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Chapter 1
Iwas sitting behind my gold-framed mirror at my gold-painted makeup table, staring at my reflection. My maid, Frida, towered behind me, arranging my hair into a stylish bun. As fashion dictated, I was wearing a light-pink silken dress with one of the new corsets that would shrink my already tiny waist considerably more.
“Is there something the matter with Her Highness today?” Frida asked. Her wrinkled hands shook a little. Lately, they always seemed to be shaking. She would soon be offered to retire and stay at the castle unless she chose to return to her hometown. She wrapped another of my golden curls up and pinned it in with a needle.
“No. Nothing is the matter.”
Yes. There is.
Frida nodded. Then frowned. “It wouldn’t be the matter of Her Highness’s eye color again, would it?”
I sighed as I looked at the dark brown of my eyes. Why did they have to be brown? My mother’s eyes were as green as grass. If I had her eyes, maybe Father would want to see me more often.
“I said no. There is nothing the matter,” I insisted. It had been almost thirteen years since that horrific birthday on which my mother had passed away so shockingly. The thought of another birthday looming gave me a headache.
“Good,” Frida said firmly. “So I won’t have to restate the fact, again, how much Her Highness resembles her beautiful mother. From her golden hair to her fine facial lines and graceful womanly body.”
I rolled my eyes. I regretted telling Frida about my problems with my eye color. And yet, Frida was one of the few people at the castle—maybe the whole kingdom—who wasn’t afraid of me. Most servants sent prayers of thanks to the heavens every time they escaped my presence without garnering my displeasure. It sometimes bothered me to be so hated, but not enough to pretend to care.
“Ouch!” I huffed as the needle in Frida’s shaking hand stabbed the back of my ear. I threw Frida’s old, sunken face a glare in the mirror, but she wasn’t looking at me. Instead, she was staring out the window.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” she said, her gaze still fixed outside.
“What is it?” I asked as my eyes followed hers out the tall glass window next to my makeup table. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see the courtyard as well as Frida did.
“Nothing, Your Highness, just another poor soul begging for work without success.”
“When will it ever stop?” I said. The war in the North between the northern king and his noble families had forced many of their people to flee south in hopes of a better life. Years of unresolved violence had littered other kingdoms with the poor and crippled begging for food in the streets. My father had implemented food and clothing programs through the churches, but even he was unable to keep up with the flood of misery.
“When will this horrid war finally end?” Frida mumbled, still looking out the window as raindrops started tapping against the glass. “It’s all these men posturing for power. When has a woman ever started something as gruesome as war?”
I remained silent.
“There you have it. That’s when it will stop,” Frida concluded. “When women have a voice.”
“Ouch,” I cried again, but this time, I pulled out from under Frida’s grip. Annoyed, I rose to my feet and walked up to the window. Frida stepped beside me. Out in the courtyard, under the falling rain, was a mother covered in filth. Two little boys held on to her hands, both children dressed in rags. Even in the rain, I could see the tears streaming down her pain-twisted face. One of our household aids—one of the cooks, most likely, judging by his weight—yelled something at the woman and threw his hands up and left. The woman grabbed both of her children and squeezed them against her legs in a clumsy embrace before turning and making her way over the enormous stone courtyard back toward the entrance gate. My chest tightened looking at her. She wasn’t wearing shoes.
Stop it! Control your feelings.
A sweet and kind princess, like the girl I had once been, would have said something empathetic. But this world had no place for sweet and kind people. Sweetness and kindness got you eaten alive.
“Your Highness,” a maid’s soft voice startled Frida and me.
I turned to see a young, freckled face carefully peeking through the door to my room, not daring to open it all the way. “What do you want?” I asked in a harsh tone.
“Y-your father, Your Highness. The king wishes t-to see you.”
Her stutter annoyed me, even if I was the cause for it. I threw her a curt nod with my chin held high. She bowed through the crack in the door and was about to leave, but I found myself stopping her.
“Wait.”
The maid froze, her face blank with fear.
“Y-yes, Your Highness?” She closed the door a little more, as if that would shield her from me. I let out a forced breath, returning to my seat at the makeup table. Half my curls were still hanging out.
“Oh, please do inconvenience yourself and step into my room when I’m addressing you, or don’t show your face in front of me ever again,” I said harshly. “It annoys me having to talk through a crack.”
The maid carefully opened the door all the way and bowed. “I apologize, Your Highness, p-please forgive me. I didn’t mean—” I could hear the tears in her voice. “I didn’t mean—”
