When glazed turkey legs and buttered scones started floating in the royal kitchen, the staff knew it was business as usual for the young master. As he finished brushing on a glaze that made the spit roasted liccan glisten, the chef’s apprentice jumped as a magical force ripped a leg clean off it. Freshly baked scones piled themselves on plates as crystal pitchers poured sparkling grape juice into silver goblets. While the young apprentice had not gotten used to these feats of magic, the mustached head chef and the balding butler both laughed.

“Young master Cyrus is at it again,” the butler chortled.

“Don’t worry Bartleby,” the head chef said, patting his confused apprentice on the back. “It’s just Prince Coates. The court’s Majester has taught him some clever tricks.”

The butler appeared on the other side of Bartleby. He nudged him while raising his eyebrows. “At least when he does this, you don’t have to deal with him personally.”

The three watched the merry parade of levitating food and drink fly off through large doors crafted of oak with black metal handles. The plates glided jovially through the long basement hallways where warm torches were the only source of light. They weaved around two maids in plain green aprons, but the plate sporting the turkey leg didn’t stop in time to avoid decking the old steward in the head. He fell to the ground with an elderly groan. The turkey leg, still airborne, spun through the air and was about to hit the floor until the white plate swooped under it and caught it with grace. The steward lay stunned on the ground as the two maids ran to his aid. The plates and food proceeded on their journey as if nothing had happened.

Flying up a swirling marble staircase, the plates made their way past the first floor where the king and queen’s chambers reached the heights of towering redwood trees with thrones carved in jade. It continued to the second floor where the living quarters were located. They flew to the first golden door on the right where a large “Keep Out: Prince’s Quarters” sign was bolted to it. The door swung open and the plates entered into a room belonging to a boy of twelve years. Beside the door hung several draping princely robes of white wolfhound fur stitched with sequins and other gaudy jewels that besmirched the fur they were stuck on. Next to it stood a black dresser with a towering mirror littered with all kinds of creams and powders to highlight his royal face.

Letters hung in the alcove of the mirror, letters written from a young princess. A small watercolor portrait of the teenage princess hung next to them. Her hair was shoulder-length, white-blond and gently curled; it stood out magnificently against her brilliant blue eyes. The artist added little white highlights to her cheek to show how perfectly round her dimples were, and her tiny nose perked itself up under her thin and fragile lips. She wore a frilly pink corset and her gloved hands were folded politely on her dress. She was the very portrait of youthful beauty and was undeniably the young prince’s fancy from the way he displayed her portrait so proudly. Little did he know, through his own mishap and folly that he would play a much larger role in her life than being simply her suitor.

The prince reclined on a floating comforter in the middle of the room. His large form was stirred when he smelled the smothered skin of the liccan. He snapped an outstretched hand and the plate flew right towards him. He was a handsome boy who had put on a bit of weight since he discovered what his magic tutor--the Majester-- called “pixie dust.” Locks of neatly conditioned blond hair draped over his face and he brushed them aside to make sure they didn’t touch his food. His bright blue eyes glistened as he ate the liccan leg with mighty chomps. He sat up in his comforter to make sure he didn’t choke on the liccan, and he quickly swashed it down with tangy grape juice. He let out a sigh as he savored every bite.

Prince Cyrus Coates made short work of his food, and decided that on a full stomach, he was in a poetic mood. He made a circle with his hands and clapped and the plates full of liccan bones and scone crumbs soared back to the kitchen with no intentions of washing themselves. He then pulled forward and a letter unlatched itself from the top of the mirror. His eyes scanned it. It had just arrived today and bore the royal crest of the Toccata Kingdom. Inside were words written candidly by Princess Trinity Toccata herself with her favorite royal plume:

My Dearest Prince Cyrus,

Please excuse my formalities for not asking how are you because I really need to say, your last letter was absolutely ravishing. You clearly hail from the old class of poets where iambic pentameter is your weapon of choice and with it you claim your prize. Do not take this lightly when I say I felt the pitter patter of my heart over every word. You are living proof that the craft is not dead and a true romantic can be found in anyone from the lowliest pauper to the noblest prince. May I just say in jest, that I am glad that this romantic I’ve discovered is indeed a prince because it increases your chances of meeting me one day. I’ve begged my parents that they invite the Coates family to our next gala so we can finally dance in the moonlight and you can ravish me with your poet’s tongue. I’m sure you are as handsome as you are romantic.

I feel my heart beating excitedly over the thought of opening your next letter and swooning over the words. But that’s enough of my ladyhood fantasies for now.

Until next time,

Trinity

Cyrus’ heart sped up, and it wasn’t just from eating too much liccan. He gave a tiny smirk and let out a laugh from his rosy cheeks. He rose his hands like a great orchestra conductor and a piece of parchment, a squid ink jar and a purple plume flew forward. The prince licked his lips carefully like he was about to pen a great sonnet, but then he drew the unstressed then stressed syllables of iambic pentameter and relaxed as the plume began to write the words all by itself. The Majester had taught him a new spell that collected words from the greatest poets in the Coates library and devised an original poem from them. With astounding success-- it may be added--since every time Cyrus used the spell, an unwitting Trinity clamored for more.

At last, the final eloquent words were penned and Cyrus dashed off a quick and lazy signature scrawl with the plume in his hand. This time he hadn’t even bothered to read the letter over. He knew it was perfect and would set a young maiden’s heart sailing as soon as her eyes made contact with it. He magically rolled the letter up and marked it with the Coates royal family stamp of authenticity. With a finger pointed at the door, the letter sailed off to the carrier pigeon coop and with a cold-hearted snicker he resumed his daily activities, which were in fact none at all. Young Cyrus didn’t think much of the letter, he knew it would do its job like all the times before. One day, he would have a beautiful princess cooing by his side from his wordy feats of strength. What Cyrus didn’t know, was that his words, whether written by him or not, would send him on a journey, one he could not turn down for fear of losing his maiden’s heart forever.