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“Bad dreams?” Marie asks, using a soft towel to dry my wet hair.

I snort under my breath. “Something like that, I suppose.” I make eye contact with her through the mirror and she smiles at me. Marie had diligently watched as the ladies had done my hair the other day, and without error, she twists my long locks into twin buns she can stuff into the plain white crespine.

Emma stands in the corner and watches silently until I beckon her to come.

“Hey Emma,” I start cautiously, “If you and I were friends-”

“We are not friends, your highness. We are sisters,” she interrupts matter of factly.

I grin, the short sentence doing wonders for my mood. “Indeed. But I’m talking about myself and another party that isn’t you. If we were friends and it comes out that I’ve been lying about my identity since we met, would you- would you hate me?”

There is a rare vulnerability in my voice, one that still Marie’s hands and prompts Emma to stare at me through her short black hair she hides under.

.....

“You are speaking of Sir Wolfe, are you not?” Emma says, ever the psychic.

“Well yes, if you must know.” I grudgingly admit, impressed by the solemn girl’s mind-reading capabilities, “I fear that after today’s events, he might hate me.”

Emma’s little brow crinkles in confusion. “Hate... you? Whatever for?”

“I mean, I’ve been lying about my identity the entire time we’ve known one another,” I explain carefully, before wincing as Marie accidentally tugs at a strand of hair too hard.

“He’ll be happy to see you more often,” Emma concludes, the confusion gone. I shake my head with a mirthful expression, both amused and impressed by her thorough thought process.

“I suppose you’re right,” I muse to myself.

I’m a bundle of nerves as I admire the dull appearance in the mirror. I must say, the empress has outdone herself. Perhaps after the debacle of the Spring Ball where I was able to shine in part due to her discrepancies, she took it upon herself to give me the most drab, forgettable outfit in existence. My white hair is a standout, so she cleverly covered it with a plain white crespine. The simply gray dress does not do me any favors either.

Everything about it screams, look away. But after two years of that, I can’t believe I’m going to throw away my newfound peace in exchange for a seat at the table.

“Damn it Elias, I hope your wish doesn’t get me killed this time.”

“What was that, your highness?” a male voice suddenly asks, causing me to jump two feet in the air.

I whirl around, hand on my heart, to see Sir Finn waiting at the door with a knowing grin.

“Errr, nothing,” I chuckle nervously, hoping he didn’t get the wrong impression from my words. But the blonde-haired punk, who would be a few years younger than me if it weren’t for this cursed little body, keeps smirking down at me making me fear the worst: that he heard me and thinks I’m in love with my young friend.

Thinking of Elias’ squishy little face and gemstone-like eyes, I just shake my head. He’s more like a son or a little brother to me than anything else, even if we are technically right around the same age.

I clear my throat in the most adult-like manner I can achieve, not knowing that my adultish mannerisms just make me cuter in the eyes of Marie and Finn.

“It’s not what you think, Sir Finn,” I say with all the seriousness I can muster, looking at him with imploring eyes. I’m not looking to wind up on Chris Hansen’s To Catch a Predator show.

He pats my head with a heavy hand and I scowl at him. “Of course, your highness.” he says in a bemused voice that assures me he does not believe me in the slightest, “It was my erroneous assumption.”

It takes a herculean effort to manage not to clobber this grown man over his head, mostly dissuaded by the fact that even if I jumped, I’d only manage to hit his chest. Can 8-year olds even have crushes? At that age, I was still in my horse girl phase and trading My Little Ponies underneath the lunch tables. I was more interested in trying to obtain a rare cherry red pony than obsess over boys with cooties.

I hear a delicate snicker behind me and even sweet Marie is laughing at me! I briefly consider aborting the mission and hiding under a mountain of pillows in my room, but a wet blanket in the form of my dearest mother is waiting for us in the path and puts out everyone’s giggles.

Empress Katya smiles down at me, looking resplendent in a cream-colored gown made of buttery soft silk brocade and pinned shut with gold and ruby embellishments before a brilliant red underskirt peeks out from where the overskirt splits open. Her crespine is white as well, but covered in a bejeweled ruby and gold headpiece that shimmers under the summer sun. Both Julian and Julia, who stand a few feet behind her, are in matching colors, although Julian wears a male appropriate attire.

Julia’s eyes look big and sweet as she says in her high pitched voice, “Mother, the slave is here! Can I throw her in the dungeon again?”

And she’s just as sweet as ever.

I haven’t seen her since that fateful day with Sir Berrick years ago, but she hasn’t changed much her face still as doughy and sweet as ever, in sharp contrast with her mouth and behavior. Even though I live under a rock in the palace and have but a few low-level informants, even I have heard of the bodies carried out of Sunset Palace in the early dawn hours. You can tell a Sunset Palace maid from a mile away, even if you don’t see her orange pin denoting where she works. They jump at every little sound, their forearms covered in bruises new and old.

Julia smiles at me after she says her words. I just look away, following the silent procession as we arrive at the royal carriages. The palace is a stunning place to live, but it looks especially beautiful today, the tulips lining the path especially vibrant as we weave our way to the carriages. Already present and waiting, my father and brother, or in better terms, the king and the crown prince await us all.

Manservants run around frantically like worker bees, checking the ensure each white thoroughbred horse has its iron horseshoes and plumed headdress. These carriages are especially exquisite, all white and gold in decoration. No one speaks as we wait for the final arrangements and there is but a hint of warmth that can be felt from the scene of strangers standing together.

I almost wish the cheering throngs could see us right now. Here is your beloved imperial family, estranged from one another and formal to a fault. How’d you like them now? I feel somewhat grateful that I stick out like a sore thumb, just as Katya would like. I want nothing to do with these people. But ironically, to survive, I must become like them.

Katya catches my roaming eye and splits from Julia to approach me. She crouches down to my level, her heavy skirts pooling around her as she caresses my cheek.

“Winter, are you alright?” she asks with a believably concerned expression.

“Yes, mother,” I reply, falling back into the usual game of pretending to care for her.

She smiles at my obedient response, briefly ignoring the steward informing us we can board the carriages now and assigning us all to different ones for safety purposes.

“You’ll be good, won’t you Winter?” she asks innocently enough. “There are always consequences whenever you are bad and I don’t you to get hurt.”

Her palm is warm but her words are like an ice-cold knife to the heart. Her eyes are fiercer than a wolf’s, boring into mine as if she can fish out all my secrets and inner thoughts with just one look. The way her honeyed words can flip the situation from her beating me almost at whim to myself causing the punishments would be hard to believe if I didn’t hear it for myself. She is too skilled at manipulating people to the point that I don’t know if I should flee all the way to Sarsaval or applaud her.

Speech fails me, but I nod and it must look convincing for she leaves without another word and boards the same carriage as Julia. She’s a sharp woman, Katya Duvernay. She’d be a great executive or boss if this were my world. I trip over my dress, the boring gray getting caught under my shoe and inadvertently reminding me that this will never be like my old world, my old life. So I’ll respect Katya, but as my enemy.

I follow after Katya and make a point to smile sweetly at her after I climb in. Julian and Augustus board a carriage to themselves, no doubt the empress’ machinations as it is tradition for the crown prince and the emperor to have a carriage to themselves for official outings such as this. Despite losing her right to run the imperial palace officially, it can be seen that Empress Katya still has some tricks up her sleeve.

We leave through the front gate of the imperial palace a grand thing fashioned out of black iron wrought and complete with gold finishings and the Erudian Empire’s phoenix crest. Today, due to the special nature of Blessing Day, the cordoned-off blocks before the palace are exempt from the royal guard’s patrol and civilians crowd the streets. The throngs of people are enthusiastic and diverse.

The myriads of people cheer the names of those they admire and love in the imperial family. I don’t expect to hear my name amongst them and as we ride closer to the Grand Temple, I do not. There are windows from which we can look out at the people and wave and from my carriage, the empress and Julia do it generously. I just crouch lower and try to disappear from view.

“Your Majesty! Long live the emperor!”

“Empress Katya, a smile, just one please!”

“Crown Prince Augustus just looked at me! I shall die a happy woman.”

When we all eventually disembark and a footman helps me step down the steps that extend from the door, I can hear the sudden lull in chatter. As we are the imperial family of the empire and descended from the very man who inspired the Holy Church, we are allowed special discrepancy to park the carriages right at the pure marble steps that lead into the glorious structure that constitutes as the holiest site for those of the Helionic faith.

“It’s... the new princess,” I hear someone hiss under their breath, standing several feet from me although I feel as if they whispered just in my ear. Over a thousand eyes fall upon me as I scowl up at the burning sun that’s searing my poor retinas. I manage to get out a weak wave, no where near the caliber of Empress Katya and her children who are naturals at this. They wave and smile at the crowd like tried and true Hollywood celebrities, rousing up the crowd that was previously stunned by my appearance.

Emperor Helio and Crown Prince Augustus just stand there solemnly as if someone owes them each one million gold coins. But of course, they are men, so the unfriendly gaze with which they survey the crowd just elicits fierce screams from horny women and nods from approval from men who like the ‘show of strength’. It’s all rather ridiculous, like a circus in fact.