"Pregnant?" The count sputtered and nearly toppled over. "Penelope?" He lifted his head and gave Outis a sneer. "From your wedding night? How unfortunate that your marriage is invalid. To have forced yourself upon my daughter is a crime punished only by dea-"

"Oh," replied Outis cheerfully. "Not by me. She's been pregnant for several weeks. I imagine she'll start showing any day."

"What?"

"I don't think she knows how it works," the prince continued. "Or she thinks I don't. At any rate, she's pregnant and, by my best guess, hoping I claim credit."

"Credit?" echoed Weiland.

"For her unborn child. She doesn't know I know."

"Hold on," bellowed the count, setting a hand to his brow. "You claim my daughter is pregnant--"

"It's no claim," said Outis. "It's a fact. She knows it too."

"She cannot possibly be. Who would even...?" Weiland did not complete the thought. "She wouldn't. It's impossible. She would never doom the future of our family line."

Outis stroked his beard. He took delight in the discomfort of the formally haughty noble. "I believe I heard once a vague rumor that the count of Peacham had urged his councilors to pass into law something about the sanctity of marriage."

The color had drained from Weiland's face. The prince continued.

"Your wife, I believe, carried on an affair with your rival for many years. Is that correct?"

"My wife-" began the count.

"--because of that affair, had it made law that no child born of wedlock nor an individual who engaged in such an act could inherit the kingdom." Outis fixed the older man with a piercing stare. "You've already lost your elder son, Count Weiland. Penelope is your only living heir." Outis shrugged. "Or she was. If our marriage is invalid, then I suppose the child in her belly is illegitimate." He tutted, frowning and shaking his head. "You know what that means."

"You manipulative swine!" cried Weiland.

"No more 'manipulative' than aping illness to force your daughter's hand or to threaten my swift departure. No, Count Weiland, you won't be rid of me so easily. Like it or not, Penelope and I are married and you can either accept that or brace yourself for the end of your family's dynasty."

"Who are you?" demanded the count.

The large man adjusted his fine garments and smiled broadly. "A prince, Count Weiland. Unless you would rather inform the kingdom that your daughter marry down?"

Without another word, the count rose from the mattress and skulked to the door. Outis followed with his head but made no effort to intercept. He showed remarkably little emotion beyond cool confidence. It wasn't until Weiland knocked upon the wood and demanded the maid release him that Outis spoke again. "Shall I take that to mean you've approved of our union?"

"I've approved of nothing," snarled the count. "And you've done nothing to convince me your words are anything but a convenient lie meant to keep you around!"

"I admit," Outis said as the door swung open, "I do like the look of the place."

"Then enjoy your chambers, 'Prince'. If you won't leave, you will stay here indefinitely."

"I suspect," said Outis, "it won't be long before I'm out."

-+-+-+-

Penelope bit her lip and gave Bennington another pleading look. She had mastered the art of bursting into tears at a moment's notice. With a sniffle, she entreated, "Surely there must be another way."

Per orders from the count, Bennington had brought the lady to hear the concocted diagnosis. The doctor was very convincing, adamant and firm in his assessment that Count Weiland was dying from a broken heart. Wasn't it bad enough he had already lost a son? The loss of his daughter was too much to bear. Yes, of course, it was a symbolic loss, but that meant there was hope for a cure. On medical advice, Prince Outis was to leave and Penelope was to annul their union. By the estimates of both men, the matter was resolved.

Except Penelope had dug in her heels. Bennington frowned. "Listen, Countess. This man is a doctor."

"That's right," said the other.

"And he's told you that the only way your father is ever going to recover is if you unmarry the ape you've dragged home."

"What if there's a medicinal route that would work better?" suggested Penelope. "There must be some drug you can give father that will heal his broken heart. What did you give him when mother was banished?"

"He wasn't especially sad then," said the doctor.

"Oh, please let me speak to him," insisted Penelope. "I know I could change his mind!"

"He's very sick," insisted the doctor. "He must rest."

"You know what you must do," said Bennington.

"But I love my husband," declared Penelope. "I don't want to annul the marriage!"

Bennington frowned and folded his arms. "This husband of yours... how did you manage to meet and marry in six weeks time?"

Penelope batted her eyelashes. "It was simple! We got matching rings and asked the local justice to give us the necessary paperwork--"

The servant pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're incredibly vapid."

"Thank you," said Penelope, pretending she didn't understand his meaning. Bennington tried again.

"Where did you meet the prince?"

Penelope hemmed and hawed. "On the road to Reading."

"What were you doing outside of your carriage?" demanded Bennington. "You should not have been on the road."

Penelope stamped her foot impatiently. "If you had read my letters to father, you would know exactly what happened and why I had to walk! It wasn't my choice!"

Bennington smoothed his clothing. "I don't make a habit of reading letters unintended for me."

"You read every letter," countered the countess. "I know you do. Father knows it as well. He says you're plotting something."

Bennington rolled his eyes. "Yet he keeps me on as head of the servants. Yes, I'm sure your father suspects me of great acts of treason."

"I'm still here in case you forgot," interjected the doctor. He was ignored.

"The point is," said Penelope, "I'm not annulling my marriage."

Bennington's expression hardened. "And why not?"

"I've told you. I love my husband." The countess waved a hand. "There's nothing you can say that will change my mind."

"There's no country called "Valheita"," said Bennington bluntly.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" Penelope gaped. It wasn't entirely convincing. "You're just jealous, Bennington."

"Your father knows there's no Valheita either," said Bennington. "So if you think this stubborn act of ignorance is going to buy you any points with him, you're mistaken."

"There is a kingdom called Valheita and Outis is prince," declared Penelope. "And I'm the future queen."

"Who is the king of Valheita?"

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"That's easy," dismissed Penelope. "Outis's father."

"And what is his name?"

"That's a good question," said the countess. "I'll have to ask my husband."

"You married a bum," asserted Bennington. "A bum you know nothing about because he told you he was a prince."

Penelope lifted her nose into the air. "Don't get ugly, Bennington. I know you're bitter your family lost their peerage but there's no reason to envy those who add to theirs."

Bennington clenched his teeth. "There is no prince. There is no Valheita. Cut this man loose and be done with it."

Penelope knit her hands together. "I cannot wait to be queen. Do you think they'll have a royal ball in my honor?"

Bennington glared.

"It's all right, Bennington. One day, your descendants might marry out of servitude and then they will attend fine balls as well and dance the night away."

"I hope your fantasy comes crashing down around you," spat the servant and turned to leave. "You know it's only a matter of time. Your days are numbered, Countess."

"What I do know is that you poisoned my father," countered Penelope casually.

Both the doctor and Bennington shot her dirty looks.

Sighing as though she'd never uttered the previous comment, Penelope adopted a wistful expression. "Bennington, I meant to ask. Can you arrange it so that my husband and I have matching garments for the coming days? I've always wanted to dress the part of a set with meaning. What could have a greater meaning than that of husband and wife? Just two people showing their love for one another, and their devotion, and their purity of heart..."

"I'm going to be sick from this saccharine," announced the doctor and excused himself before Bennington.

"Matching outfits," scoffed the servant. "Dear God."

-+-+-+-

"Cairn," called Leda as she peered up at the front of the Great Manor. She knelt on the front lawn trimming the grass with her hands. "Would you join me for a moment?"

The guard stepped away from his post and approached the woman. "What is it?"

Leda pointed as she rose, indicating one of the many rooms. "Look." Cairn lifted his head as a large pane of glass went sailing past. It narrowly missed striking the couple and shattered with a thunderous sound. "I think that's meant to be in the window frame."

"I concur," said Cairn, setting his hand on the hilt of his sword. He cocked his head. "Say, is that the prince I see crawling out?"

"Yes. I believe so."

"I wonder how he managed to rip the window out," mused Cairn. "I would have thought the bars would make it difficult." He considered. "There are metal bars on the inside, yes?"

"In that room, yes."

"How perplexing," remarked Cairn.

"He's a mystery," said Leda. Then, "If I married a prince, I wouldn't want one that destroyed windows. It ruins the aesthetic of the place."

"I agree."

"Where do you suppose he'll go now that he's made a large hole?" queried Leda. The prince did not notice or did not care that he had an audience as he scaled the manor house.

"Gravity would dictate somewhere in the vicinity of this direction," said Cairn.

"What will you do if that happens?"

Cairn shrugged. "If he's meant to stay in that room, I would escort him back."

"Don't you think a prince could best you in swordplay?" Leda gestured towards Cairn's blad. "Don't princes get intricate training in that sort of thing?"

"He doesn't have a sword," Cairn declared.

"A fair point," allowed Leda. The pair continued to watch.

Cairn arched an eyebrow. "Up. He's going up. That's unexpected."

"I thought he'd drop," said Leda. The prince was unhindered by the situation and pulled himself easily across and over the eaves. "How do you imagine he's going up? The roof is at quite an angle."

"I have heard men can do anything they like if they put their mind to it," said Cairn. Then. "It would appear he's fashioned pitons from something."

"The bars from the windows? Those were metal."

"Ah, yes. That would make sense."

Leda turned her eyes higher. "Do you have to intercept him on the roof? Is that part of your duties or only if he comes down here?"

Cairn considered. "No, I think not. I'm supposed to watch the front door at the present moment. There's no sense running off to the roof."

Leda sighed. "Where do you think the prince will go now that he's out?"

"Anywhere he likes," said Cairn, shuffling back towards the front door. "Maybe down here yet. Keep me posted if he starts to descend, should you notice."

Leda nodded. It struck her as a bit stramge that a man, prince or not, could so easily dismantle his cell and scale the architecture. Prince Outis was a large man, she reasoned. His arms could reach further, his hands grab more, and his muscles pull off greater feats. Convinced of this explanation, she knelt to resume her work on the yard.

-+-+-+-

The doctor returned to his infirmary after Countess Penelope had departed. Warily, he settled upon his stool as Bennington fiddled with a collection of glass vials from his cupboards. "Aren't you the least bit worried? She knows what we-"

"You did the poisoning," said Bennington casually. "Not me."

"On your orders," argued the doctor. "The countess knows."

"And has the countess done anything about it?" jeered the servant. "She's just as eager to be rid of Weiland herself. She probably can't wait to take over."

The doctor pursed his lips. "She seems sincerely concerned for his health."

"She knows how she must act," said Bennington. He withdrew from the vials and regarded the other man. "This business with the prince, that I didn't expect."

"As I recall," the doctor mused, "You sent assassins after her carriage."

"Yes," said Bennington. "She wasn't supposed to survive Reading in the first place. Her father would have died of his poisoning, she would have died away from prying eyes, and I would have used my family's former nobility to seize control of the Great Manor."

"Your exposition is unnecessary and confusing," said the doctor. "You've already shared your nefarious scheming with me. Anyone else who might hear would only be trouble for us."

"What's trouble for us," bemoaned the servant, "is that neither count nor countess died. Who would have thought Count Weiland could shake off Succinylcholine with such vigor?"

"Succinylcholine was certainly an odd request of poison," admitted the doctor. "I didn't think a depolarizing muscle relaxant used for rapid sequence induction was something that existed in our kingdom but I was wrong."

Bennington continued, undeterred. "And then there's the matter of Countess Penelope. I hired seven of the most notorious wanted assassins and murderers in the known area."

"On your salary?"

The doctor was ignored. "How could none have succeeded? Instead, she comes back with a husband she won't part with because she thinks he's a real prince."

"Her father has already said he won't acknowledge their marriage."

"Let's hope it stays that way," said Bennington. "Or we may have a new problem."