A/N: Apparently bullfrogs can live up to fifteen years…didn't know that! Anyway, I love reviews (hope to hear from you!) and would like to thank TrudiRose for reviewing!

CHAPTER TWO

As I said, when I was eight years old, I got lost in the forest. Nine years later, my parents still didn't completely trust me, and Chip hadn't given up his grudge. From what I understand, his punishment wasn't that brutal; my father felt that Chip had suffered enough from the worry and hysterics he went through while searching for me. As for me, in addition to several hours of my father yelling, I was forced to sit, cooped up in the castle, for almost an entire year. My mother wouldn't even let me go out on her balcony.

It was hell, pure hell.

Time went by, and my parents gradually forgave me. Soon enough I was allowed to walk the corridors by myself, and I no longer required a chaperone during my reading time. I suppose my mother feared I might literally be transported into the setting of my novels. Whatever the case, it took me years of good behavior to earn my parents trust again, all because I had decided to take a stroll through the forest. What really bothered me was that I couldn't even remember a great deal of my adventure.

I could remember how I escaped from Chip, and I remembered walking during the day. I could even remember how hungry I was, and how icky I felt from the dust and sweat. What stuck out most in my mind was the fear I felt right before the wolves attacked me. Actually, to tell the truth, they never attacked me. See, that's where I draw a blank. I remember being frightened out of my mind, hearing the wolves all around me, and then...nothing.

My father's men found me outside the northern gate in the morning, with a few scratches here and there, but nothing serious. I still don't think my parents believe my story about the wolves. I don't know how I got home. I just woke up, about mid-day, with a splitting headache. I still had Prince in my pocket.

And at age seventeen, I still had Prince. According to Monsieur Blanchard, if kept in captivity, bullfrogs could live up to fifteen years. I believe Prince wanted to prove that fact. I kept him in my room, feeding him flies and letting him hop around where he pleased. Because my father would no longer let me go outside, my mother let me bring the wilderness into my room.

In addition to the small pool I kept for Prince to swim in, my mother had our servants bring me flowers from the garden. I was allowed to have my window open, but never to sit on the sill as I once did. All year round, my room was a bouquet of assorted colors. My mother even allowed me to paint wildlife scenes on my walls, much to my father's dismay. I think it broke her heart to see me trapped within the walls of the castle, never seeing the true daylight, but she was afraid of me running away again. In addition to this, my father was very determined to keep me inside, and although he and my mother had a very healthy relationship, he was king and his word was rule.

For my fifteenth birthday, Chip built me a bookshelf, his way of letting me know he didn't totally despise me. Once I had my own bookshelf, mother noticed that more and more of her books were being misplaced, and eventually came to my room, only to discover that almost a hundred of her novels had ended up there. The ones that weren't in my shelf were stacked next to my bed, and a few were even spread out on the dresser. I was worried she might be angry. But she just raised an eyebrow at me.

"Darling," she said, taking a book from my pile and holding it to her chest, "I don't mind you reading my books. I don't even mind them being stored in here. Just make sure that the doors are always kept open so that I have access to them."

I nodded and she smiled at me, walking out as quietly as she had entered.

That was usually how conversations between us went. My mother was very intelligent, I knew that, but she always seemed far away, almost like she was in another land. My father said that she had a passionate temper if pushed far enough, but in all my years of living, I had yet to see it. Generally she just smiled at me, or spoke to me in soft tones. It was my father who would sit and bicker with me, or correct my faults. He had a way of knowing how to get my goat, even more so than Chip.

Mrs. Potts, Chip's mother...how a kind old woman like that ever ended up with an annoying scab like Chip, I'll never know...reasoned to me that it was because my personality was so much like my father's. She said that people clashed when they acted so similarly.

Personally, I never saw much of my father's attitude in myself. He was always moody and quick-tempered. There were times when he could be quite haughty. He was never like that towards my mother, though. No, he always treated my mother with love and respect, hanging on her every word, and treating her like his equal. Which she was.

In my teenage years I was often forced to sit and mingle with the nobles, and one thing that I noticed was none of the high-society women matched my mother when it came to intelligence. They had been raised in a world that taught them to act like proper young women, but they had never been faced with the harsh realities of the working class. Nor do I believe any of them had ever bothered to open a book when it wasn't required.

Yes, I had great respect for my mother, for I knew that I would not be able to spend more than one day fending for myself. I had learned that already. I like to think this is why I had such a difficult time respecting my new tutor.

Shortly after my seventeenth birthday, my teacher, Monsieur Blanchard, became very sick, and my father told him that he needed to rest instead of worrying over me. From what I heard, he told Monsieur Blanchard that it was difficult enough for someone his age to be keeping up with the likes of me, and he couldn't imagine how difficult it was for man twice his age. This is how I came to know Madame Guillory.

From the beginning, things were strained in our relationship. She was only slightly younger than my mother, perhaps several years, but she acted as though she were a decrepit, old maid. She combed her dark, red hair back in a severe-looking bun, not a hair out of place, mind you, and her eyebrows were permanently arched in an expression of posh elegance. She was very pale, but she had a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose, that popped out from her face whenever I angered her. And I angered her often.

"Something must be done about the princess," I heard her tell my father, one evening before I retired to my bedroom. "She is very stubborn, and that's a bad example for your subjects. It's no wonder that Monsieur Blanchard became ill, it's very vexing to try to teach someone who is so unwilling."

There was a silence and I knew my father was thinking over what Guillory had said. I waited, practically leaning in, so as to not miss a word of their conversation.

Finally, my father spoke. "What do you propose?"

"Well," Madame Guillory replied slowly, I could tell she was picking her next words carefully, "in my experience, I have found that unruly princesses tend to calm down after they find themselves a husband."

"Are you suggesting we marry Antoinette off?" I could hear alarm in my father's voice.

"No, not necessarily," Guillory amended. "I simply thought it might be wise to begin looking for suitors...perhaps if only for a courtship."

I could not stand to hear anymore. I stormed up to my bedroom and vehemently ordered my handmaidens to leave immediately. I'm quite embarrassed to say that I proceeded to throw myself down on the bed and sob into my pillow for several minutes before finally calming down. It had been a long time since I had been so enraged. In fact, I could never remember being so thoroughly disgusted with my surroundings.

Well, that's not entirely true. After my father was done yelling at me for running away, he forced me to sit and listen to the wisdom of Cogsworth, which I was none too pleased with. This was all before Cogsworth retired, of course, and would I often find myself missing the supercilious rants that he would go into. But I remember how angry I was with my father for taking away my freedom and forbidding me to go outside. I think it was the closest I had ever come to hating him.

Before now. Who was he to marry me off?

….the king and my father. So, technically, I had no choice but to go through with his decision.

Unless...

Unless I wasn't around to go through with the ordeal. Damned if I was to let someone decide my fate for me. Not even God could tell me what to do, and I was going to make sure my father knew that.

I sat and waited, plotting for my second great escape.