver embroidery. His raven-black hair has a touch of iridescent green in certain lights, his ears stick up through his hair a little, exposing their softly-pointed tips, and his fair skin seems almost to glow faintly in the low light—all indicative of his Elven heritage. This is Nácil Vítuódhrán, Crown Prince of the Faerie-folk of Ýdára, heir to the throne of the Elven-king, and is known among his Human friends as Victor Greenwood.

A white-haired lady, also of Elven kind, stands beside him in a gown of pale blue, hung with sparkling crystal beads. Her beautiful face is tinged with pink as she listens to Prince Nácil, her cobalt-blue eyes shining. This is Lady Müriel, an Elven Enchantress much loved and honored among the Fae.

On a nearby settee, two elderly ladies have taken up their knitting. The one, Mrs. Mary Whitaker, is the quintessential kindly-old-grandmother type: Round and rosy, with snappy green eyes that crinkle at the corners when she smiles. She has chosen her best red dress for the occasion, her soft silver-gray hair pinned up and over her head in braids.

Her sister, Miss Lillian Prescott, with her bobbed mousy hair, enormous black-rimmed spectacles, and smart maroon suit-jacket and skirt, has the air of a no-nonsense, practical librarian…yet there is a youthful twinkle in her soft gray eyes that hint at another side of her personality altogether.

Two children—a boy and girl under ten—are busy looking over the strange and interesting things the boy pulls out of his pockets. The girl, Jane Foster, kneels primly on the soft wool rug in the center of the room, her blue calico dress arranged neatly around her. Her golden-brown braids hang like two ropes past her shoulders, tied at the ends with red ribbon-bows.

The boy, Harold Spencer, wears a green tunic and brown knee-breeches—both a bit rumpled—and has long since cast his boots into some corner or other. He chatters gaily, tanned face flushed with excitement, brown eyes wide and sparkling, his earth-brown curls waving and bouncing with each enthusiastic motion.

The seventh stands apart from the others, his coal-black horse-half taking up nearly the entire corner. His man-half, dark of skin and clad in a fiery scarlet tunic embroidered with gold thread and glass beads, rises taller even than the raven-haired Elf-lord, his proud head of woolly black curls nearly touching the ceiling. This is Pyros Sootflank of the Centaurs, and while he carries no weapons, he emits an air of strength and aggression—a warlike spirit—this one, and his expression, though neutral, is a silent challenge to any who would oppose him or those he has vowed to protect.

I look over the room from the kitchen of my little cottage, arranging the last few items on the refreshment trays. I secretly wonder if the twisted crepe-paper streamers and handmade paper banner hanging from the central ceiling-beam are appropriate decorations for a celebration in honor of the Elven-king himself….

I give myself a shake and join the party in the parlor.

Smiling, I call their attention to the table between the old ladies’ settee and the wing-chairs by the fireplace, where I set down my trays of sandwiches, fresh fruit, cookies, candies. I nip back into the kitchen for two glass pitchers full of blood-orange soda and lemon-cucumber-water.

“I’m afraid it isn’t much of a party, Victor,” I tell Prince Nácil with a rueful shrug.
He smiles patiently down at me. “Never mind, Anka,*” he soothes. “It’s only been a year since you shared my story with the world; perhaps things will be different next year, when—please Elyon†—you have the second chronicle published.”

* Anka = Originally referring to the (female) keeper of a magical piece of jewelry that brings the imagination to life, coined in Kendra E. Ardnek’s The Ankulen. Male form Anku, gender-neutral/collective form Ank’. I have adopted the term when referring to my fellow scribblers (and when my Characters address or refer to me), but give full credit for its creation to Kendra.

† Elyon = The Name for God used in Ýdära. Short for El-Elyon (“God Most High”).

In accordance with Elven tradition in Ýdära, we all join hands and sing a hymn of thanksgiving, asking our Creator to bless the food we are about to eat.

Once everyone has filled their plates and obtained a glass of their chosen beverage, we find comfortable seats and enjoy our humble but tasty repast.
Victor scoops little Jane up on his lap, both of them looking the picture of happiness, and Lady Müriel takes the chair opposite them, beaming a radiant smile that tells of the joy she feels.
Harold sits cross-legged on the hearth, munching away with great enthusiasm.
The old ladies lay aside their knitting and chat gaily between bites with the Elves and the children.
Pyros stands apart, senses alert even as he enjoys his meal.

At length, I clear my throat and hold up a sheet of paper. “Well, friends,” I announce, “it looks like we’ve all had sufficient eatables for the present. Who’s up for a game?”

Harold’s hand shoots up like a rocket, his mouth being full of chicken sandwich.
Everyone else agrees, and Pyros nods.
“Right,” I begin, for lack of anything better to say. “I have here a list of questions for each of you, which you will answer truthfully, to the best of your ability and knowledge.”
“Do we win a prize?” Harold pipes up.
“How about another Killer-chip Cookie+ to take home afterwards?” I quip.
Harold seems savvy with that idea.

+ Killer-chip Cookie(s) = A type of cookie made with chocolate, butterscotch, and white chocolate chips

“So,” I begin, glancing at Prince Nácil over my papers, “shall we start with our guest of honor?”

He lifts one corner of his mouth. “If you wish, Anka. Ask your questions; I shall answer.”
My smile turns sheepish. “Well, I guess we can begin with an explanation of why your hair has greenish highlights now, when I never mentioned it in your book.”
Miss Prescott adjusts her spectacles. “I wondered about that.”
Prince Nácil chuckles and runs his long, slim fingers through the shoulder-length fibers in question. “I expect it’s to do with my having to feign being Human for so long. All the Fae—from the tiniest Flower-Faeries to the tallest High-elves—have some kind of color to their hair. Most of us have the usual colors—blacks and browns, and some blonde and red, and every shade in-between—all with highlights or undertones that, among Mortal Races, would be considered strange. And of course, some of us have hair-colors not found naturally among any other Race—white and silver, or any color of the rainbow, depending upon the type of Faerie. Doubtless this is because Elyon created my people from light, and as you know, light separates into different colors.
“I expect my own highlights didn’t show up at first, upon removing my disguise, because I had assumed it for so long, and so it took me some time to readjust to my natural form.” He sends a smirk in Miss Prescott’s direction. “And yes, dear lady, that’s also why I’m about six inches taller than when last you saw me.”
A chuckle ripples through the room.
I straighten my papers, even though they need no straightening. “OK, next question: Are there any foods you discovered in the World of Men that aren’t available in Ýdára?”
He ponders his answer a moment. “Not as far as basic ingredients, no. It was more a matter of how Adam’s Race prepared them. For example, I don’t believe the Fae would ever have thought to mix flour, eggs, and water into a dough, and boil it.”
Harold makes a face. “That sounds nasty!”
“Harold,” Lady Müriel murmurs, “you forget yourself.”
Prince Nácil chuckles. “It mayn’t sound appetizing, my lad, but believe me, pasta is actually quite tasty when prepared correctly—especially when paired with a good sauce.”
I smirk. “Hear, hear.” I shift my papers again. “Final question: Is there anything you actually miss about the World of Men, now that you’ve returned to your home world?”
He smiles tenderly down at Jane and gives her a squeeze. “This one right here—I miss her terribly by spells. I miss everyone at Willowmere Farm…and while you didn’t include my interactions with him in this book, I miss young Robert Igo, for he felt like part of that same family.”
Jane nods. “Robert is like family—we pretend I’m his little sister. Please, Miss Anka, why isn’t Robert here today?”
“Because he isn’t in this book, sweetie. But I promise to invite him when we celebrate the book he is in.”

I glance down my notes. “Well, Jane, how about we interview you next? Tell us a bit more about you and Robert.”

Jane’s round blue eyes twinkle. “Oh, that’s easy, Miss Anka; Robert is my very best friend—besides Elsie Douglas. I’ve known him since I was a baby. Grandmother says”—motioning to Mrs. Whitaker—“she let him hold me when I was a year old, and he was three. He’s not like other boys—he likes to learn about birds and animals and plants and things, and he stands up for me when Buddy Jenkins teases me. I love Robert like he really was my own brother. Are you really going to write a book about him, Miss Anka?”
“Well, it’ll still be mostly Victor’s story, but yes, Robert will be a part of it later on.”
“Please—when?”
“After I finish the second book in Victor’s story. But back to the interview: Care to tell us about old Theodore?”
“Theodore is my favorite toy. There’s…there’s something special about teddy bears, isn’t there?”
I smile softly, thinking of my own little buddy-bear at home. “Indeed.”
“Aunt Lillian gave him to me when I turned five. She told me she used to play with him when she was little, and that she got him from her big brothers and sisters. So you see, he’s very, very, old and special, so I try to take good care of him.”
“I’m sure you do, my girl. One more question: What would you like to be when you grow up?”
“Oh, I want to be like Grandmother. I want to get married and have a family, and take over the farm. But that won’t be for ever so long.”

I hide a smirk behind my papers. “Riiiight…and because young Master Harold here is squirming all over the place, I’ll question him next.”

“I wasn’t squirming,” he protests.
“Fidgeting, then. OK, my little eager beaver, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Harold scrunches up his face, looking at the ceiling, as if that will help him think of an answer. “I think…well, I never really thought about it. Like Jane said, I won’t be grown up for years and years and years, so there’s no sense worrying about it right now.”
“But is there anything you want to do or be that you can’t until you’re a man?” I prompt.
“Oh, well, I guess I do have to be at least fifteen before I can join the Army, and help Prince Nácil kill off those bad men in black.”
I frown slightly. “Anything of a less violent nature?”
He thinks a bit more. “Well, I guess I’ll probably get married eventually. Perhaps to Penny Tanner or Gretchen Forester. They’re the only girls I know, save Jane, of course, but she doesn’t live in Ýdära.”
I hide another smirk. “Mm-hmm. Right, second question: What was the strangest thing you ever found and brought home in your pockets?”
“Well, the first time Lady Müriel took me to the Southern Shore, I found some seaweed that looked like little palm-trees…but she made me throw it away the next day because started to stink.”
“Circle of life, I’m afraid. All right, last question: What was it like when Lady Müriel told you Prince Nácil was due to return to Ýdära soon?”
Harold’s eyes light up. “O! it was very exciting! All Arboria had been waiting a hundred years for Othniel’s Heir to come back to them, and now it was finally going to happen! I couldn’t wait to meet him, for Lady Müriel had told me so much about him—all about his kindness, and his bravery, and how he was always willing to help others in need. Oh, yes, and she said he was very handsome, too, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Lady Müriel blushes crimson, and Prince Nácil hides a smile behind one hand.

I slide the first sheet of paper behind the other. “Methinks we’ll move on to someone else, so’s Lady Müriel can recover herself.”
Harold looks over his shoulder at his Elven guardian. “Recover herself? Is she ill?”
“No,” I deadpan, “just a bit flustered—for reasons you’ll understand when you grow up, my lad. Now then…how about you, Miss Prescott?”
She lays down her knitting and adjusts her spectacles. “I’m ready when you are, dearie.”

A light tap-tap-tap sounds at the window, and we catch a glimpse of an undefinable winged shape just departing. The—whatever-it-was—has left a small roll of paper on the windowsill, tied with glittery purple ribbons. Upon opening the scroll, I glance down the page, inscribed with sparkling purple ink. I recognize the signature at the bottom of the epistle and give the tiniest of tiny hops before rejoining my friends.

“This is a letter from Anka Kendra!” I announce. “It’s addressed to you, Miss Prescott. She has five questions for you to answer.” I cast a quick inquiring glance at the rest of the group. “…if that’s savvy with you-all…?”
Our friends are perfectly agreeable.
Mrs. Whitaker counts how many stitches she has bound off. “You can skip my interview, Anka dearie, if it will save time.”
“Oh, I think I might have one question you’ll enjoy answering. Right, then, here are Anka Kendra’s questions:

“Hello, Miss Lillian Prescott! Tell us a bit about yourself?”

Miss Prescott whips out a handkerchief and polishes her spectacles. “Well, now, let me see…I’m the youngest in my family—the ‘baby,’ as the saying goes. I had seven siblings who lived to adulthood, but of those, only Mary and Alice are left. I was rather sickly as a child, so while my brothers and sisters were off at school, I learned my lessons at home and spent hours in Papa’s library, having all sorts of adventures in Faerieland and far-off times. When I grew up, I took on a job at the local library and discovered several new favorites that Papa hadn’t had in his collection. No matter how old I get, I have a thirst for knowledge and enjoy learning new things and gathering new ideas to ponder.”
“You recently took in a traveler named Victor Greenwood. What were your first impressions of him?”
She chuckles. “‘Traveller’—that’s a diplomatic way of putting it. More like a wanderer—just a poor soul with no home and no family. My first impressions were that this fellow seemed awfully young—compared to the other tramps we'd helped before—and I saw plainly that he needed a good meal and a soft bed, if nothing else. More than that, though…there was something about him that made us want to help him. It was as if we just knew he was a good sort, and we had nothing to fear from him.”
Prince Nácil’s eyes grow soft during this speech, and Jane cuddles closer to him.
It takes me a moment to gather up my courage—or rather, channel my more impish side—to ask the next question: “I know you never married, but was there anyone who ever caught your eye?”
Miss Prescott gives me a Look over her spectacles. “Well, now, that’s getting personal, dear girl.”
“Hey, don’t kill the messenger, Aunt Lillian,” I protest. “I’m just repeating what Anka Kendra asked you. C’mon now, be a good sport.”
She smirks. “Oh, after all, why not? There were one or two boys in my Sunday school class I was rather sweet on for a spell…until I realized they felt threatened by the fact that I knew more history, science, and even Scripture than they did.”
I shake my head sympathetically and move on to the next question: “What are your three favorite books?”
“Only three?” Miss Prescott scoffs, looking playfully annoyed. “Tsk, tsk, young woman! How can one choose three favorites, when there are so many wonderful books in the world? But for the sake of this interview, I’ll name some I grew up with: Papa’s volume of Grimm’s Fairytales, The Arabian Nights, and Robin Hood lore. I’m also quite fond of that allegory by Mr. C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. If it’d been available when I was a girl, I’d have devoured it…and quite possibly poked my head in Mamma and Papa’s old wardrobe now and again, to see if Mister Tumnus was in there.”
“Last question: If you ever found yourself on a fairy tale adventure, what are three things that you would bring with you?”
She smirks at me over her spectacles. “Well, now, I’ve already been on one, haven’t I?”
“Then what are three things you’d highly recommend taking on said Adventure?”
“Food and water, a tinderbox, and medical supplies would be a given, so I’ll say a blanket, some kind of light source, and a pot or frying pan. The blanket could serve as a wrap in case the weather turned cold. The light source—well, that should be obvious. And the pot or pan would make meal preparation easier. It could also serve as a weapon in a pinch (Heaven forbid).”

The little scroll disappears in an explosion of purple glitter.

“OK then,” I snicker, brushing glitter off my shoulders, “are you up to answering questions now, Lady Müriel?”
She holds up one hand. “You need not interview me, Anka. I said all that was important last year, when you sent Nácil’s story into the world. I am content simply to be here, and celebrate its one-year anniversary with him.”
“Just one question?”
“If you wish it, Anka.”
“Could you explain a little about wands in Elven culture?”
“Ah. Certainly: All those with the Gift of Enchantment must use a wand to focus their powers until they grow stronger. A wand is the first object an Enchanter learns to fashion—not a difficult process, compared to some crafts, but for a raw beginner…nerve-racking, at best. The materials must be lightweight, and of good quality, especially if quartz is used. Any cracks or imperfections will cause the energy flow to become unstable.
“Typically, an Enchanter will use a wand until he comes of age, or shortly thereafter, when his powers have waxed greater, and he is able to direct them by hand, or even by thought, if he is especially powerful.”
She looks downward a moment. “To answer the question you are too polite to ask, Anka, I was one of the few whose powers remained unstable and difficult to control without a wand, well into my adult life. It was always a source of great vexation to my mother.” She smiles ruefully. “A daughter of the great Lady Lucrísha, Mistress of Magic, should be more capable than that, after all.”

Prince Nácil’s expression during this speech is an alternating mix of compassion and quiet outrage, but he remains silent.

Unsure how to respond, I turn my attention to Mrs. Whitaker. “One question for you, if you’re agreeable?”

Her green eyes twinkle. “Ready when you are, dearie.”
“Describe, if you can, your thoughts and feelings when you adopted Jane and brought her home to Willowmere for the first time.”
Mrs. Whitaker’s expression grows soft, and her eyes mist over. “Oh, I don’t know if there are words for how I felt that day. I was clean worn out inside, what with the trouble Matilda Foster put everyone through about it. But when all the papers were signed, and everything was legal and official, and I was riding home with this tiny, precious bundle in my arms…I just felt this peace wash over me, and my heart was calm again. It was like the Good Lord was telling me all my hard work—everything I’d gone through—was about to see its reward. And I certainly have, these eight or nine years, and that you may tie to.”
Jane wriggles down from Prince Nácil’s lap and throws her arms about Mrs. Whitaker’s neck. “I love you, too, Grandmother!” she declares, kissing the wrinkled cheek. Then she returns to Prince Nácil.

I glance over at the Centaur, still standing stiffly at attention in the corner. “Hoy, Pyros! What are you doing ’way over there? Come and join the party.”
He shakes his woolly head. “With due respect, Anka,” he replies in a voice as deep and rich as his skintone, “I am unworthy to be among the Elven-king’s inner circle. I shall remain hither, and stand guard.”

I shake my own head indulgently. “Pyros, this is my house, and I’m the Anka; no Dark Elves can get in here, unless I summon them—which I sha’n’t,” I assure him quickly, as he stiffens at the mention of Dark Elves.
Prince Nácil beckons with his arm. “Come now, Master Centaur; draw near and be merry with us. I neither want nor deserve the sort of deference from my subjects that causes them to feel they must keep their distance. That were discrimination, and I’ll have none of that.”
Pyros bows and stands beside me, facing the rest of the group.
I take half a step sideways, looking up all eight feet of his stature and realizing just how tall that is….
I clear my throat. “H’hrm! Well, I was wondering if you could tell us about any friends you might have among your people, and perhaps your Goat-men neighbors.”

His dark face remains expressionless, but there is a hint of sadness in his obsidian eyes. “I have no close friends now, for many whom I called friends were wild and unruly. After the Revolution, when I had realized the great sin I had committed, I urged them to repent, as had I, and follow the Law of Elyon. But they would not, and so I broke all ties with them. Moreover, I warned them never to set foot in Arboria in my lifetime, for unless they forsook their wicked ways, I would count them as enemies of Righteousness, and would oppose them in Elyon’s Name.”

Miss Prescott pushes her spectacles back in place. “‘Repent, or I’ll kill you’?Isn’t that rather harsh, Master Sootflank? Couldn’t you have—”
“They were a danger to the good folk of Arboria,” he declares firmly. “They were set in their ways, and threatened my life if I continued to dog them, as they put it. It was not ideal, but it was necessary.”
I’m starting to regret my inquiries in this vein. “Can you tell—”
“I once had a dear friend,” Pyros continues in a slightly softer tone, “who was of the Fauns—Titus Merrylegs, and never was anyone so well-named. But he, too, was wild, and fell into sin, for which he was severely punished. After that, he repented and strove to follow Elyon’s Law, but his bad reputation was too great to overcome quickly. He was shunned, ridiculed, excluded, and at length he left Arboria, and I have not seen him since. That was shortly ere the Revolution, so I expect he is dead by now.”

The group falls silent, and Prince Nácil looks thoughtful.
“Oof, that’s rough,” I cringe. “Have you anyone currently that you respect or admire?” I prompt, hoping for something more positive.

He straightens, a light of pride in his face now. “I am loyal to my chieftain, Arémus Snowmane, and would gladly lay down my life for him, and the warriors who serve under me. Of those, I have an especially good rapport with my captain, Artúro Ruddiflank. There is also a young colt recently enlisted, Æla Thunderhoof, to whom some have given the epithet of The Tempest. She shows great potential, and I shall watch her career with interest.”
So shall I, if I can figure out how to weave it into the narrative, I say to myself.
Then, aloud, “Thank you, one and all, for coming to my little party—such as it was—and for bearing with these interviews. I hope my readers will find your answers as fun to read as I did to write them down.”
“Do we get our Killer Cookies now?” Harold asks eagerly.
I ruffle his curls with an indulgent smirk. “Absolutely, my lad. Come, everyone—cookies for all!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thank you to all who dropped by, and virtual cookies to anyone who made it through all that text! (Now you know why my blog is called The Rambling Rose, LOL.)

Shout-out to Kendra E. Ardnek for her contribution to the character interviews!

Don’t forget to pick up your copy of Prince Nácil on Amazon, if you haven’t already!
Kindle | Paperback

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,
~ℛ~