There were three things anyone should know about the indelible 'damsel in distress'. Legacy Maelstrom considered them as she sat across a cloth-laden cafe table from her mark, Thomas Burgeon. 

First off, the damsel usually has the means to rescue herself.  Whether the damsel knows this, or is subject to self-victimization, onset by the impositions of the patriarchy or otherwise, well, that is another matter. 

It was late in the summer, and the river in the canal below them stank of sewage for its lazy trickle. Though not enough to spoil a healthy appetite between two perfectly opposing poles. Legacy reached a manicured hand through the maze of assorted cutlery and crystal stemware to lace her fingers with Thomas’. She flashed him her brightest smile. 

“It’s a resplendent evening,” she said.

Admittedly, it was not. The city of Alderbridge was three weeks into both a drought and a heat wave. Everything seemed withered– a remarkable thing for all the water in the air. The humidity left the city blocks beneath the green suppression fog around them to better resemble a watercolor. The hues from the flowers and diners on the patio seemed to nearly blend into the stagnant river below in a beautiful, albeit moist, way.  

Well, at least it wasn't raining.

Next to know was that a damsel is not always in genuine distress. Whether or not she is aware of it, her distress can often be inflated by her misconstrued perception of her own reality. Less often, though still probable, the damsel’s “distress” is actually her means of manipulation. Hardly scorn worthy, as most damsels are left with little opportunity to have any agency otherwise. 

With a coy shrug of her shoulder, she allowed a curled lock of auburn hair to tumble forward. Thomas’ eyes followed it to where it brushed against the sheen of perspiration at her bosom, which might as well have been a cornucopia for the garment she wore. His pale cheeks reddened and his eyes darted to meet hers. 

Perfect. 

“The past few weeks with you have been a dream,” Thomas agreed. He pulled at his collar, stiff only an hour before but now loose from the swelter. Beads of sweat seeped into its hem.

Legacy bit into her lip. She rolled her shoulders back and pressed her chest forward as she willed herself to cry. The damnable corset she’d borrowed ought to have been enough to do it in genuine. A tear came. She dabbed a corner of her eye with a pristine handkerchief– embroidered by hand and pressed by Augusta just that morning for the evening’s ruse. 

“Goddess Ideena. I just don’t want it to end. When I go back to Havenborough next week, my father plans to marry me off to Mister Duval. And I–”

She would let him fill in the blanks. 

It was entirely a fabrication, of course. In the week before, she'd allowed several slips around the notorious 'Mr. Duval'. A horror of a man, for whom she would be a second wife– there were rumors he’d killed the first. Beats his maids. Is wanted by the magistrate for tax evasion. Threw a bag of puppies in the river. And on and on, don't speak his name lest he gives her the quivers. But, heavens have mercy, the way Thomas Burgeon reacted to the thought of her with such a man made her quiver in a different way altogether.

Which fostered the last thing to know of a damsel in distress. There is always a man lacking in grey matter, or who has failed to make ample use of its surface area, who will be there to rescue her. 

“No,” Thomas said, gripping her fingers tightly. “That will not happen.”

But not everyone knew such things about damsels in distress, and Legacy used that to her advantage. 

Well, at least he had that going for him. Was there anything more beautiful in all the world than willing sacrifice? The sacrifice of time. Of bachelorhood. Of freedom. Giving up the options that best suit oneself for another. Sacrifice was the specialty spice dashed at the ocean’s edge. And its absurdity was equally meaningful and meaningless in what was otherwise a wash of cascading sand.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Henrietta,” Thomas started, for that was the name she had given him at their meeting a fortnight prior. “What if your father were to know that your hand was already under proposition by one of Alderbridge’s most well-connected lords?”

“What do you mean?” As unbearably attractive as Thomas was, she hoped this didn’t dally on for much longer. The heat was beginning to get to her. It felt like she was sitting in a salt lake within her undergarments. 

On second thought, such a thing was a service some paid for in earnest. 

“I’ve been thinking of this moment since the night we met. But considering your time and my affections for you, I feel that this is the best possible choice.”

Fewer words than the degree of heat might have been nice. She almost preferred it when they got right down to hands on teats with hardly an exchange between. 

Thomas moved from his chair with a screech of metal legs against cobbled stone that startled several pigeons into flight. He came to kneel beside her.

“Henrietta Dawson, would you do me the honor of becoming Missus Thomas Burgeon?”

Finally. 

She was beginning to worry she’d lost her magical touch. 

Thomas presented a small black box from the interior of his waistcoat and opened it. Inside laid a simple silver ring with a pristine diamond larger than a hazelnut. 

But he did make it worth the wait. 

A couple of gnomes at the table beside them looked up from their meal and applauded. Legacy drew a shaking hand to her lips, careful not to press her white glove into the scarlet Augusta had painted there. 

“You cannot mean it?” she asked.

“I do.” Thomas scooted on his knees to get an inch closer to the hem of her ridiculous dress. Gods, he was practically groveling. “I’m madly in love with you. Our time together has been short, but it has been some of the most meaningful in all my days.”

That would turn out to mean quite a thing for all of his days, the poor lamb. 

“Oh, Thomas,” she gasped, feigning tears all over again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful thing in all my life.”

He took the ring from the box with trembling fingers. “It’s an heirloom. Six generations. And now it is yours. Fitting for the most beautiful woman in all of the upper city.”

So she’d heard a hundred times. Funny for a woman from the lower city. 

“I can’t even believe it. Oh, Thomas.” She leaned forward and kissed him, clutching at the sides of his face. And it was a perfect moment. Warm, filling her from her head to her toes. Thomas was a wonderful kisser. A little handsy here and there, sure, but everyone had their own way of showing affection. 

What would it be like to just go along with this one? To marry Thomas Burgeon and move forward with a life of high teas and a half dozen pregnancies. It didn't sound that bad.

Maybe one day. 

Today was not that day.

He pulled away with an idiotic smile on his face. “Here,” he said, fumbling for the box again. “Let’s see that it fits.”

He slid the circlet down her finger with a slight tug past the knuckle. It was as though it had been made for her. 

“It’s beautiful,” Legacy exclaimed, admiring the way the light caught it. A gem like this had to be worth enough to sustain the Merry Maidens for at least a year. She released a shaking breath that did nothing to reprieve the tightness of her corset against her. 

Well. Pure blissful happiness was never a constant. But goodbyes always would be. Best to pull the line in on this one by her own means.

“Would you… excuse me… for a moment?”

Thomas’ expression fell, and for the space of a blink she worried he’d caught on to her. But, then he laughed, a mindless joyful thing that seemed more bestial that human. “Yes, my love, of course, but whatever for?”

Legacy flashed him a playful smile in answer. 

She stood, and took a moment to arrange the immense volume of her skirts and caging. Properly adjusted, she walked several tables away to where the balcony overlooked the emerald river. She pulled a chair up to the railing, engaging the stares of several onlookers as she hoisted her dress up to her knees and stepped up. A yank, which nearly toppled her ass first into cobblestone, indicated that her caging had become caught in the armrest of the chair. She paused to wrestle herself free before climbing onto the railing and peering into the lazy channel below. 

"Henrietta?" she heard Thomas ask down the way. 

He had endowments. He would find a way to press on, she was sure.  

Legacy smiled when she saw what waited for her beneath the balcony. This was what was next in the line of programming for the evening. No point to resist. Besides, it might be nice to feel weightless for a moment in this heavy weather. Mustering her courage, she took a single step over the railing and plunged toward the river below.