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“Ha! So which one is it now, angel or Night Queen? Make up your mind.”
The maid seemed to give it some serious thought.
“Just get out of my way,” I said and passed her before her answer could anger me even more.
Frida walked loyally by my side as we strode down the long hallway and to the stairs leading down to the ballroom. Servants rushed by me, going about their business of catering for the feast. Some briefly stopped to look at me, others whispered words I couldn’t make out.
The music grew louder as my footsteps echoed down the enormous hallway, decorated with golden mirrors on both sides.
“Her Highness, Princess Mina von Rhine,” the first footmen announced ahead of me, triggering an echo of the same announcement all the way to the wide-opened, golden ballroom doors. The music stopped, and the trumpets blew the royal tones, announcing either my father or myself. It was unusual for us not to enter the crowd together, but I didn’t care.
Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, I took the last few steps and entered the bright ballroom. The lights from the countless candles in golden candleholders illuminated the many faces of an enormous crowd. It must have been years since I had seen so many people in one room. Young and old, women and men alike all stared at me in silence as I stood like a rare animal placed on a pedestal for people to gawk at.
Then the crowd parted, creating a large path to my father, who was standing at the other end of the large ballroom. He was dressed in his red, festive military uniform, decorated with all his silver and golden medals.
My father raised his hand, gesturing at me to join him. He had a faint smile on his lips, which was fake, if I guessed correctly. Did he hate this as much as I did?
I turned to ensure Frida was by my side, but she was already retreating backward toward the hallway, her head bowed in submission.
Mother, please give me strength. I didn’t think there would be so many.
Chin raised high, without glancing at a single face, I made my way through the crowd and to my father. Whispers followed my every step.
“Look at her beauty,” a man marveled.
“I have seen prettier,” a woman remarked.
“Stunning,” another man mumbled.
“They call her the Night Queen,” a woman said.
“If they called her a devil, I would still marry her,” another man responded.
I placed my white-gloved hand on my father’s arm and turned to face the crowd. At first, I stared above their heads, almost at the ceiling. But then, when the whispers and mutters grew louder, I decided it was time to face them.
Careful to keep my face blank, I scanned the crowd as my father gave a sort of welcome speech. The ballroom was filled with families; many of them—as their fine but outdated fashion suggested—were Northerners. There was something medieval and simple about their clothing. The men had wool or fur cloaks over fine leather court doublets. The women wore fur belts or hats over tunics that came to the floor, like the peasant women in my kingdom, only the Northern women’s were made of expensive silk and decorated with gems. It was much colder up north than here in the Rhine region, so all the fur was no surprise. What I did find unusual was how many women were among the men. I had no doubt that the older ones were mothers, but some younger ones were confusing to me. Sisters? Or did the Northern barbarians sincerely have multiple wives?
“But now I will stop gibbering like an old market woman,” my father joked, and the crowd dutifully burst into laughter, “and announce that the fest, in honor of my beautiful daughter, has begun.”
The crowd started clapping, some even cheered. My eyes jumped from man to man—the suitors, my enemies. Their eyes were glued on me, grinning like wolves. I shivered when my gaze met that of a short, fat man with bad acne. He held a chicken leg in his hand and took a bite, grease running down the side of his mouth. I turned, angry, disgusted.
“I expect you to be on your best behavior,” my father muttered into my ear. “After the initial meet and greet, some of our guests will ask you for the opening dance to the ball. I expect you to be most welcoming.”
“Most welcoming I shall be indeed,” I responded, trying to sound convincing. He studied my face, but I ignored him. I was focused on the crowd again, which was now separating into two parts: the main crowd and a line of noble families waiting to introduce themselves personally to my father and me.
The clergyman took his place by my father’s side to announce the noble families as they approached. He was dressed in colorful greens and blues; he looked like a peacock. Wimfred, yes, that was his name. He had a sinister grin and a way of looking down his nose at you. He held a long, golden rod in his hand that had the emblem of my father’s kingdom attached at its tip: a burning red phoenix spreading its wings.
“Your Highness,” he addressed my father, “with your permission, we shall begin.”
My father nodded with a smile. My face was iron.
Wimfred lowered his gaze, then knocked the rod on the floor twice to welcome the first guests forward.
“Lord Sachswild of the Grazelands, and his son Bultrig,” Wimfred announced.
Grazeland? Was this a noble version of some wealthy farmer?
An older, tall man stepped forward and bowed. He was wearing a dark-brown leather doublet and was standing next to a young man maybe my age, wearing the same, who now bowed as well. They both looked extremely skinny.
