1

My name is Alexandra Victoria Elizabeth. No last name. You've probably never heard of me. Why would you? According to my 'family', I'm an "embarrassment". They don't even refer to me by my name, most days, they just call me the "thing". Often with a tone of disgust and loathing. I'm kept well away from the public eye. Never in any family portraits, never even invited to sit at the table for dinner. It's like I don't exist, which I'm sure would be better for everybody involved. Especially me.

You're probably wondering what I did to deserve this kind of treatment. Am I a criminal? Did I kill somebody? Well, no. Nothing as drastic as that, though I'm sure if I did, it would be better than what I did do. Exist. You see, I'm, to put it simply, a bastard daughter of a Prince. For a royal family, that is the absolute worst kind of crime. I've eavesdropped on plenty of conversations that still take place between my father and the other members of his family, even now, twelve years after my birth. They go something like this.

How could you? The Queen.

You have brought shame upon our entire family. Why didn't you at least marry her? She must not be seen … Blah, blah, blah. I've heard it a thousand times too many already. I live in a tiny cottage barely on the outskirts of the palace, out of sight, out of mind. That's what Agatha, my (reluctant) maid, tells me every time she comes over to bring me food, anyway. I'm not even allowed to go within a mile radius of the palace! Everyone in there treats me like I'm a contagious disease. Every time they catch a glimpse of me, they always immediately avert their eyes and walk away as fast as they can (which is not very fast, because royals have to be 'dignified' at all times). Sometimes, even though I hate the way they treat me and I wish they could accept me (have I mentioned it's been twelve years?) I'm glad that I don't have to conform to stupid 'royal standards'.

My father is the third, and youngest, prince. Not many people know about him, either. From a young age, he preferred to spend time with his books and occasional inventions, which were not hobbies befitting for a prince. Nevertheless, they left him be, because he would never inherit the throne and so wasn't important. The most attention he ever got from them was because of my illegal birth. He's barely even a father, anyway. From what I gleaned during eavesdropping sessions, he didn't even want me. He tried to send me back, he said. He told everyone that it was a "drunken, one-night stand" and he wasn't even dating my mother at the time. She vanished for nine months and after that, there was just a golden cradle at his front door with a note saying, Her name is Alexandra. I mean, who does that? Isn't it every girl's dream to marry a prince?

My mother, obviously, is not in the picture. If she was, it would definitely make life a lot easier – not for her, maybe, but for me. For my father. Definitely for my family; they've already tried countless times to marry my father off, in order to "cover up the scandal". The scandal? Me. Since my birth, I've been alone in this cottage with my nanny, Helena. She's the only mother figure I've ever had. She's one of the only people in the world who cares for me. Who asks me about my day, tells me stories – all the things a mother's supposed to do. She and her daughter, Imogen, live with me in this little cottage. Imogen's my only friend, and she's like a sister to me. She and Helena are the sole reason why I haven't run into the woods and never looked back. Well, that and because I'm twelve. I wouldn't know what to do. Where would I go? I could say many awful things about my family, but at least they've never let me starve. I would surely starve to death out there. Better to take on the evil I know.

My father visits once a month. It never amounts to anything substantial. Each time, I get my hopes up, thinking this is it – this is the time he's actually going to refer to me as his daughter, this is the time he'll take me back to the palace and proudly declare that he loves me in front of all the paparazzi. Each time, I'm disappointed. I don't even know why I bother getting my hopes up every time; they always end up getting crushed. What actually happens? We make strained, stilted conversation over tea, he gives me a ton of gifts – as if that would ever make up for his absence – and tells me all about his new wife, Brianna, who he married the year that I turned eight. It's been four years, and she doesn't even know about me, the bastard child of her husband. By the looks of it, no one's going to tell her anytime soon. Honestly, I'm really just waiting for the time when he visits and tells me that she's pregnant. It's going to happen sooner or later, and then he'll come more infrequently, until the visits stop altogether. He'll forget all about me, too focused on his new, perfect family, and then the briars will grow all around my cottage and I'll disappear forever. Sometimes, when I'm in the mood for wishful thinking, I wish that Brianna was my mother, that we could be a family together. But I know it'll never happen.

Nobody talks about my mother. It's almost an unspoken taboo. When I was younger, more naïve, I asked my father about her once. Maybe he was in a particularly good mood that day or something, I don't know, but that was the first and only time he told me about her. Her name was Annabeth, he said. She had grey eyes just like mine, but black hair in contrast to my blonde. You look just like her, he said. It wasn't wistful or anything – just a simple observation. He'd never been in love with her or anything; they'd just been good friends, going to college together, and then one night at a party they both got drunk and then I happened. How unfortunate for them. She was from America, and at first when she left he just thought that she'd had a family emergency or something. It had happened before. But then one day he came to this cottage, which used to be his refuge before it became my prison, and there was a golden cradle floating on the breeze down from the heavens, with me in it. He'd been pretty unclear about this part, his eyes had gone unfocused, like he wasn't sure what he saw. I mean, a cradle floating from the sky? Yeah, pretty unbelievable. I was pretty sure that he'd just not been wearing his glasses and had seen that instead of the cradle sitting on the front porch. At this point, he stopped abruptly, then whirled on me and told me never, ever to say her name, or say anything about her, ever again. Then he left.

After that, I didn't pry. I already knew everything I needed to – her name, her appearance, where she lived. In case I ever wanted to find her. And honestly? I did want to find her, if only to give her a thorough chewing out for leaving an innocent baby like that. I didn't want to live with her, or anything. I was perfectly content in my tiny corner of the palace with Helena and Imogen. Well, not perfectly, but at least I was used to it. I'd long since grown out of pining for the woman who abandoned me.

Imogen left the cottage every day, to go to school. I, on the other hand, wasn't allowed to be at school, in fear of my secret coming out. Never mind that nobody knew about me, much less what I looked like. The Queen had decreed it, so that was that. So Helena took it upon herself to teach me what little she knew, with Imogen explaining to me everything she'd learnt each day at school. However, I couldn't read very well – which I later found out was called dyslexia – and I couldn't sit still very long, which I later found out was called ADHD, and was pretty common. Nevertheless, having known exactly three people up till then, I thought there was something seriously wrong with me, since none of them had trouble with either. During particularly gloomy days, I even thought that it was my penance for being a bastard. Helena, of course, sharply scolded that tendency out of me. She told me it wasn't my fault, that they were all stupid to realize how wonderful, how smart I was. I laughed through my tears at the ridiculousness of her words, but allowed myself to be drawn into her warm embrace. In moments like those, I could pretend that I really was Imogen's sister, not the bastard daughter of the prince.

On the fateful day that my life changed forever, I'd just had a fight with Imogen. The unjustness of her getting to go to school, have normal friends, had gotten to me again, and I'd said some unflattering things that I didn't really mean. I guess she was tired of placating me over and over again, because hurtful words just burst out of her mouth like a dam, twelve years' worth of it. She told me how she was sick and tired of being cloistered in this cottage because of me, how she couldn't believe her mother actually cared about a freak like me … and so on. I hadn't been able to take this onslaught from the only friend I'd ever really had, so I'd run away, not caring where I was going, tears blinding my vision, with her shouts of "Coward!" echoing behind me. Somewhere inside me, I knew that she'd just been caught up in the moment, that she didn't really mean all those things, but a larger part of me was telling me that yes, she did mean it, that one couldn't say things like that without meaning them. They were true, after all, even if I didn't want to admit it. I was the one who had robbed her of a normal life. I was the one who had gotten jealous of her normal friends that I would never be able to have. It was all my fault, like most things were. In reality, they weren't my fault – just unjust blame placed on a twelve year old girl by adults who should know better, simply because she was an easy target. At the time, I didn't know it, but really, for monarchs, they were no better than playground bullies.

Huddled against a tree somewhere in the woods, I angrily swiped my tears away and contemplated my options. I couldn't go back to the cottage, the only home I'd ever known – even if it felt like a cage most of the time – because that would mean facing Imogen again. I couldn't go to the palace, to my father, because I wasn't even allowed anywhere near it. So that only left one option. Go to America, and seek out my mother. I know, I know, I wasn't thinking straight, but my mind was muddled at the time. It seemed like the only clear path through my addled mind.

For whatever reason, I had always been a good strategist (or so I thought, since I didn't have any unit of measurement save for Imogen.) I won every game with her and Helena, and they always praised me for my quick thinking, which came in handy now. How could a twelve year old girl get to America by herself? I wondered. I spent a long time pondering, during which the shadows of the trees lengthened and slowly disappeared, not that I noticed. I looked over at the landing pad, where the royal jet was waiting to take my uncles to America tomorrow for a diplomatic mission … wait. That's it! I would just stowaway on the plane, get to America, and then find my mother. Simple as that. With my mind made up, I stole back to the cottage, making sure to be extra quiet so not to wake Helena and Imogen, packed a backpack full of essentials – non perishable food, water, money, clothes – and, after scribbling a hasty note to them telling them that I was sorry, but that Imogen was right, and I wasn't wanted, I left without looking back. The bird, free from her cage at last.

Morning dawned, and rays of sunlight filtered through the tiny window in the side of the storage compartment in the plane. I squinted against it, my body aching from sleeping curled up against an uncomfortably hard trunk that was jabbing against my side unpleasantly. Despite this, I felt a thrill of adrenaline as I felt the soft thrum of the airplane engines. I couldn't believe that I was really doing this. All my life, I'd been afraid to come out of my comfort zone, too scared to even venture outside palace grounds, and now I was going to an entirely different continent. Sure, I was scared, but I was exhilarated, too. Who knew what was awaiting me?

I shrank deeper into the compartment – spacious, just like everything the royals liked – as voices filtered up to me. I'd heard those voices a million times when I eavesdropped, but to tell you the truth, I wouldn't be able to match the voices to the faces. I'd never seen most of my extended family. Sad, I know, but a must for a closely kept secret such as I. I recognised my father's two brothers, their wives – even my two little cousins who I'd never be able to meet, who were allowed to skip through the palace and dash through its corridors in a way that I would never be able to do. Sometimes, I envied them for not having a care in the world except what they would get for their birthdays. At their age, I'd heard the word 'bastard' so many times that I'd searched it up in the dictionary, then spent the remainder of the afternoon curled up in my bed crying until Helena came to get me for dinner. That had been the first time I asked her why everyone hated me. It wasn't something that should have concerned a normal three year old child, but I wasn't normal by anyone's definition.

I listened as the royals busied themselves bustling around the plane. I'd snuck into the palace grounds enough times to recognise their footsteps, too. Sue me. I was lonely, and bored. They were taking forever up there, and my foot had already begun to tap impatiently, despite my efforts to still it. I suddenly wasn't sure I would be able to last for however long this trip would take inside this compartment, with nothing to amuse me save for my dog-eared copy of The Wind in the Willows, my favourite book that I had brought with me for purely sentimental reasons. It had been in my cradle when I'd been delivered to my father; my first and only present, my only reminder of my mother.

Accompanied by the gentle lullaby of the plane's engines, I quickly dozed off, the voices above swirling in a cacophony around me, mingling together until I couldn't make out what they were saying.

I was rudely jolted awake by an abrupt bump that made me scramble up and hit my head on the ceiling. I rubbed the bump, annoyed, and peered through the window. A giant structure loomed before me, bigger even than the palace, and I couldn't withhold my gasp. Had we arrived in America? I stared out the window, greedily drinking in everything, as if afraid it would slip away. For a girl who'd never even been outside palace grounds, this was awe-inspiring. And that was when the significance of what I'd done hit me. How could I find my mother in this giant world? All I knew was that she was from America. How had it not occurred to me earlier that America was a huge place and I wouldn't even know where to start? Why didn't I at least search her up beforehand? For someone who prided herself on strategic skills, they were sorely lacking in this misadventure. What was I going to do now?