Pink Top City Shorts: Birthday Ice Princess

Pink Top City Shorts: Birthday Ice Princess

July 22nd, 1953

The 1953 Land Rover, painted a practical, dust-coated beige, groaned as it negotiated the final, rutted stretch of track leading to the encampment. Gaston Beaumont, 46, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and felt the deep, satisfying vibration of the engine in his bones. Next to him, his 9-year-old son, Narcisse, practically vibrated with a different kind of energy: a cocktail of excitement and pure, unfiltered curiosity. Both father and son were dressed in safari hunting outfits.

For Gaston, this was a homecoming of sorts. Not to this precise spot in Nandrasana, perhaps, but to the visceral, untamed heart of the island that had captured his imagination decades ago. The air here was thick with the scent of crushed vetiver root, sun-baked laterite soil, and the distant, humid breath of the mangrove swamps. It was a world away from the quiet village of Clerteaux, where they lived, and exactly where Gaston believed a young man needed to be initiated.

Narcisse, with his shock of unruly curly hair and wide, intelligent eyes, had been preparing for this trip for months. He had devoured every guidebook on Nadrasana’s fauna Gaston had given him, and he could already identify the call of the Indri and the silhouette of a Fosa against the twilight sky. But this was different. This was the “Grand Voyage”—the initiation into the Beaumont hunting tradition.

When they arrived, the camp was a testament to Gaston’s meticulous nature. A large canvas mess tent was already erected, a lantern swaying gently near the entrance. His trusted Nadrasy guide, Ravo, a man whose face seemed carved from the same granite as the island’s mountains, stepped forward, a welcoming smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Ravo: “Welcome, Monsieur Gaston. Welcome, young master.”

He greeted them, his voice low and warm.

Narcisse was immediately fascinated. He shadowed Ravo as the guide unpacked supplies, bombarding him with questions about the local flora and fauna. Gaston watched them, a contented smile touching his lips. This was why they had come. Not just for the kill, but for this—the immersion, the respect for the land, and the bond forged between men in the wild.

~

The next morning, the true work began. They rose before the sun, the air crisp and smelling of dew. Gaston presented Narcisse with a smaller, single-shot .22 rifle, a beautifully crafted firearm he had used at the same age. Narcisse took it with reverence, as he checked the safety, just as Ravo had shown him.

They tracked for hours, moving silently through the dense, humid forest. Ravo was a master, reading signs that Gaston himself sometimes missed. They saw lemurs playing in the canopy, their calls echoing through the trees, and a colorful chameleon perched on a leaf like a jeweled ornament.

Gaston: “Patience, Narcisse.”

He whispered, putting a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder as they paused by a small, muddy stream.

Gaston: “The bush reveals itself when it's ready, not when we demand it.”

As the sun reached its zenith, casting dappled light through the canopy, they reached a marshy lagoon. The air grew heavier, more humid. Ravo stopped and held up a hand, his posture instantly alert. He gestured towards a thick patch of reeds near the water’s edge.

There, submerged in the muddy shallows, was the source of the deep, guttural grunts they had been hearing for the last few minutes. It was a massive hippo, with only its eyes, ears, and nostrils visible above the waterline. It was a formidable creature, the undisputed king of this small watery domain.

Gaston knelt beside his son, his heart pounding in his chest.

Gaston: “Remember what we talked about, Narcisse. Focus. Control your breathing. Wait for the perfect moment. Aim for the head, just below the ear.”

He whispered, his voice calm and steady.

Narcisse concentrated. He raised the rifle, the barrel surprisingly steady. The hippo shifted slightly, exposing a better angle. The lagoon was still, the only sound the soft chirping of insects and the hippo’s rhythmic breathing. He shot his hand out, forming a purple bubble over the hippo. Gaston raised his eyebrows.

Gaston: “Now, son.”

He murmured. The bubble popped, and a shot rang out, a sharp crack that startled a flock of egrets into flight. The hippo let out a thunderous roar and surged forward, thrashing the water violently. Narcisse entrapped the massive creature in a purple bubble. Aimed his rifle and fired, another hit landing on the hippo before the bubble popped.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Narcisse turned to his father, his eyes wide with amazement. Gaston felt a surge of pride so intense it brought tears to his eyes. He pulled his son into a tight embrace.

Gaston: "You did it, Narcisse. You did it.”

Gaston said, his voice thick with emotion. Ravo came over, a broad grin on his face.

Ravo: “A clean shot, young master. Your ancestors would be proud.”

As they approached the carcass, Gaston saw not just a trophy, but the culmination of a dream. It wasn't about the kill, but about the journey—the discipline, the respect, and the moment of truth when a boy becomes a man. He looked at his son, Narcisse, who was now gazing at the magnificent beast with awe.

~

The motorcar’s engine hummed a steady, rhythmic tune over the dusty expanse of the road, a stark contrast to the silence of the landscape they had left behind. Gaston Beaumont adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the borders of Clerteaux. Beside him, Narcisse sat with a quiet pride, his small hand occasionally brushing the leather satchel at his feet—a memento of the hippo they had killed.

Narcisse: “Are we going to be on time, Father?”

He asked, his voice barely audible over the wind whipping through the open window. Gaston glanced at his son and offered a reassuring smile.

Gaston: “We are, son. We’ve covered impressive ground since leaving the docks of Nouvelle Gaule.”

He checked his pocket watch, the gold casing cool against his palm.

Gaston: “If the road remains kind, we shall be back in Clerteaux long before the sun sets on the twenty-fourth.”

He nodded. The thought of home felt like a warm hearth in the distance. He could almost picture Emmeline pacing the veranda, likely checking the post or fretting over the preparations for the house. And Charlotte—his little girl, standing on the precipice of her teenage years. It was a milestone he refused to miss for anything.

Narcisse: “Are you going to give that pocket watch to me someday?”

He smiled. Gaston chuckled.

Gaston: “I actually planned on giving this to Charlotte’s son when she has him.”

Narcisse’s smile immediately faded, and he clenched his fists.

~

The ballroom of the Beaumont mansion was bathed in the soft, golden light of the mid-afternoon sun, which streamed through the tall, arched windows and danced upon the polished mahogany floors. Charlotte stood at the center of the room, her posture immaculate, her movements fluid and deliberate.

Madame Valeska: “Again, Charlotte.”

Her instructor commanded, her voice firm but not unkind. The older woman stood near the wall, holding a slender wooden cane, her eyes tracking every angle of Charlotte’s form.

Madame Valeska: “The grand jeté requires more elevation. You must suspend yourself in the air before gravity claims you.”

Charlotte nodded, exhaling a steady breath. She adjusted her slippers, felt the cool, smooth surface of the floor beneath her, and prepared herself. She began with a series of quick, precise chassés across the room, gathering momentum. As she reached the center, she sprang upward, her body extending into a long, graceful arc. For a fleeting moment, she seemed to defy the world around her, capturing the very essence of poise.

She landed softly, knees bent, arms held in a perfect, rounded curve.

Madame Valeska: “Better.”

She murmured, tapping her cane lightly on the floor.

Madame Valeska: “But your gaze—it must be further ahead. You are not dancing for this room, Charlotte; you are dancing for the stage.”

Charlotte straightened, a determined smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her thirteenth birthday was tomorrow, and she felt as though she were standing on the threshold of something new. She imagined her father, Gaston, and her brother, Narcisse, returning from their long journey, and she wanted to show them that while they had been off seeking adventure, she had been cultivating her own form of grace.

She took a breath, readied her stance once more, and began the sequence again, moving with a focus that turned the quiet ballroom into a world of her own making.

~

The iron gates of the Beaumont estate groaned softly as they swung open, allowing the motorcar to crunch slowly up the gravel drive. It was late on the evening of July 23rd.

Gaston killed the engine, and the sudden silence that enveloped them felt heavy with exhaustion. Beside him, Narcisse stirred, rubbing eyes that were weary from the long trek from the coast. Gaston patted his son’s shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of the miles they had conquered together.

The mansion was alight, glowing like a lantern against the dark woods of Clerteaux. Through the tall windows of the ballroom, Gaston caught a fleeting, rhythmic silhouette—Charlotte, still practicing, her shadow casting long, elegant shapes against the heavy velvet curtains. He felt a profound sense of relief settle in his chest; the timing had been perfect.

As they stepped out of the car, the front door of the mansion swung open, spilling warm, amber light across the porch. Emmeline stood there, her hands clasped tightly against her chest, a look of immense relief breaking across her face as she saw her husband and son.

Emmeline: “You’re home, darling!”

She breathed, her voice carrying across the drive.

Gaston offered a weary but triumphant smile, his gaze shifting back to the ballroom windows where his daughter was still lost in her dance. He had endured the wild, driven the long miles, and successfully crossed the threshold into home just as the clock began its slow march toward midnight—and the arrival of his little princess’s thirteenth year.

Stepping into the ballroom, Gaston watched his daughter move with immense elegance and grace. With every dance step, she effortlessly sculpted ice beneath her feet, seamlessly using the creations as platforms.

Gaston: “My little ice princess…”

He whispered.

~

That night, when Charlotte was still awake in bed, the bedroom door creaked, and Gaston stepped in. Charlotte’s emerald eyes lit up.

Charlotte: “Papa!”

She breathed. Her father sat on her bed, embracing his beloved daughter.

Gaston: “Coucou, Charlotte…”

He rubbed her back.

Gaston: “My ice princess.”

He smiled.

Gaston withdrew his pocketwatch, showing it to Charlotte.

Gaston: “Do you know what this is, Charlotte?”

Charlotte: “Your pocketwatch.”

Gaston nodded.

Gaston: “Yes, and when you have a son with the man you marry, I want him to have this.”

He explained. Charlotte smiled.

Charlotte: “Sure, Papa!”

Gaston traced his thumb over her lips

Gaston: “I hope your son is as beautiful as you are… I hope he’s just like you.”

Narcisse stood by watching them, his face contorting with rage, seeing his father with Charlotte, and her not giving him any attention. Narcisse was so angry and hurt that tears filled his eyes. He stormed down the hall, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes.

~

The morning of July 24th dawned bright and crisp, and the atmosphere inside the Beaumont mansion was thick with the anticipation of Charlotte’s thirteenth birthday. When the family finally gathered in the sun-drenched parlor to exchange gifts, Gaston stood before his daughter with a look of quiet satisfaction, his hand resting on a small, velvet-lined crate he had tucked behind the settee.

Gaston: “For my little ice princess, Charlotte.”

He began, his voice resonant with warmth.

Gaston: “This journey was long, and I know I have missed much of your dance recitals. But I wanted you to have a companion for the days when the house feels too quiet.”

He opened the crate, and a tiny, snow-white Pomeranian puppy tumbled out onto the rug, its fur like a puff of cloud and its dark eyes wide with curiosity. Charlotte gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in delight, and as she knelt to scoop the creature into her arms, the puppy yipped softly and licked her cheek.

Charlotte: “Oh, Papa! She’s perfect! I love her!”

She whispered, burying her face in the soft fur.

Nearby, Narcisse stood with his arms crossed, his expression hardening. He watched the puppy with a deep, visible scowl, his shoes scuffing the floorboards. To him, this fluffy, fragile creature was a stark contrast to the rugged, hard-won world he had just returned from in Nandrasana. While he held the memory of the hippo hunt as a symbol of his transition toward manhood, the puppy felt like a childish intrusion—a nuisance that would demand attention and clutter the halls he had just reclaimed. He gave a sharp, dissatisfied huff and turned his back on the display, muttering under his breath about the impracticality of such a gift. Worse yet, it meant Charlotte would pay him less attention now.

Emmeline, noticing the tension, placed a gentle hand on her son’s shoulder, offering a knowing, sympathetic smile, but Charlotte was already lost in her new world, completely enchanted by her birthday surprise.

Gaston caught the scowl on his son’s face, the contrast between the two children suddenly casting a shadow over the morning's joy. He cleared his throat, stepping toward Narcisse while keeping a watchful eye on Charlotte, who was currently cooing at the puppy as it sneezed in her lap.

Gaston: “Narcisse, I understand this isn’t exactly the kind of companion you might have chosen, but there is more to a home than the thrill of the hunt.”

Narcisse didn't look up, instead staring fixedly at a hunting trophy mounted on the wall across the room—a reminder of their recent exploits.

Narcisse: “It’s just… It’s useless! Why couldn’t we get a cat?! You know I am a cat person!”

He snapped. Charlotte looked up, her expression blurring between defensiveness and hurt.

Charlotte: “She isn’t useless, Narcisse. She’s a friend.”

Emmeline stepped between them, her presence acting as a necessary buffer. She knelt beside Charlotte, reaching out to stroke the puppy’s head before looking toward her husband.

Emmeline: “This is a beautiful gift, Gaston”

She said softly, though her eyes held a hint of maternal concern for the shifting dynamics between her children.

Emmeline: “But perhaps your brother needs a moment to remember that we aren't in the bush anymore. Not everything in this house has to be a prize to be conquered.”

Gaston nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his return. He had wanted this homecoming to be seamless, a transition from the rigors of travel back to the comforts of the mansion, but the transition was proving more jagged than he had anticipated.

Gaston: “Come along, Narcisse.”

He said, placing a heavy, firm hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Gaston: “The afternoon is young, and I have a great deal of work to attend to in my study. Perhaps you can assist me in organizing the gear from our trip? I suspect there is plenty of cleaning and maintenance to be done before those trophies are ready for display.”

Narcisse’s posture softened marginally at the mention of the gear; the prospect of preparing for his next hunting trip and maintaining trophies was clearly more appealing than the sight of his sister’s new pet. He gave a single, curt nod and followed his father toward the study, leaving the parlor behind.

Left with her puppy, Charlotte watched them go, the room’s silence returning, now filled only by the soft, rhythmic breathing of the small pup in her arms. She hugged the puppy tighter, determined to enjoy her day regardless of her brother’s disdain.

~

As the days passed, Charlotte was tentative with Bijou, whom she named her dog. She would take her for walks, bathe her, do her nails, and put little ribbons on her head. She would bark and yip whenever visitors arrived at the house, much to Narcisse’s annoyance.

Narcisse lay on his bed reading his “Faire un Voyage Intérieur” books. The house was finally quiet. There was no barking to be heard. He enjoyed reading about Barnabas’ adventures and aspired to be like him.

His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten today, and he was famished. I wonder if Marguerite made anything for lunch, he wondered. He closed his book and set it on his bed.

He went downstairs to the kitchen to see Marguerite making a trifle. Marguerite was a plump, middle-aged French lady who worked for the Beaumonts as the head cook.

Narcisse: “Did you make me anything for lunch?”

He asked her.

Marguerite: “Yes, young master, I made bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for you.”

Narcisse’s eyes lit up. He made a beeline for the dining room, only to see Bijou there. On the floor, she was eating the sandwiches that Marguerite had made for him.

Narcisse: “HEY! THOSE ARE MINE!”

He bellowed, handling the creature and dragging her away, only for her to growl in protest. Narcisse immediately released her and delivered a hard kick to the dog, causing her to yelp in pain.

Narcisse: “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

He cried and stormed away.

~

The next day, Narcisse went to his bedroom after a day of being out with his father. When he opened the door, his jaw dropped. The rug lay the remnants of what had been Narcisse’s most prized possessions. The rugged leather satchel he had carried through the dust of Nandrasana was shredded, its straps chewed into useless ribbons of hide. Beside it lay the decimated remains of his collection of Faire un Voyage Intérieur, their spines cracked and their pages torn into a confetti of pulp and white fluff. All of his precious items, reminders of what he had achieved, and the books about a protagonist he wished to become one day were destroyed and worthless.

Bijou was currently tugging triumphantly on the final scrap of a chapter on meditative solitude, giving it a fierce shake that sent paper fluttering into the air like snow.

His face, usually controlled and stoic, turned a violent shade of red. He looked at the ruins of his belongings—the only things that truly defined his recent journey. The books he held dear were now nothing more than bedding for a beast that, to him, had just proven every one of his prejudices right.

In a flash, Narcisse grabbed the dog by the scruff of her neck. The dog screamed and yipped, trying to claw away from Narcisse’s grip. Narcisse used his free hand to open the windows, wincing as the scared animal tried to claw and bite to free herself. Narcisse threw the small creature out the window, where it fell down and hit the pavement with a thud.

He poked his head out, and a smile tugged on his lips as he watched the puppy lie dead and motionless in a pool of her own blood. To him, this felt as triumphant as when his father took him to hunt that hippo, but somehow more satisfying as he removed an obstacle from his territory. He closed the windows.

Narcisse heard his father’s car roll into the driveway, followed by his sister’s screams. He gazed out the window and saw Charlotte scooping up her puppy, crying as she held her in her arms.

Charlotte: “NO, MY PUPPY! MY LITTLE BIJOU IS DEAD!”

She bawled as she held Bijou close to her chest, her blood drenching her dress. Gaston knelt to his daughter and held her close.

Gaston: “Oh, my ice princess, I am so sorry…”

Charlotte: “My little Bijou! Who did this to her?! Who killed her?!”

She sobbed on her father’s chest. Gaston caressed her hair and paused. He glanced up at the window where he saw Narcisse glaring down at them, and then Narcisse shut the curtains tight