Every girl dreams of being a princess.

What is it that calls so irresistibly to girls of six or seven, who dream not of ruling and responsibilities, or of the wealth that accompanies noble titles, nor certainly of the duties and pleasure that attend upon marriage? Is it the fine dresses of velvet and lace, the necklaces of sapphires or the tiara of diamond? Do they dream of the satin caress of gloves that hug the arm past the elbow, or of the particular arch of the silk heeled shoe? Perhaps. There are undoubtedly those in the world who strive for gems and gowns the way some summit mountains: the achievement is the goal itself – and, of course, it's always a race.

But no, greed and vanity alone cannot account for the hungry madness of a million little girls for the tantalizing, blazing star of princesshood. If the secret is wealth, why not a duchess? If power, why not a queen? If marriage, why not the bourgeois daughter of some well-to-do merchant?

Love! I hear you cry. To be a princess is to win love – from your parents for your beauty, from your subjects for the purity of your gentle heart, and from him – be he prince or knight or holy emperor – from him for your matchless beauty. Yes, perhaps love is closer to the mark, but then I hardly imagine any sensible six year old would pin her hopes and dreams upon a basis so – forgive me – unreliable.

If you imagine I know the answer, and that I'm withholding from you now for the purpose of suspense the totemic key capable of unleashing the mythical self-knowledge of all the world's females, from seven to seventy, then I am afraid I must disappoint you. For although I saw and did much in my brief time, neither life nor death bestowed upon me any great answers to the weighty questions.

But if I must hazard my guess, it would be this: that cult of Princess has at its root a desire to be special. In some retiring creatures perhaps this desire is mild and transitory, fading with the usual resignation of childhood fantasies inexorably replaced by adult realities. But in many thousands the desperate craving burns for confirmation that they are different from the many other thousands, secretly worthier, secretly better. And for many, corroded dreams leave cores of bitterness that bleed poison into what might otherwise have been contented – if not truly happy – lives. For princesses – at least the ones commonly dreamed of - are the subjects of story. They are wanted and rejected, kidnapped and rescued, loved and abused. They inspire love in men and hatred in women, and the power of their good beauty can transform souls. To be a princess is not necessarily to be happy, but to be important. To be worthy enough, in short, of having a story that is more than just living and dying. Of being born merely to generate iterations of your own image. After all, is it so hard to fathom that everyone merely wants to play the lead role in their own drama?

Everyone wants their own story, and every little girl dreams of being a princess.

And I was no different.