Ch. 24: Not Snow White

A few days later, Emma and I are still thick as thieves as we talk animatedly in my room. We spend much of the day together when I am not busy self-studying or walking in a straight line with a saucer placed atop my head. Ever since the entire Sunset Palace debacle, I’ve been trapped indoors or within the Rose Garden and Finn has been downgraded from fox to lapdog as he goes to the library on my behalf.

He always gives me a meaningful look at the titles I request from him, but he is smart enough not to ask why a five-year-old kid is reading a philosophical theory book that almost reaches my hip if I prop it up on the floor. For the most part, Marie leaves me alone too, but I can tell she is happy I have someone around my age to talk to and don’t bury my nose in books as often as I used to.

Emma is surprisingly easy to get along with but an expensive companion to maintain, loving nothing more than the shiny coins in my possession. For anyone else, the habit would disgust me, but I can sniff out the rough childhood she’s had behind her sunken eyes and never complain too much.

I swirl my cup of tea with a teaspoon, reminiscing on how I was nearly poisoned like this in the past.

“The case,” I suddenly ask, “it was never concluded was it?”

Emma sees me intently looking at the fine china cup and can immediately surmise what it is I speak of.

“No, your highness. After a few days, no one spoke of the poisoned tea again,” Emma tells me flatly. I let out a melancholy sigh and start playing with the small mountain of sugar that has sunken to the bottom of the cup.

The Spring Ball looms over my otherwise carefree life like an unwanted companion, growing more insistent as the day closes in. Emma mentioned offhandedly how several designers were invited to the palace to specially design the gowns of Empress Katya and Princess Julia. According to her, several maids gushed about the impossibly long swathes of shimmering fabric were carried in by numerous footmen and how the staff were taking bets on who would be the best dressed this year at the ball.

.....

Such a massive event that requires rigorous preparation, even my otherwise undisturbed Rose Palace has witnessed the comings and goings of stewards summoned from my palace to aid with the construction of a tent in the large, outdoor courtyard that is part of the Spring Ball. The ball is only 2 days away, with the excitement in the palace at an all-time high, yet I do not have anything to wear.

“Don’t be sad, your highness. You are like Snow Ella,” Emma says in a rare effort to comfort me. She walks around our little tray table and pats me on the head, an action that strikes me as strange until I remember that she is two years older than me and perhaps sees herself comforting a little kid.

“Thanks, Emma,” I say as my heart feels a bit gooey at this subtle sign of affection. “Also, it’s Snow White. Ella is for Cinderella.”

“Huh? Oh. Well, I still think you are just like her,” Emma says, breezing over her slight error without a hint of embarrassment. If it weren’t for the mischievous gleam that fills her otherwise still eyes when she asks for money, one would think she was an emotionless child.

I chuckle to myself at her cute error and my mood starts to straighten itself out a bit more.

“I want to be better than Snow White,” I tell her in a frivolous tone that beseeches her to ask why.

Over the past few days, I’ve discovered within me a latent gift of storytelling, thus capturing Emma’s youthful fascination with the popular fairy tales from my world. I did not think my skill was so impressive, as I only took cues from what I’ve seen in films, but I suppose in this world without any television or internet, a good story makes for prime entertainment.

“You already are. You’re true to the name, with your snow-white hair. I know that Snow White’s skin was nay as pale as your hair,” Emma agrees reasonably, missing my point entirely.

I shake my head to myself with a wry smile and touch my hair at the mention.

“No, you silly. Not in that sense,” I gently reprimand.

Emma cocks her head to the side in confusion like a puppy.

“Then how, your highness? You’re both princesses stuck in the mud, you both have been poisoned, and you both have mean step-mamas.”

It’s a little disturbing how many similarities my new life has with a fictional princess.

“True, but when she was stuck in the mud, did she do anything to pull herself out?” I ask, regarding this as a teachable moment about fixing one’s problems yourself without relying on others.

Emma is at a loss, but soon responds, “... doesn’t everythin’ work out for Snow-White by the end of the story?”

“Yes, but did she save herself or did she look for someone else to save her?” I rephrase my initial question slightly and a look of understanding flashes in Emma’s dark eyes.

“The first time, she was saved by that huntsman, the second was the dwarves, and then the prince.” Emma counted slowly on her hands. “So she was saved 3 times by other people.”

“Exactly. Why do I have to wait for a man to come save me? I would rather be a princess who saves herself,” I explain with a bit of fervor. Finn swearing to guard my life was very touching and I appreciate the knight for his gesture, but I know that to survive in the world I will need to stand on my own, not hide behind Finn or whoever else has some pity for the bastard princess.

Emma looks unconvinced though. “I would just rather be the prince. Then I can save your highness and you can give me more money.”

There is a shameless smile on her face as she leaps from her chair and stabs at the air with an invisible sword. As mature as she acts, I remember that she is still a kid. Albeit a kid with a one-track mind in regards to money. I suddenly worry that Emma will divulge the topics of our conversations to the wrong individuals if they flash some shiny coins at her, but before I can warn her against speaking of our conversations to others, there comes a knock at the door.

Emma stops hopping around the room practicing her sword fighting and I call for the individual to speak. A harried-looking Marie opens one of the double french doors a smidge so I can see her face.

“Is something the matter?” I ask Marie, who seems partially preoccupied with something beyond my line of sight outside the door. I can hear a slight commotion carrying on behind my nursemaid.

“Your highness, the empress has sent some dresses for you to choose from for the upcoming Spring Ball,” Marie informs me, still waiting to be granted her permission to enter.

She isn’t normally this formal, frequently breaking up our bonding time when it is supper time. However, in front of strangers, it is important to keep up appearances and Marie is resourceful enough to recall that.

My lip curls slightly involuntarily, before I straighten it out, the expression ultimately just appearing to be the random, weird faces children are prone to making time from time. This is a good occasion to practice what I’ve learned in my harsh, daily etiquette lessons with Mrs. Laroche. I straighten my back and cross my legs at the ankles with my hands beautifully on my lap.

I gently tilt my head to Marie, not fully enough to be a nod, but a delicate move that a noble lady should practice. Marie, who dutifully stands in the corner of every one of my insufferable classes, can instantly tell that I’m performing one of the moves drilled into me by my etiquette teacher and breaks out into one of her famous smiles as she pushes the doors in.

Two strong courtiers carrying a much narrower version of the large wood armoires in my closet room huff and puff into the room. The set it down with a thud in front of the sitting area before the fireplace and the two maids who followed them in quickly open the door so I can see what is within.

At that moment, I am grateful that there are strangers in the room with me. Emma is obliviously crouching beside the chair, disappearing from the scene like a trained professional, and Marie is too busy checking for my reaction to properly look at the dresses.

These dresses are ugly. Hideous. A vulgar costume most definitely designed to get me laughed out of the ball. There are no gentler words I can use to describe them. A few garish colors burn my eyes as if I’ve just directly stared into the sun and the amount of unnecessary ruffles and ribbons a few of the options have make want to physically throw up. The only saving grace is the fabric used to create these monstrosities, no doubt made up of the scraps Katya and her spawn used to make their own masterpieces.

I realize I’ve been staring wordlessly at the dresses for too long and now everyone is staring at me, prompting me to clear my throat and dig deep for a rousing performance like no other. My hands shake as I bring them to my mouth and I jumping foot to foot, transforming my horror into uncontainable excitement.

historical

“Woooooowwwww!!!” I squeal out in a loud voice that instantly makes me hate myself.

I sound like a basic girl who just ran into her “best friend” at a party. From where she’s crouched Emma is staring at me as if I’ve grown another head, Marie is pleased because I’m pleased, and I can see the Empress’ maids give not-so-sneaky looks at one another. I’m leaping around the room like a Mexican jumping bean, an action that is surprisingly exhausting, and I know I’m going to need to end this show fast.

“Marie,” I beg, grabbing onto the fabric of her black dress that looks better than everything the empress so kindly sent me. “Please, please, please let me try the dresses on right now!”

If I’m getting changed, all the unwanted guests in this room can leave and I can finally stop acting like I just overdosed on LSDs. Marie gives the empress’ servants a look telling them to quickly exit the room and scarcely after the door slams shut behind them, I drop my sham performance.

Emma and Marie swap expressions, with Emma displaying a rare, pleased smirk while Marie just seems disoriented.

“...Your highness? Are these dresses not to your liking?” Marie asks, her confusion prompting her to question my extreme reaction that suddenly fizzled out.

I shake my head vigorously. My nursemaid looks lost for a moment, then moves towards my doors.

“I-I’ll call for the maids to inform her majesty that you don’t like-”

“No, don’t!” I blurt out before she touches the door handle.