I had a sack of potatoes slung over my shoulder, the weight painful but bearable. It was supposed to be delivered to the kitchens of King George's Castle, in preparation for the ball that night. I wished I could attend, but who was I to be in the presence of such royalty? Such snobbery, arrogance. I was merely the daughter of a grain farmer, a piece of dirty meat. Note the word "was," because I am certainly not now.
As I was striding dutifully through the main hall to deliver my package, it so happened to be the perfect time for King George and Prince William to saunter through from my destination, with the delightful Princess Annabel Lee. She was supposedly known for her kindness and generosity; I knew her for her outlandish and ugly ballgowns. Today she wore a pink brocaded one that exposed her shoulders, satiny raven hair curled and braided back from her face. A gold crown rested on her head, matching owl earrings dangling from her lobes. Their pink sapphire eyes stared at me with disgust, just like her blue ones. As per usual, they were lined with gold and brushed over with pink. When her gaze flitted over me, a dirty farm girl, her pink lips curled in revolt. I kept mine ahead, focusing on how close my destination was. That's why I didn't notice her slipper-clad foot had shot out in front of me.
I fell onto the carpet of the hall, the air stolen from my lungs momentarily. I internally damned the silly black corset laced around my chest, the irritating skirt of my white chemise. She giggled once and then her voice turned to distress. "Oh, my king! That milkmaid just spilled her potatoes all over my new dress!" Her voice was high and shrill, a wealthy girl's whine. I groaned and picked myself up from the ground, sitting in the middle of the hall and tugging the sack away from her. Some potato juice had stained the hem of her gown; I doubted anyone would ever think to look there, but she was fussing like a babe over it.
My eyes stared at the king, then the prince. Dark-haired with hazel eyes, they looked identical but for age. The king was in his fifties, the prince just breaching twenty. The prince had pity for me in his eyes, but the king was just too happy to punish me. He never really liked me anyways. "Girl!" he barked. "What be your name?" I stood up, my face determined and eyes level with his own. I clutched the sack of grain at my side.
"Helena, sire." I gathered my black skirt in my hands and curtsied as I was supposed to, my voice hard and bitter. He nodded.
"Helena, daughter of Magus? I see. Well, deliver your potatoes Helena, but you won't be paid for any work you or your father does today." Fear crept into my eyes. I fell to my knees, hands balled into fists, but I refused to cry.
"Please, you Majesty, I beg you. We need the money. There isn't enough for us to eat_" He sliced his hand through my protest, unfazed.
"I have no pity to spare for beggars like you. Now finish your job!" With that, the trio walked away from me, the hysterical farm girl, leaving me in the middle of the empty hall. The prince's eyes still held sorrow for me as they left. That was when I knew what had to be done.
I walked myself to the ball that night. Since I had no others, I was forced to wear my black riding boots that laced past my ankles. The leather was torn and rugged from my work in the fields, but the long skirt I wore should've covered them. My gown was one I stole from a noblewoman whom threw it out. A darker red silk that wine, the straps fell tight past my shoulders. It was trimmed with black and silver scroll-work was embroidered on the bodice and small train. My bosom was adequately exposed, black gloves of velvet covering my arms and, most important, my hands. Anyone at this ball would know me to be a poseur should we shake hands without wearing gloves. I had the hands of a farmer, not as smooth as the royalty who never lifted a finger.
Covering my dress was a plain velvet cloak to blend with the night, trimmed with pale gray tassels. My blond hair was twisted up into a tousled pile on my head, covered with a top hat my father used to wear. I'd twisted and sewn claret silk roses and feathers around the crown, a black spiderweb veil covering my simply-made face. I'd found used bottle of black and claret to paint around my eyes and on my lips, starkly contrasting with my fair complexion. My mother once told me fair skin was a sign of wealth and royal blood especially in the Northern kingdoms; obviously, that philosophy hadn't gotten me far.
