ᴍᴀᴅᴄᴀᴘ :: ᴀ. ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇʀᴛᴏɴ

ɪ: ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇᴍʟʏ

◊

❝ 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 . . . 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐥𝐲, 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐥𝐲, 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐥𝐲, 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝. ❞

― ᴍᴀɴᴅʏ ʜᴀʟᴇ

◊

"Your Highness? Your Highness!"

The hems of her dress tore through the mud and ripped over sticks as Isabeau ran, clutching tightly onto blue tulle. The dark lengths of her natural curls streamed behind her, only halfway pinned: her Lady of the Bedchamber, Amelia Frost, had been busying herself with an elaborate updo of pearls when Isabeau seized her opportunity, dashed from her chambers and took to the gardens.

By now, the ball had well and truly begun. Golden lights streamed from the wide windows of the palace, faint music and the gentle murmurs of distant conversation gliding on the wind. But Lady Frost had not relented in her pursuit.

"Your Highness!" Lady Frost shouted again, a little more weakly and distantly now. As Isabeau continued to run, her voice grew even further away. "Your mother will have your head for this!"

"Oh, she'll make do!" Isabeau called over her shoulder, her lips pulling into a grin. "Don't wait for me, Amelia!"

With that, Isabeau disappeared into the endless maze at the back of the palace's sprawling gardens, plunging headfirst into the hedgerows. They rose over her head like well-trimmed giants, cutting away Lady Frost's response and blocking out the sounds from the rest of the world, until all that remained was a rare and idyllic sense of peace.

Panting, Isabeau allowed her pace to slow, dropping her skirts into the dirt and reaching up to pull the last of the pins from her hair. She winced as their metal edges dragged on her scalp, then tossed them into the grass, taking care not to step over them with her bare feet as she passed. Her shoes must have been discarded somewhere in the palace behind her, though she couldn't remember losing them.

Poor Lady Frost would likely be close to an aneurism by now, but there was nothing for it. Anyone who thought to squeeze Isabeau's feet into pinched slippers and her fingers into silk gloves and her curls into elaborate updos were, unfortunately, sorely mistaken, as they had always been and always would be. If only her mother would realise the same and allow her to live freely.

The thought sullied Isabeau's lofty mood, and she sighed, rubbing her hands over her face as if to clear the lingering smile from it. If her father had his wits about him, she was sure he would have said something in her defense: he had always been a staunch supporter for his girls, and protected Isabeau whenever her mother or her ladies tried to trap her in the Nunnery. Then they had tried to send her off for rehabilitation, but even that hadn't worked. How could it? There was nothing at all wrong with her.

Or so she told herself, during the breathless and exultant hours when her thoughts and their harsh truths couldn't climb through her walls and reach her heart. Only in the darkness of night did they reach her, in the idle moments or the brief pockets of time before she fell asleep.

Those were moments she still fought desperately to avoid, of course. She fought them tooth and nail.

"Come now, Isa! You'll be late for the ball!"