A Royal Ruse

Chapter 7

 The Invitation

"What's this?" The princess asked when she noticed a curious white envelope nesting on the breakfast tray that her ladies' maid had just set on the table in front of her.

Sahali, the ladies' maid assigned to Zita in the Haddonite palace, halted mid-scurry, "it's your invitation, Your Highness," she peeped in reply before returning to her chores around the room.

Zita stood to grab the letter opener from her dresser. She sliced the envelope open. Her eyes devoured the bold, flourishing words:

Dear Princess Nara of Sandor,

You are cordially invited to the Annual Summer Gala at the Royal Haddonite Palace.

"It's tonight! It's tonight!" Zita shrieked.

Sahali's eyes bulged as she watched Zita leap around the room in a fizz of excitement. 

Three days had passed since the princess had set foot outside her bedchamber. Three nail-pulling days of stewing in a cauldron of her questions and worries. Sahali worked tirelessly, providing her with every palatial comfort, but it was no use. The room still felt like a jewel-toned, gold-leafed cage. It wasn't until Zita was reunited with the words of her favorite author, Artu Killoman, that her mind stopped bubbling as anxiously.

She was pleasantly surprised to find that the Haddonite palace held an anthology of Killoman's poems and short stories. Although his stories painted vivid scenes and his poems detailed personal triumphs and losses, there was very little known about the man himself — where he was from, where he currently lived, what he looked like. He was blanketed in the mystery of legends and, for Zita, this made his work all the more thrilling. He could be anywhere in the world, penning words that still struck her like a bull's eye. This deepened her belief that there was no distance too big for the written word to overcome. It built bridges to hearts and inspired hope. Made people feel less alone. To Zita, there was no nobler profession.

"Sahali," Zita gasped, freezing mid-twirl, "what on earth am I going to wear?"

Her ladies' maid, still looking a bit like a trapped mouse, answered; "the seamstress will be up soon to present your options, Your Highness."

Zita, feeling pooped from her fit of mania, flopped down onto the carpeted floor. She stared up at the delicate florals frescoed to the vaulted ceiling, once again able to appreciate the beauty around her now that she was soon able to escape it. The summer breeze whispered through the tall, arching window and Zita felt as airy as the wispy white muslin streaming from her canopy bed.

"I never thought this day would come. Oh, Sahali, tell me everything you know about the Gala. Is it a big to-do? Will there be a lot of people?"

"Oh, it's a big gathering indeed, Your Highness." Sahali, looking more skittish than usual, saw to her bed-making duties. "Nobles and dignitaries from every corner of our kingdom are invited as guests. The Gala rings in the commencement of the Jubilee Season. The royal house of Haddon throws a succession of festivities for the people. We wait all year for the Jubilee."

"What kind of festivities?"

"There are a few of the events, like the Gala and the Coronation Ball, that is reserved only for the nobility and invited guests, but the Jubilee Season also includes carnivals, races, parades, processions, and exhibitions that are organized by the royals for us common folk as well."

"Well, it certainly sounds like fun." The princess said while a decidedly un-fun feeling started to gurgle in her chest.

Zita could feel her heart's tempo quickening, her dizzy excitement darkening. Suddenly sober, she stood up to walk back to her breakfast tray.

She chomped aggressively on her pastry. She stared down at the invitation. The words 'Princess Nara' floated off the page and swirled restlessly amongst her doubts and fears like a kite. She twiddled the paper nervously between her fingers, already feeling like she was plunging headlong off a cliff.

As the days went by, she had thought of this room as a cage but really it was more of a chrysalis. Tonight she would emerge from it a new creation.

Princess Nara.

She spoke the words; a foreign taste on her tongue. She inhaled sharply, deflated slowly. Her exhale stung like a goodbye. And in a way it was. This version of 'Zita' would cease to exist the second she stepped past the threshold of her chamber.