Chapter 3: Memories

"My heart is so tired." Markus Zusak

Brynn's POV

Dear Sister,

I'm feeling rather in the reminiscing mood. Do humor me.

It seems like just yesterday we were frolicking by the Silver Lake, though I suppose it was 4 years ago now. You would have been 12 then. Funny, how time flies. In my mind, you are still 12, and since I've been gone, I can only seem to remember your face from so long ago. (Don't worry; when the French Lords ask of my sister, I remember to tell them of your charms. I do hope you never marry a Frenchman, darling sister.)

I wish you might have been here, for at times I can't bear the stares. It might have helped the French court to have something rather pretty to look at. They so love beautiful things. Speaking of which, you won't believe the fashion the French women put themselves through. I once saw a girl so tightly sewn into her gown, I could span her waist with my hand. (I did try.) Blonde hair seems to be the "hauteur de la mode" these days. The Queen got a hair piece just 2 weeks ago that I'd wager my horse was 2 feet high and made of gold itself. (The French are a rather odd people.) They forced me into a wig just to attend their court! I told Father of this, and he seemed rather taken to the idea of forcing the ridiculous nobles into strange head contraptions. You know how he gets these days.

The Royal Family continues to reside in their country palace. Versailles they call it, though I see little more then ceremony and squabbling. It's times like these I miss our home and our parents, and the little Parliament we have. The English do it much better, with proper dignity. The nobles here watch the King get out of bed and pay to dress him! I'd no sooner touch that snake's skin than I would chop off my own hand. These are the times I miss you most. What I would have given to see your face when Princess Rose tried to sing Puccini's Madame Butterfly. I assure you I need not get into details, but your beloved ears would have been outraged at the sound. I miss your sweet melodies, and I do hope you will have a new song waiting at my return. Dear sister, these are the times I wish to return home to my sweet mother land and to see you and Momma again.

But I cannot deny the freedom. It calls to me, though I know I must return home to you. If you could but see the sky here, you might understand. It is blue, much lighter than our sea and it is full of the most delightful shapes. It rains much less than at home. I don't miss the drab, or the darkness of our weather. It is much more pleasant here to hunt than near Silver Lake. The King owns so much land, it seems half of France is for his viewing pleasure, though I suppose it all is. These French kings have their way with the people- there is no parliament, nor even any sense of middle class. It its rich or poor here. That much they are honest about.

I wish to travel on, to climb the mountains I've been told of, the meet the great composers (and not just the French kind), to escape all thrones and all names and titles. You understand. I wish you would have come, though I know supplies are limited. I hope you are faring well in my absence, particularly with a new guest I know has arrived at the castle. Treat him well, darling. Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it

I am returning home in a fortnight. And, to your pleasure, there will be a ball. Mother has sent for me at the start of the London Season. You know how important appearances are. I shall see you soon, and likely with a much improved accent. (French ladies make excellent tudors, I must admit.)

Love always,

Peter

P.S. Eddie sends his love, though I suppose you will be getting a letter from him as well. I made him write.

Dear Brynn,

I've missed you while in France, but I'm really glad you decided to stay behind. I know I promised to write, but there have been so many fun things here at the palace, I ache to think of letters.

Did you know the nobles here dress their king? I watched the whole thing one morning after my friend Charles dragged me to the ceremony. According to him, it's a privilege to get his clothes, or simply stand by him. I wonder if Father would ever do that. It would be funny to see him naked.

My French is much better now. Thank you for teaching me after that dreadful tudor. At first I could hardly understand anything anyone said to me, but just like you promised, I started to learn.

The food here is terrible.

I got a new dog, but Peter says we musn't bring it home. It's gold. Charles says gold is the hauteur de la mode. (I don't know what that means). Everything here is so fancy. I wish Mother would let us play like the French boys do. They get ponies when they are 5! Momma made me wait until I was 10.

I missed you, but Peter says I musn't say anything mean about you here. I would't though. I've been such a good boy.

Love,

Eddie

A ball. It was only fitting. To incapsulate her torture she must have it displayed in front of a hundred others.

She had once loved to dance. Once her feet had flown across the shinning floor, draped on the arms of dashing young suitors.

Once.

Now she preferred to sit.

Somehow, Peter seemed to know the Palace news before she did. And he was 200 leagues away. Perhaps it was a reflection of how little she cared. But Peter had always remembered his duty. She never had his character.

Even as children, Peter would play nice with the nobles. Brynn avoided anyone she did not wish to know. Peter was all charm. She was edges and spikes that stuck out, painfully obvious.

She had tried to dull those spikes with the drug. She laughed bitterly at the thought. How foolish. To imagine she could hide behind a facade of white powder and sad eyes. She didn't bother to disguise her self loathing.

She couldn't get away from herself by simply moving. She had tried.

Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it. She wished she had that problem. She wished she could reason herself away. Instead she lingered in a crumbling cage of images and tantalizing breaths of freedom.

Perhaps it was simply because she had nothing. Nothing. Nothing to do. Nothing to live for but a life of wealth and riches and an old husband and the slow death that was life.

What to do with the time but throw it away to self loathing. Trying to understand why she hated herself so badly. That was the question that kept her up into the night, with racking pains of guilt as she laid alone in a sea of her self inflicted misery.

There was nothing for it.

She didn't want to be happy. Being happy made the disappointments all too real when they came. Better to be constant in a state of distant unhappiness. Then, when the sadness came, it could never hurt her.

Like watching him leave every time, and knowing she could never have him.

Like sitting alone in a crowded room.

Like being watched, forever and always, by total strangers.

Preparations for the ball began almost instantly. Of course. The High Prince was returning. The London Season was beginning. Everyone was prepared for the 2 months of balls, and parties, and luncheons, and hunts and the many other social tortures that marked the high society of London. When the girls came of age, they would parade in front of suitors and try to make the best match for their families. The London Season. How little they realized they were little more then prey, watched by hunters and devoured by the same men they thought to catch.

It sickened her.

Perks of being a Princesss: A Short list.

Not having to "catch" a man.

Brynn watched as the palace awoke around her. Maids bustled and cleaned and shined and mended every cranny of the palace. Brynn found it highly unlikely that anyone would ever think to critique the narrow corridors that led to the kitchen; but it mattered little.

To Mrs. Fairchild, the head housekeeper, everything needed to be clean. The very suggestion of filth was a disgrace to her, and by extent, the Royal Family.

Brynn lived in the library in the week proceeding the ball. It was her refuge, her sacrum loco.

From morn until night, she did little but sit in her favorite alcove. When her mind was too tired to read, she'd lay on the padded seat and gaze up at the stone ceiling, making patterns and scenes in the dull grey walls.

Brynn's alcove. She thought of it as her's though there was nothing particularly unique about it. Except that, to her, it housed numberless worlds and lands she could reach out and touch. Here, her friends lived and breathed on printed pages.

It was under a stone arch, where a cushion of blue velvet stretched out, the length of a salon chair. Brynn, being of shorter height, was able lie as though it were a custom made bed. Years ago, she had claimed it as hers, bringing a lantern to hang in the ceiling for late nights and rainy days, and pillows for comfort. Here were her best friends in the world, except, perhaps, Peter.

In books, she lost herself, so entirely, she also lost the world. Sound became of little consequence. The rustles of the other occupants of the library melted into the voices of characters in her mind, or, often, music.

Books and music. If there was one thing that could touch her guarded heart, it was this. She had tried once, in a fit of self punishing rage, to give them up. One new addiction for an old one.

She could't do it. Some things become circles around our hearts until we are captured by their hold over us. Brynn could no more stop reading then cut off her own hand. It was engrained in her. An infestation of worms that had spilled into her heart. One of the many things she loved to deeply.

A servant appeared. Brynn sat up.

"Your Highness," the girl said. She was a tiny thing, with brown hair and a sober face. "Her Royal Highness the Queen requests to see Your Highness in her quarters. She says to come immediately." Her voice squeaked at the end.

Brynn said nothing, only nodded and descend the latter, leaving the bemused serving girl alone. She begrudgingly closed the heavy oak doors of the library and made her way to her mother's quarters.

Her head was beginning to hurt.

When she knocked and was admitted into her parents formidable suite, Brynn was not surprised to find fabrics and strewn all around her. Silks and linen and velvet and lace. Her mother looked up from her seat, where she sat examining a sketch, while one of the seamstress stood over her shoulder, advising her on what fabrics would be best suited for the gown.

"Ah, Brynn. I am glad Soria was able to find you."

Brynn nodded. She had nothing to say.

"Madame Macey and I were just finishing my gown for the ball, which, as you know is in 5 days."

Brynn remained quiet.

"I know it's rather short notice, but Macey here assures me she can have a gown ready for you by that date. I want you to have a new one."

"I have so many others, Mother. I have that blue silk I've worn only once and…"

"I know you have plenty of ball gowns. But this ball is special. You brothers are returning. Brynn, you are 17. You deserve to have some fun, to have some love in your life. You have nothing to fear from this world. I want this ball to be special for you."

Brynn was shocked at such a heartfelt speech. Her mother rarely spoke with such passion, or of such trivial matters. She nodded. "Thank you."

"You'll let us make a dress for you then?" Her mother's eyes lit up, and Brynn instantly felt wary. Now she would have to work doubly hard to ensure her mother saw nothing. She would be watching, gauging her reactions to everything. But guilt tugged at her heart also. Her mother cared.

It was too bad she didn't.

"We have many sketches here, from many courts across the world. Your frame is perfect for one of these French gowns. They have the most exquisite waistlines, though if a corset is required, I suppose it's your decision."

She motioned for Brynn to come closer. "See here," she said, thrusting a design our for Brynn to see. "This would look lovely with some blue to accent you eyes and….."

She kept talking. But Brynn had dazed off.

There was a pause. Brynn supposed this meant she was supposed to say something.

"That sounds lovely, Mother."

The smile the Queen sent her was answer enough. She was in for it.

Madame. Macey bustled into action immediately. She asked (ordered) Brynn into her slip and set about measuring her. Brynn stood still, her head pounding and her eyes aching behind their sockets.

How long had it been since her last fix? She couldn't remember. Everything was a blur of books and colors.

She cursed herself for being so careless. She felt her leg start shaking. Not now. There would be questions.

I can't leave now. She looked at her mother's face; smiling as she watched her daughter.

She might not have liked her mother, but something about the way she was smiling made Brynn sure she would never be able to forgive herself if she left.

It's probably nothing. I can do this.

She closed her eyes.

"Princess, now that I have your measurements, would you like to see some of the dress sketches we have?"

Brynn nodded and the seamstress led her over to the armchairs.

She groaned inwardly; stack of sketches, all bearing dresses more distasteful than the last.

How to say this tactfully. "I don't like any of these."

Madame Macey didn't look surprised. "Your mother was just as picky at your age."

Brynn looked up in shock, first at her mother, then at the seamstress. "You knew my mother? When she was young?"

"Yes, I made many a gown for her. Even her wedding dress."

Brynn had never known.

Macey continued. "You are so like your mother was then, Brynn."

Brynn rather disliked the comparison, but didn't say anything.

"She hated gowns and dressed and could outsmart anyone and…"

"That's quite enough of that," the Queen said, but with a graceful smile. "You flatter me, Macey."

"Do you remember that gown I made you for a masquerade?" Macey asked.

The Queen's eyes lit up. "Of course. I believe it's still around here somewhere. Oh Brynn, you simply must see this gown. I can't believe I haven't thought of it sooner. It would be so beautiful on you. It might even fit you. If only you would wear it to the ball." She sighed wistfully.

Brynn was seriously alarmed at this new and fanciful version of her mother.

The Queen rang a bell and instructed a servant to fetch the gown.

It appeared, 5 minutes later, shrouded in white silk.

Queen Cameron took the gown and unwrapped it gingerly, holding it up to catch the light streaming in from the window.

The dress was full of gems. The torso was a light gray color, but diamonds were sewn on every available surface. As the gown went on, the color slowly changed into midnight black with fewer diamonds scattered below. It reminded Brynn of the sky, with the twinkling diamonds as rare as stars in the heavens.

It was beautiful. And Brynn hated dresses.

"What on Earth was the occasion?" Brynn asked, still shocked at the extravagance of the gown. It was so unlike her mother.

"A Masquarade Ball. I believe I went as a black swan. Right Macey?"

"Don't let her fool you," Macey said. "She wore this the first night she was engaged to your Father. Let me tell you, he practically ogled her the whole night."

"You weren't even there," her mother said, but with a faint pink blush.

Brynn still could't believe this was happening.

"Here, try it on, darling." The Queen held it out and Macey helped her step in.

She gazed at herself in the mirror.

6 months before, she would have filled out the dress. Now it hung loose around her. Her pale face stared back, gaunt, worn. She looked old.

"Beautiful," her mother gasped from beside her. "Oh Brynn, won't you wear it? Please do. You look lovely, simply lovely."

Brynn found herself nodding.

Madame Macey looked with a practiced eye. "We'll have to take it in. Goodness girl, you're skin and bones."

You would be too if you could barely stomach food. But Brynn didn't say anything and instead smiled at her mother.

"I love it," and it hardly sounded forced, even to her. The dress was nice.

"Perfect. Well then it's settled. Macey, do whatever you must to make the gown fit. I doubt I could wear it anyways. And if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment."

She swept from the room, kissing Brynn on the forehead.

The seamstress was done within minutes, leaving Brynn thankfully free. She closed the door with a sigh of relief and leaned against it, blinking the dark spots out of her eyes. Her quarters were only 2 corridors away. Her legs wobbled.

Steeling herself, Brynn slowly walked down the hall. At one point, she forced herself to stop and lean against a nearby wall as her legs shook and her head pounded furiously.

She made it to her cooridor. 3 doors to go.

"Good afternoon, Your Highness."

The voice was sickeningly familiar.

"Afternoon."

She made it to her room and shut the door.

The bliss of relief. Of forgetfulness. Of waking dreams.

Peace at last among the colors that filled her mind.