The Girl Beneath The Glass

The wind at this height smelled of honeyed bread and coal smoke, and Prince Thane of Eirellia sat sideways in a rusted metal chair, boots up on the café railing, sipping something far too bitter to be served in a palace.

Below, the city of Virellien sprawled—layered rooftops like scattered playing cards, colors dulled by chimney haze and the dust of spring traffic. It was louder here than in the north. Messier. The kind of place where roses bloomed in sidewalk cracks and strangers argued with affection.

Thane watched it all with a strange, stretched ache behind his ribs.

“Look at him,” said Lord Cedric Halrowe, nudging his glass across the café table. “Five minutes off palace grounds and he’s already imagining writing poetry.”

Thane gave a lazy grin but didn’t look away from the street. “I’d rather write graffiti, to be honest.”

“You’d rather anything than the Season,” added the third member of their group—Alaric d’Vel, taller, looser, and louder than the others. He was nursing a sweet liquor and a subtle hangover, both cradled in the same hand. “Do you think your father will parade you in a sash again? I loved the sash.”

“The sash,” Thane muttered, “will mysteriously vanish in a tragic tailoring accident.”

Alaric raised his glass. “To tragic tailoring.”

Cedric clinked it. “And to our prince, soon to be shackled to some Duke’s porcelain daughter.”

Thane finally turned toward them, resting his chin on his fist. His expression shifted—still amused, but tired at the edges. “That’s why we’re here. One week. No names. No titles. Just… noise and cobblestone.”

“And scandal,” Alaric added cheerfully. “Maybe a public brawl.”

Thane reached for the ceramic cup, still unsure if he liked its bitter contents or simply appreciated drinking something imperfect.

A group of girls passed by in the alley below, laughing with the untamed joy of those who didn’t live under paintings of their dead relatives. One of them tossed a ribbon over her shoulder, and it fluttered like a flag of freedom as she disappeared into the crowd.

Thane watched it vanish. “No one down there knows who I am.”

Cedric smirked. “Which is why you’re brooding over your soup like a man who just lost his kingdom.”

“I haven’t lost it,” Thane replied, draining the cup. “I’m just… not sure I want it anymore.”

From somewhere below, a church bell chimed the hour—three short notes, followed by a pause. Then again.

Thane stood, pushing his chair back with a screech. “Come on. The sun’s still up. We’ve got time to waste.”

He tossed a few coins on the table, enough to cover all their drinks and then some.

Alaric arched a brow. “What’s the plan?”

Thane shrugged. “Walk until we’re lost.”

Cedric groaned. “How poetic.”

Thane was already heading for the narrow staircase. “Just wait. By tomorrow night, you’ll be writing sonnets about street bread and carriage grease.”

Alaric followed with a grin. “And if we get mugged?”

Thane didn’t look back. “Then we’ll thank them for the authentic experience.”

The alleys of Virellien were a tangle of smells and voices—sweet bread, tanned leather, cinnamon oil burning somewhere behind a curtain of beads. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the cobblestones in warm bronze and stretching the shadows of street performers like ribbons down the lane.

Thane walked with his hands in his pockets, the collar of his coat turned up—not to hide, but to blend. His gait was unhurried. His grin crooked. To anyone watching, he looked like someone without a single obligation in the world.

Which was, of course, a lie.

Beside him, Alaric threw a copper coin into a boy’s hat after a particularly enthusiastic violin solo. The boy bowed so low his hat fell off.

“You two should try smiling like peasants,” Alaric said. “You’ll live longer.”

“I’ve no interest in smiling,” Cedric muttered. “I’ve only just recovered from lunch. You insisted on lamb. Who eats lamb before walking?”

“You do,” said Thane, smirking. “Because you follow me into every terrible idea I have.”

They passed a stall selling candied nuts. Another offering painted masks—foxes, wolves, moons. The air was thick with music and heat and a kind of joy Thane didn’t trust entirely but couldn’t help breathing in.

He reached out and plucked a plum from a low-hanging basket.

“Oi!” barked the vendor, a woman with gray-streaked hair and knuckles like stone. “That how you court ladies where you’re from—by stealing fruit?”

Thane turned with a winning smile. “Only the very best fruit.”

She squinted at him. “You’re not from here.”

“He’s a poet,” Alaric offered, deadpan. “Doesn’t eat. Just steals plums and bleeds metaphors.”

The vendor snorted. “You’re all mad.”

“Mad and charming,” Thane said, tossing a silver coin into her basket. “Keep the change.”

She blinked at the coin, then muttered something under her breath that could’ve been thanks or a curse.

They wandered deeper into the market. Streetlights flickered on one by one. An acrobat flipped above a fire-ring. Someone played a mournful tune on an ocarina, and a pair of girls spun in slow circles as if hypnotized.

They paused near a wine cart, and Cedric turned to Thane with a speculative expression.

“Tell me,” he said. “If one of these fine, common girls found out who you were—would she scream, faint, or demand a new gown?”

Alaric laughed. “Or bolt like a rabbit?”

“I don’t know,” Thane said honestly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Cedric looked unimpressed. “So this is the plan? A week playing pauper in hopes someone loves you for your conversational skills?”

“It’s not about love,” Thane said. “It’s about being seen. Not recognized. Just… seen.”

Alaric whistled. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve heard all week. Are you going to write that in your courting speech?”

“I’m going to set it on fire,” said Thane.

They turned another corner—and the air shifted.

Quieter here. Narrower. The buildings leaned in. Stray vines crept from windows, their leaves catching lamplight like green silk. Windchimes clinked above an open balcony. And there, in the middle of the path, stood a cart tipped sideways—blooms spilled across the street like a toppled rainbow.

A girl knelt beside it, wrestling a wheel back into place.

She was arguing with a younger boy, who looked sheepish and terrified at once. “I didn’t mean to let it go—”

“You always mean well, Leo,” she snapped. “That’s the problem. Intentions don’t lift rose crates or pay for snapped wheels.”

Thane paused.

There was something about her voice—sharp as citrus, not shrill, just... carved with certainty. He watched as she pushed the cart upright with one solid shove, brushing petals from her dress.

The girl turned, and Thane saw her face for the first time. Windblown hair the color of chestnut bark. Eyes so dark they reflected the lamplight like glass. A smudge of soil on her cheek.

“Need a hand?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She blinked, took him in, and narrowed her eyes. “Do you know anything about wheels?”

“No,” Thane said. “But I’m great at lifting things and being told I’m doing it wrong.”

“Perfect,” she said dryly. “Grab the back.”

He stepped forward without hesitation.

And just like that, Prince Thane Vaerholt—heir to the Veiled Throne—was carrying a flower cart for a girl who didn’t know his name, didn’t care who he was, and had already told him he was useless.

And for some reason, it was the best he’d felt in weeks.

The cart was heavier than it looked.

Thane’s arms strained slightly as he steadied the back end, maneuvering it over a cobblestone hump while the girl guided the front like she’d done it a hundred times before. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, exposing forearms smudged with pollen and dirt. When a thorn snagged the hem of her skirt, she yanked it free without flinching.

“Keep it straight,” she said, glancing back. “You’re listing.”

“Listing?”

“To the left.”

“I’m perfectly balanced,” Thane said.

“You’re perfectly arrogant,” she shot back, but there was a glint of amusement there. Maybe.

They reached a flatter stretch of road just before a tight bend, where a faded shop sign hung crookedly above a door. Aerlyn’s Floristry. Below it: an open gate leading into a stone courtyard walled by ivy.

She turned the cart sharply and backed it through the gate like she was docking a boat. “There.”

Thane let go and stretched his arms.

The boy from earlier—Leo, she’d called him—stood awkwardly near the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry again, Liora.”

“It’s fine,” she sighed. “But next time, ask someone with biceps to help you steer it uphill.”

Leo’s eyes flicked to Thane, then dropped again. “Who’s he?”

“Just someone who thinks hauling petunias is a hobby.”

Thane raised a brow. “I have many talents.”

“Do they include sweeping?” she asked, already turning toward the scattered petals and snapped stems along the path.

“I shine when wielding a broom.”

“Then prove it.”

She handed him one.

Thane took it with a half-smile and began methodically sweeping the mess toward the courtyard drain. He could feel Alaric and Cedric somewhere nearby, probably doubled over in laughter, but he didn’t look up.

There was something oddly soothing about the task. The scent of crushed lavender. The scrape of bristles on stone. The way Liora worked—efficient, focused, immune to pretense.

She moved past him, kneeling to right a pot of bruised ranunculus. He caught a glimpse of her profile in the lamplight. Serious mouth. Strong brow. Not conventionally delicate. Not demure. Real.

She glanced over and caught him staring.

“You’re not from here,” she said.

“What gave me away?”

“Your coat’s worth more than most of my stock. Your shoes are polished. And you keep standing like someone’s sketching your portrait.”

Thane laughed. “Guilty.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and tilted her head. “What’s your name?”

He hesitated—only for a breath. “Talen.”

She squinted. “That real?”

“Real enough.”

She didn’t press. “Well, Talen… thanks for not tipping the cart.”

“My pleasure.”

She looked at him like she wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or not. “You can go now. The royal rescue’s complete.”

“You sure?” Thane asked. “I could alphabetize your seed packets.”

Liora gave a slow blink. “You’re either very bored or very bad at flirting.”

“Both,” he said, grinning.

That pulled the corner of her mouth up slightly—just slightly—but it didn’t last. Her eyes dropped to the broom still in his hands. “Go home, Talen. Before you end up elbow-deep in chrysanthemums.”

He gave a short bow—half-joking, half-real—and left the broom propped beside the door.

As he turned to leave, she didn’t watch him go.

But as he passed through the gate and stepped back into the light and noise of the street, Thane realized something unexpected had happened.

She hadn’t asked who he was.

And for the first time in days, he didn’t feel like a prince pretending to be someone else.

He just felt… seen.

Thane didn’t go far.

After slipping into the current of foot traffic flowing through the twilight-warmed street, he paused at a corner near a painter’s stall, pretending to admire watercolors while he listened to the fading sounds of rustling leaves and wooden cart wheels behind him.

Alaric appeared moments later, a skewer of roasted fig in hand. “That was subtle.”

Thane didn’t answer.

“You swept petals, Thane.”

Cedric joined them with a bemused expression. “You swept. With a broom. Do we need to have someone check your temperature?”

“She didn’t know who I was,” Thane said, quietly.

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a rare disease.”

“She didn’t care who I was. She didn’t want anything from me.”

Alaric chewed thoughtfully. “Except labor. And your sense of spatial awareness.”

Thane leaned against a brick wall, staring across the lane at the sign for Aerlyn’s Floristry as the last rays of sunlight cast gold across its chipped paint. “She was funny.”

Cedric snorted. “She called you useless.”

“And funny.”

Alaric handed him the fig skewer. “Eat something before you decide to change your name and move in with her aunt.”

He took it, but his mind wasn’t on food. He was thinking about her hands—dirt under her nails, yes, but deft, fast, like everything she touched bloomed or obeyed. He was thinking about how she hadn’t lingered after the cart was fixed. No fluster, no blush. Just a glance, a thank-you, and then back to business.

She’d dismissed him. With the grace of someone who didn’t know she’d just unsettled royalty.

The next day, he wandered the market again.

Cedric claimed boredom. Alaric called it “research.” Thane didn’t offer a reason at all.

They strolled past stalls draped in silk scarves, past a puppeteer performing for children, past a booth where a bored-looking man carved chess pieces out of bone.

When they turned the corner near Aerlyn’s, Thane slowed instinctively.

There she was again—Liora—this time crouched beneath an arch of jasmine vines, arguing with a delivery man holding a sack of soil nearly twice her size.

“Do I look like I need twelve kilos of acidic blend? My begonias are thriving.”

The man stammered something.

“Put it back in the cart,” she snapped, pointing with a pair of garden shears.

Thane stepped forward before he even realized he was moving. “Acidic soil, huh?”

She glanced at him without surprise. “Back for round two, Talen?”

“I missed being insulted before noon.”

She stood and brushed off her apron. “Lucky you. I have a whole arsenal left.”

“Do you ever say thank you?”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

Cedric leaned toward Alaric and whispered, “It’s like watching a duel conducted with butter knives.”

Alaric whispered back, “He’s smiling too much. He likes her.”

“I like her,” Cedric admitted.

Thane ignored them. “I was hoping to buy a few flowers.”

Liora crossed her arms. “We close at six.”

“It’s five forty-five.”

She gave him a once-over. “Fine. What are you after?”

“I don’t know,” Thane said. “Something bold. Not too delicate. Definitely thorny.”

Liora narrowed her eyes. “You want a metaphor or a bouquet?”

He grinned. “Dealer’s choice.”

With a small sigh—was that amusement?—she turned on her heel and ducked inside the shop.

The interior was smaller than he expected. Cramped, actually. Buckets of blooms and greenery jostled for space along the walls. A faint scent of orange peel and damp moss hung in the air. The light came from tall, slanted windows crisscrossed with ivy shadows.

She moved like someone who knew exactly where every petal lived. Thane watched her snip a few stems—deep violet clematis, blush-colored scabiosa, a single black hellebore. Unusual choices.

“Not a rose in sight,” he murmured.

She handed him the bouquet without ceremony. “Too obvious.”

He took it gently. The stems were cool in his hands. “You made this just now.”

“Yes. That’s how florists work.”

“I’m impressed.”

“You’re easy to impress.”

“I’m hard to impress,” he said. “You’re just surprising.”

For a moment, their eyes held. The shop was suddenly quieter than before. The scent stronger. Her face softer in the slanting light.

Then she blinked and turned away. “That’ll be five copper.”

Thane reached into his coat pocket and paused.

She turned back just as he pulled out a silver.

Her brows lifted. “Generous.”

“I’m generous with people who stab me with words.”

“Then you’ll be broke by the end of the week.”

She took the coin. He took the bouquet.

And just before he stepped outside, Thane looked back and said—quietly, but not softly—“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Liora rolled her eyes. “How tragic.”

But her fingers lingered just a little longer on the coin.

The royal townhouse in Virellien stood like an apology to the city that surrounded it—modest only by royal standards, with white stone pillars, a latticed terrace, and a private garden that smelled of lemons in the morning and pipe smoke by night.

Thane lounged on a velvet-cushioned bench in the upper library, arms draped over the back like he belonged to the furniture. The bouquet Liora had made lay on the table beside him, still fresh. Cedric and Alaric had placed bets on how long before the petals wilted or the prince caved and bought another.

“So,” said Cedric, flipping through a newspaper he wasn’t reading, “is this going to be your grand strategy? Ignore the princesses, dance with the florist, marry a scandal?”

Thane didn’t answer.

“Not that I disapprove,” Cedric continued. “I’ve always said the bloodline could use a little color. A scandal would be charming, really.”

“She’s not a scandal,” Thane said softly.

Alaric looked up from a deck of cards he was half-heartedly shuffling. “You barely know her.”

“I know how she looks when she’s annoyed. I know she refuses to be impressed. And I know I want to see her again.” He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That’s more than I can say for half the noble girls I’ve danced with.”

A knock interrupted them—a deliberate, practiced knock. The kind with decades of etiquette behind it.

Thane’s body went still.

A servant entered—gray coat, gloves, and the House Vaerholt crest glinting on a silver brooch.

“Your Highness,” he said with a deep bow, “a message from the palace.”

Cedric muttered, “Here we go.”

Thane sat up straighter, accepting the sealed letter. The wax was deep violet, pressed with the crown sigil. The paper crisp, the edges sharp. It smelled faintly of ink and lavender—a queen’s preference.

He cracked the seal and read.

Then he read it again.

Alaric stood. “Bad news?”

Thane didn’t answer immediately. He folded the letter once, precisely. Then again. And set it on the table beside the bouquet.

“Ball preparations are ahead of schedule,” he said. “The first event’s been moved up.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “How soon?”

Thane looked at the clock above the hearth.

“Six days.”

Silence.

Alaric whistled. “Guess the fantasy’s over.”

Cedric leaned forward. “They want you polished, shaven, and smiling. Twenty-five noble families have confirmed. The press will be in heat. And your father—well, you know how he gets when his plan starts unraveling.”

Thane stood slowly, pacing toward the tall windows that overlooked the garden below.

Outside, the first stars were just starting to blink through the dusk. Somewhere beyond those hedges and gilded gates, Liora would be locking up her shop. Sweeping petals off a worn tile floor. Not knowing that the boy who’d teased her about metaphors was already being fitted for a throne.

“She has no idea,” he murmured.

Alaric leaned on the table. “Are you going to tell her?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Cedric asked.

Thane didn’t answer. Instead, he turned from the window, walked to the table, and picked up the bouquet.

One of the clematis blossoms had begun to curl at the edge—just slightly. A reminder that even beauty, when plucked, was living on borrowed time.

He traced one of the velvet petals with a thumb.

“Because the second I tell her,” he said, “she’ll stop seeing me.”

Cedric watched him for a long moment. Then, without sarcasm: “And if she does?”

Thane looked at him.

“Then I guess I find out whether this was just a flower shop fantasy,” he said, “or something that can survive the crown.”