The Prince

“I promise you…I’m not in love with any girl in this entire country. Not even Canada, which is half a meter that way.” He pointed north. “I like America. Paris is decadent, luxurious…but America…there’s something untamed about this place, something wild.”

Marie-Laure sighed. “If you love it here, then I would love it here. For now, all that matters is that you are here.”

“Me and fifty boys who haven’t seen a pretty girl in months?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I won’t complain about that part. Now perhaps you should show me around this place, if I’m going to be living here for the next month.”

Kingsley stood up and took her hand, pulling her to her feet.

“A month?”

“It’s all I can stay. I had to lie to the director of my company and tell him I had a sprain that had to heal for a month. If I’m gone any longer than that, I’ll lose my place in the chorus.”

“You shouldn’t be in the chorus. You are the prima ballerina.”

“I will be. Someday. But we all must pay our dues. And besides, Laurent can’t make me prima yet. Everyone would be suspicious.”

“Another conquest?”

Marie-Laure batted her eyelashes. “Male dancers…they have such powerful legs.”

Kingsley waved his hand as they put on their coats and headed out the door again.

“I don’t want any details of your conquests. You might be beautiful, but you are still my sister.”

“Well, I want to know all the details about your love life. Oh, wait, you’re at an all-boys school. You don’t have one.”

She slapped him lightly on the cheek to tease him as she skipped ahead into the cold.

Ah, Marie-Laure… Kingsley sighed to himself. If she only knew.

Arm in arm, they wandered the grounds of the school. He showed her the dining hall and introduced her to Father Aldo. Marie-Laure and the priest conferred for several minutes about that evening’s menu. He’d planned a soufflé. She suggested quiche. Kingsley feigned falling asleep and Marie-Laure pinched him in the arm, as she always did when they were children.

Kingsley flinched at the pinch, hard enough that Marie-Laure started.

“When did you get so sensitive?” she asked as they left the dining hall. “I only pinched you.”

“It’s fine. You just pinched me where I already have a bruise. I’ll survive.”

“I’ll find a part of you that isn’t bruises, and that’s what I’ll pinch next time. Oui?”

“Oui.” He smiled, but he knew it would take a great deal of searching to find a part of him that didn’t carry a bruise or a welt. Last night, Søren had been absolutely merciless with him. The beating had seemed interminable. The sex even more so. Upon reflection, Kingsley realized the intensity of their night was because Marie-Laure’s presence would make meeting much more complicated. But they would find a way. They had to be together, Søren and Kingsley. They belonged together.

“What’s that?” Marie-Laure paused outside the chapel.

Kingsley cocked his head to the side and smiled. From within he heard the sound of a piano playing the haunting rhythms of…

“Bolero,” Kingsley said. “Ravel.”

“Ravel…” Marie-Laure sighed and looked at Kingsley with a mix of sadness and longing in her eyes. He knew she had lost herself in the same memory he had—Papa and his records. Of their father lying on the floor of their apartment in a patch of sunlight, eyes closed, and humming along with the music…

“I miss him,” Kingsley whispered as he took her hand and squeezed it.

“So do I. But I’ve missed you more. So much…so much I thought I’d die.”

Kingsley shook his head. “Don’t die. We’re together now.”

The music swelled and Marie-Laure turned her face toward the chapel.

“Can we go listen?”

Kingsley started to lead her there, but as soon as they crossed the threshold into the church, something deep within him warned that he should stop, go back... The music grew louder as they neared the source of it. Kingsley shook off his sudden strange fear. Marie-Laure followed the music, her eyes as wide and mesmerized as a child of Hamlin.

At the door to the sanctuary they stopped and looked inside toward the nave. Søren sat at the ancient and battered grand piano, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms. He played the piece with such stunning virtuosity and passion that once more Kingsley felt the music come alive around him. Closing his eyes, he let the notes touch him, dance about him, tickle his face, brush through his hair, whisper secrets in his ear.

God, how he loved Søren. Loved him. Loved him like a father, like a brother, like a friend and a lover…and loved him like the enemy that forced him to be stronger, smarter, wiser, braver. Søren had become everything to him... Kingsley opened his eyes and saw not Søren, but God at the piano, and knew he’d chosen the right man to worship. Even now he would fall on his knees before him.

Kingsley felt Marie-Laure’s hand begin to shake in his grasp. It brought him out of his communion and back to the world. He looked at his sister and smiled. He understood everything now…Søren had brought her here for him, for Kingsley. Søren had done it out of kindness. He’d done it as a grace, as a mercy. Like all of God’s gifts, it was given out of love.