The Princess, the Witch and the Pirate

Hand Delivered Invitation

Olivia darted up the steep, narrow service stairs, sprinting two at a time, clutching an envelope. "Guess what, dad? Dad! Guess what?" badgered the lanky fifteen-year-old, needing not catch her breath as she entered her father's chamber.

Her father sat on the edge of his recliner, leaning forward staring at the television screen in his red robe, undershirt, and boxers. He held his hand up to her, signaling for silence. Olivia kept her urgency in check as something imperative was just then arresting her father's attention. Olivia crouched besides him and stared at the little men on the pitch fighting for the ball. At the sight of a key player missing the goal, the king groaned, throwing his hands up.

"He's so cocky!" she moaned, pointing at the television. "Should have passed to Sanchez."

"If I was the coach, I would throw him in the dungeon! Eh, what is it, love? Oh? Is that a letter?" Her father looked at the envelope as if it contained expensive chocolate requiring immediate consumption. "What fancy wrapping. Hand it here."

"No, no, dad. This letter is addressed to me!"

"Addressed to you?"

"I've never gotten post. This is the very first time. And you won't believe it. It was hand delivered. Hand delivered! By a beautiful man..."

"Since when do you find men beautiful?"

"In a gorgeous, red Aston Martin."

"Well, I do suppose in a car like that...so, what are you waiting for? Go on, read it already." Olivia was blooming. She was no longer that little girl who stomped about the castle grounds in little red overalls and tiny sneakers, who, lunging at imaginary foes with a twig, slayed hedges and rescued teddies. Those days of not sharing her would soon to be over. King Antonio assumed the worst: an invitation to a ball. Some pompous party. Some horrible engagement wherein she'd meet some snotty blue blood, hair slicked with pomade. His majesty perspired as she read to herself. Olivia's expression changed from glee to disdain. Frowning, she handed the letter to her father, not having bothered to reach its conclusion.

At dinner, the pair sat at a long, rustic wooden table, he at the head, she at his side, under an iron chandelier desperate for dusting.

"Why is it always men who decide these things?"

"But don't they know you are a princess too?" said her father, cutting his meat. "Olivia is very clearly a girl's name."

"An invitation to fight a series of duels to win the hand of a princess? I mean, it isn't just medieval, it's...barbaric!" said she, clutching her knife and fork in tight fists. "I'm grateful you've never sent such invitations."

"I have," contradicted the King. "No one responds."

"I'm serious. I feel sorry for the girl."

"At least they set stipulations." The king pulled out the letter, cleared his throat, and put on his glasses. "Age limits, 14 to 17. So that takes care of any...deviants," he continued to read muttering to himself, "contenders will stay in blah, blah, not be restricted, blah, attend a ball, and..." King Antonio's voice trailed off becoming almost inaudible. Reaching the end of the letter, he frowned and put the invitation away, as subtly as possible, into the front pocket of his fluffy red robe, saying, "Pass the potatoes."

"It's just so awful. It's...primitive." Olivia passed the roasted spuds, "Let me look."

"Again? It will only upset you..."

"C'mon. It's my letter."

The king hesitated before handing over the crumpled paper. He knew she'd reached the end when her fist pounded the table, rattling the silver. Olivia stood, "This is despicable!"