Phoebe Majere
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The Prince's room was large, as were most of the rooms, containing a lavishly decorated bed and frame, six bookshelves packed with books of all types, a fireplace (which honestly needed a good cleaning). He was at his desk facing out the windows so he could look down on the farmland. His room pretty much described who he really was, and the only people allowed in there were the people he allowed in there. Not many.

Clyde cleared his throat at the memory of walking in on her. "No, no, I apologize for that," he said and took from the table to approach her. "I should have knocked. But, no, I have called you here to ask a question. A scholarly one that really has nothing to do with my...egotistical side." He grimaced at that, almost like he hated the fact. That he wasn't who he said he was, that he only pleased his parents, that he had no interest in being the person everyone wanted to be. Almost.

"Purely intellectual talk, why do you not react to my charms as the other women do?"