The Prince and his mother offered her a bed piled high with mattresses. Only fitting for a princess like herself, they said.
If you are one at all, said the cutting look the queen cast in her direction. She’d been struggling to find a perfect match for the Prince for quite some time, but wouldn’t admit as much to a prospective bride.
When the princess settled into those mattresses to sleep, a murmuring rose to her ear. It was the Queen’s intonation, as though her voice echoed inside the room.
When he requires anything of you I expect you to give it. If you can’t find joy in service to him, you have no place at his side.
The princess tossed and turned but the whispering voice remained close.
Ungrateful wretch, you think I care how he speaks to you? If he offends you? The fact that you think you’re entitled to such opinions offends me.
She opened her mouth to silence the voice, but who was she arguing with at all? She reached for the oil lamp beside the bed to light it.
Even as she did, the whispering continued, seeming to encircle her.
Is it really so hard to understand that your place is to be seen, not heard? To smile, no matter whether you want to.
Lamp in hand, she stood beside the stack of mattresses and held her breath to listen.
What you want doesn’t matter; he wanted you and you said yes. What else could you hope for?
The whispering came from the mattresses themselves. She peeled them back, one and then another and then another, and a sphere the size of her fingernail rolled into view. She leaned close to confirm it as the source of the whispering and was shocked to see a tiny figure curled into a ball, tiny arms around tiny shins, head drawn to knees, a splinter-sized mouth working as the admonishments continued.
You must…
You will…
You shall never…
She felt the weight of those words on her own back, pushing her to hunch inward, to protect herself from a barrage of denials. She, too, would dwindle to nothing more than a seed of self, to be surrounded by that abuse at all times.
She plucked up the princess seed and cupped it in her hand.
There were more, murmuring among the mattresses. Each one a small, protective kernel, formed when they failed to thrive in the inhospitable soil of expectation. Imperfections and perceived faults had been whittled away by scolding and shame in an attempt to fit each girl into the predetermined shape of princesshood, then, when they failed to thrive, reduced to these tiny forms, as heedless hands threw more mattresses on the pile for the next princess who the queen might hope to perfect.
She gathered up seven of them, all told, and slipped them in a pocket.
She didn’t wait for morning; she knew well enough what would happen. The prince would ask how she slept and if she told the truth, Not at all, it would impugn his hospitality in considering her marriageable. If she lied, she would have failed to demonstrate the delicate constitution of a princess.
Both of these things could be trained into her, given enough time. The queen had plenty of practice, and was determined to succeed this time.
Through a window and across moonlit fields she made her escape.
In a kingdom far, far away, she settled on a plot of land with a small cottage and a garden. There she planted the princess seeds and tended them every day with spring water and the words they needed to hear.
You are enough. Forever and always.
Soon, sprouts began to break through the earth.
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As a fine art professional, Mar Vincent has wielded katanas and handled Lady Gaga’s shoes. As a veterinary assistant, she has cared for hairless cats, hedgehogs, and, one time, a coyote. As a writer, her short fiction can be found in Analog, Escape Pod, Small Wonders, and many other publications. She is a reader for Interstellar Flight Press and Diabolical Plots and a graduate of the Wayward Wormhole. She resides in the Pacific Northwest or can be found on various social media @MaroftheBooks. |