The Red Bride (#Wattys2016)

Prologue

Point of View: Hanna, the Bride's favourite maid
Place: The Red Palace

Chantal is being stupid. The Red Bride wanted her socks to be rose red, but she brought in blood red instead. That's really, really offensive. Your maid must not be ignorant to your socks.

"Hanna, my dear," The Bride calls to me. She can imitate a cheerful tone while being extremely, extremely angry. I'm worried that she would dump me into the pool of guilt with Chantal. Anyways, she put the task of telling Chantal, the closet maid, to fetch rose red socks for her Highness.

Chantal's neck's going to be blood red sooner enough. But me? I'm not sure, the Bride seems to like me, but I'm very, very unsure that she likes anybody, or she's just appreciating - no - watching her followers. 

I am Hanna. I am the Bride's most favourite - somehow - maid, and she's given me a honour to own a red property. The others who are caught with red property will be immediately executed. Charlie, my brother, just got executed because he puked strawberries out. I'm grieving. 

"Hanna!" Oh dear, the Bride seems really mad now. Executing people's the inherited personality that she received from her mother, whose tantrums are ten times as much as the Bride, Queen of Hearts. Or, more, Queen of Bloodiness. 

"Hello," I hurry to the Bride and bow. She nods and gestures for me to stand straight. I smile at her and say, in a medium tone that suggested no treachery, because the Bride hated tones with any trace of hatred, tiredness or sarcasm. My tone's cheerful, helpful and bouncy.

"Oh, yes. Will you please fetch me a cup of tea?" the Bride heaves herself up straighter on her throne. Before she could, I ran to her side, picked up her smooth and fingernail-red-painted hands, and puffed her upwards. She smiled and touched my face with her cold hand.

Not the most pleasant sensation in the world, but it's nice to see the Bride so fond of me.

"See, Chantal got me blood red socks, so she became blood red herself. Will you please fetch me a pair of correctly rose red socks please? My teeny white toes are shivering. I hate my toes shivering." the Bride insists. She never asks. Only insisting or demanding's flowing in her bloodline.

"I would be really honoured to do that, my Highness," I bow, and totter to her walk-in-closet. Oh, not a closet. It's more like an entire floor with the teeniest door for you to fit inside, and look at all the glamorous fashions.

I pick out a piece of new, comfy and thin silk rose red socks for her. I remember to spray some rose scented perfume on it. I fit my hands inside the socks so it'll be easier for her to size in her small foot, and I go out to the kitchen as quick as possible, the uncreased socks in my large pocket. I make a cup of rose tea with her favourite rose flavour - the Thorn. 

I wobble as I hurry to the Bride, who's got her fingers tapping impatient on her glass throne. Her eyes shine in delight when she sees her desired socks, and the wonderfully made tea that I set on her little table which I prop up. I ask her tentatively, "Is it good enough for your likings, your Highness?"

She glares at me. Then sips a little mouthful of tea, then, says, "Of course, Hanna. It's wonderful. And it's marvellous that the socks smell incredibly rosy. You are dismissed. And..."

I stop. I look at her. Did I do something wrong? I inch to her, and she is choking on something non-existing.

"Thank you," She chokes the words out. I look at her, trying not to spread my expression or my emotion publicly. She really is gorgeously fond of me! She actually said Thank you, which she has never said in more than ten years.

"I thank a billion for you too, my amazing Highness," I smile, this time, a real one, to her, and bow as deeply to my toes can say hello to my short fringe, and I skip to the large gold doors. I close the doors and sing quietly.