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My mother inhaled hard, swallowing her anger. It made her eyes into slits and her lips tight and dry. That was half her problem, I was pretty sure. Swallowing all those emotions had dried her up like a raisin.
My mother peered at me, putting one finger to my wet cheek. “Sunburn! Have you no understanding of beauty?” She gestured at her own face, like I could learn a thing or two from her beauty regimen.
I looked up at her. She was pasty with makeup, like a sugar cookie dusted with powdered sugar. She had over-plucked eyebrows that made her look constantly surprised. She dyed her hair too dark and it made her part look singed, somehow, like it was hot to the touch. In my opinion, all that wasn’t beautiful, it was dull. And if I thought I could get away with it I would have told her, just as she told me all the time to put on some weight, wear your hair tied up, avoid the sun.
“I’m guessing you’re here because of this dinner tonight,” I said, sighing.
“Stop yawning, it does not become you. Perhaps you should get a little more sleep and a little less exercise. Yes, I am here because tonight is important, but I can’t do anything if you sit around in the bath all day.” She snapped her fingers at Maria and said, “Get her out of there, Melinda. Right now.”
I winced at the fact that even after all these years, my mother still didn’t remember Maria’s name.
I glanced at my friend who quickly squeezed her eyes shut to hide the fact that she was rolling them, before obediently gathering up the bath sheet, drawing it taut across the side of the tub like a privacy screen. As I rose, she wrapped me up in it, meeting my eyes for one second and quickly turning them away. If she saw the expression on my face, she would probably burst out laughing, and that simply would not do.
“I need you to look your very best.” My mother picked up a bottle of dried lavender blossoms, which had also been a secret gift, and sneered at them like they were desiccated insects rather than dried flowers. “All these gifts from secret admirers. You’ve been lucky to keep so many courtiers interested, the way you look like a chambermaid half the time.”
I let out a heavy but nearly silent sigh as Maria helped me into my underclothes, and was then swept aside by my mother’s seamstress. Within seconds, I was engulfed in a heavy fabric armor of golden brocade. The seamstress tugged at the hems and darts, poking at my skin through the dress. “I’ll have to take it in a little, Your Highness,” she said to my mother.
My mother flung her head back in a huff.
“If you didn’t run around like a pre-pubescent boy, maybe we could keep some weight on you. Maybe we wouldn’t always be having to take your dresses in all the damned time.” She reached over and poked a finger into my collarbone. “Your bones are protruding like some street waif.”
Clenching my hands into fists, I muttered, “I’m sorry, mother.” It was best to stay out of her line of fire as much as possible, especially when we had an important event. Though it was not at all in my nature, it was best if I mimicked the women that she employed whenever I was around her—docile, quiet, agreeable. With no opinions or thoughts of my own.
“Your Highness,” Maria said tentatively. “I thought I was selecting the princess’s clothes for this evening. There’s a beautiful gray dress that I’ve—”
“I decided it was too important to leave to…” My mother trailed off, looking Maria up and down, and I got the distinct impression she was about to say the likes of you. But she cleared her throat. “My seamstress is the best in the land,” she said simply.
“Mother, I’d rather wear the gray dress. Maria has worked hard to alter it.”
“Nonsense. Only the best for my daughter.” She tried to smile, as if doting, but it looked more like a grimace.
I often felt like I was nothing more than a piece of elegant furniture, or a set of expensive dishware, that got taken out from storage whenever we had notable visitors.
My mother hovered around her seamstress, watching closely, nervously rubbing the tips of her fingernails with her thumbs. “And I want you to play your harp tonight, Anika. Something pretty. Something happy. None of those sad slow songs you seem to like so much. We can’t have our guests thinking you’re prone to brooding and moping.”
I was neither a brooder nor a moper, but I hated playing in public more than anything in the world. For me, playing the harp was a private, sensual, deeply personal thing. But my mother made sure I had the fanciest harp in the land, gilded in gold, for the times when I was taken out from storage in order to impress.
