Just Ella by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

His expression changed. I swear I saw the idea occur to him; the look of craftiness traveled over his face so slowly it was like watching a sunrise.I could have escaped then, while he was thinking, but I was too intrigued by the notion that the prince might be having his very first original thought. What would it be?
    And then, when it was too late for me to react, the prince reached out and wrapped the fabric around my wrists, knotting it tightly. When I started to protest, he tore off another ruffle and tied it around my mouth. I struggled, but the prince was far stronger than me, and now he was determined too. In seconds, he had my ankles bound together as well.
    And then he left, latching the door firmly behind him.

18
    For a long time after he left, I couldn’t seem to comprehend what had happened. We had fought. Prince Charming had tied me up. How could that be?
    I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, my mind a jumble. So much for breaking it off gently, I thought. The humor helped my mind clear, but I couldn’t laugh. What would happen next?
    I listened for footsteps in the hall outside, but there were none. He wasn’t coming back. But no one else was coming to rescue me either.
    â€œHelp?” I tried to scream, experimentally, but the gag was so effective, I could barely hear myself.
    Well, it might have been the wrong person who heard you anyhow, I thought. I looked down, taking stock. The ties were cutting into my wrists and ankles, and one of my knuckles was bleeding. Probably I’d scraped it hitting the prince. But if that was my worst injury, I was still capable of rescuing myself.
    I sat up and managed to push myself off the couch into a standing position. I could feel the blood rushing from my head, and I swayed—dangerously so, considering that my ankles were tied tightly together. But I stood my ground and felt steady again in a moment.
    The door was almost twelve feet away, but I was certainly capable of hopping that far. I’d figure out what to do about the latch when I got there. I bent my knees and sprang up—once, twice. . . . On the third hop I landed on my ripped petticoat and went sprawling across the floor. I was struggling to get back up when the door opened.
    â€œPrincess—” It was Madame Bisset.
    I winced.
    â€œI know, I know,” I muttered. “Very unladylike.” Of course she couldn’t hear me through the gag.
    Madame Bisset turned, and the prince and one of his advisers followed her in. I’d seen the adviser before at dinners. He was a sturdy, sensible-looking fellow named Twelling, who always seemed to bring up more practical points than any of the others. I dared to have hope.
    Twelling and the prince scooped me off the floor and set me on the couch. Neither they nor Madame Bisset sat beside me. But Twelling gently removed the gag.
    â€œMy hands and feet are tied too,” I reminded him.
    Twelling had the grace to look embarrassed.
    â€œI’m aware of that,” he said. “But we need to . . . settle this first. I understand you and the prince had a lovers’ spat?”
    His choice of words astounded me.
    â€œIt was a lovers’ spat,” I said carefully, “the way the Sualan War is a friendly disagreement.”
    â€œAh, yes. Well—” Twelling cleared his throat. “I see that things got a little out of hand. But you are the prince’s intended, and he loves you, and when you made your little threat about the wedding, well, of course he felt a little panicky. Now, just what is it that you hoped to gain? A grander dress? More of your family invited to the wedding? Different food at the wedding banquet?”
    I swallowed hard, struggling to be diplomatic.
    â€œThe prince must not have understood,” I said. “I’m not trying to gain anything. I want exactly what I said I want—to cancel the wedding. I don’t want to marry him. I didn’t an hour ago, and I