More Than Enough

Elizabeth Wambheim

More Than Enough

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, or actual locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © E. Wambheim, 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews or articles.

ISBN 978-1-7357532-2-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-7357532-3-2 (ebook)

FOR YOU

Prologue

“You may excuse yourself after midnight, but not before.”

“I know.”

“You’ve made it this long, you can make it until then.”

“I know.”

“No one here is trying to antagonize you.”

“Eckhart, I know.”

“Good. Take a deep breath.”

Fier, for once, followed instructions without protest and drew in breath enough to expand his narrow chest. As he exhaled slowly through his nose, the tension loosened from his shoulders, and Eckhart could see, briefly, Fier as he had been seven years ago, when the weightiest of his responsibilities had been sitting-room recitals on the grand piano.

The tumble of red-orange half-curls retained its waves, the flare of them more tameable in recent years, and the lines of his cheek and jaw had yet to settle into the sharp and fine-boned face he was destined to have in adulthood. He moved forward into the press of his guests with the same long-limbed grace he’d grown into so early and so easily. Mannerisms remained: the way he tilted his head to better hear the two violins of the quartet; the unconscious straightening of his spine as he addressed a guest, as if forgetful of the fact that he was already the taller of the two.

But more had changed than remained the same. Somewhere between fourteen and twenty-one, the prince’s gait had lost the high steps of youth; his hands, once the cause of a thousand chastisements – “Don’t touch, eyes only, that’s fragile” – hung still and lifeless inside their black velvet gloves. And his eyes, without Eckhart ever seeing the change, had faded from the full green of spring to a sharp and steely jade.

He bowed, stiff and formal, to his first partner: a young lady with an ice-melting smile. Please let this one go well, Eckhart pleaded, praying to any deity with the capacity to listen and attend. Please. Just once.

“Eckhart, sir.” A hand on her shoulder drew her attention from the commencement of the dance. The attendant at her elbow, dressed in the requisite black and grey, spoke again: “We managed to salvage the letter from this morning.”

“Is it legible?”

“This is Her Majesty’s hand, sir; the script was largely impossible to begin with. But the ink did run less than we expected, and we were able to puzzle out most of the original text.”