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CHAPTER ONE
WHO WAS SHE?
A puppet, that was who.
Zabrina pulled a face, barely recognising the person she saw reflected back at her. Because the woman in the mirror was an imposter, her usual tomboy self replaced by a stranger wearing unaccustomed silks and finery which swamped her tiny frame. Another wave of panic swept over her. The clock was slowly ticking down towards her wedding and she had no way of stopping it.
‘Please don’t scowl,’ said her mother automatically. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? It is not becoming of a princess.’
But at that precise moment Zabrina didn’t feel like a princess. She felt like an object, not a being. An object who was being treated with all the regard you might show towards a sack of rice being dragged by a donkey and cart towards the marketplace.
Yet wasn’t that the story of her life?
Expendable and disposable.
As the oldest child, and a female, she had always been expected to safeguard her family’s future, with her hand in marriage offered up to a future king when she was little more than a baby. She alone would be the one able to save the nation from her weak father’s mismanagement—that was what she had always been told and she had always accepted it. But now the moment was drawing near and her stomach was tying itself up in knots at the thought of what lay ahead. She turned to face her mother, her expression one of appeal, as if even at this late stage she might be granted some sort of reprieve.
‘Please, Mama,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Don’t make me marry him.’
Her mother’s smile failed to hide her resolve. ‘You know that such a request is impossible, Zabrina—just as you have always known that this is your destiny.’
‘But this is supposed to be the twenty-first century! I thought women were supposed to be free?’
‘Freedom is a word which has no place in a life such as yours,’ protested her mother. ‘It is the price you pay for your position in life. You are a princess and the rules which govern royals are different from those of ordinary citizens—a fact which you seem determined to ignore. How many times have you been told that you can’t just behave as you wish to behave? These early-morning missions of yours are really going to have to stop, Zabrina. Yes, really. Do you think we aren’t aware of them?’
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Zabrina stared down at her gleaming silver shoes and tried to compose herself. She’d been in trouble again for sneaking out and travelling to a refuge just outside the city, fired by a determination to use her royal privilege to actually do something to help improve the plight of some of the women in her country. Poverty-stricken women, some under the control of cruel men. Her paltry personal savings had almost been eaten away because she had ploughed them into a scheme she really believed in. She repressed a bitter smile. And all the while she was doing that, she was being sold off to the king of a neighbouring country—in her own way just as helpless and as vulnerable as the women she was trying to help. Oh, the irony!
She looked up. ‘Well, I’m not going to be able to behave as I please when I marry the King, more’s the pity!’
‘I don’t know why you’re objecting so much.’ Her mother gave her a speculative look. ‘For there are many other positive aspects to this union, other than financial.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the fact that King Roman of Petrogoria is one of the most influential and powerful men in the world and—’
‘He’s got a beard!’ Zabrina hissed. ‘And I hate beards!’
‘It has never prevented him from having a legion of admirers among the opposite sex, as far as I can understand.’ Her mother’s eyes flashed. ‘And you will soon get used to it—for many, a beard is a sign of virility and fertility. So accept your fate with open arms and it will reward you well.’
Zabrina bit her lip. ‘If only I could be allowed to take one of my own servants with me, at least that might make it feel a bit more like home.’
‘You know that can’t happen,’ said her mother firmly. ‘Tradition dictates you must go to your new husband without any trappings from your old life. But it is nothing more than a symbolic gesture. Your father and I shall arrive in Petrogoria with your brother and sisters for the wedding.’
‘Which is weeks away!’
‘Giving you ample opportunity to settle into your palace home and to prepare for your new role as Queen of Petrogoria. After that, if you still wish to send for some of your own staff, I am certain your new husband will not object.’
