The girl, the young princess, was four. Her hair hung in beautiful golden locks around her face, and her bright blue eyes were glowing with a childish light. Her flowing blue dress swirling around her feet, she ran up to her mother, Isabel, who was engaged in a conversation with the maid, Cecilia.
“Mommy!” the girl cried, jumping into her mother’s open arms. Isabel continued talking to Cecelia. “Mommy!” The princess tugged on one of the blonde curls that had come loose from Isabel’s bun.
Cecilia smiled at the girl, and motioned for Isabel to pay attention to her. A boy with dark hair and deep blue eyes entered the hallway, and walked to Cecelia’s side. She put an arm around her son’s shoulders. He shrunk into her side.
“What, Mary?” her mother asked, smiling.
“Nicholas won’t play with me.” The girl pointed to the quiet boy standing beside Cecilia. She didn’t know how Nicholas was her son. Cecilia’s skin was a chocolate brown, while Nicholas was pale. And Cecilia had warm, brown eyes. Besides, Nicholas was too quiet to be Cecilia’s son. Cecilia was full of laughter and fun. Nicholas never had any fun.
Isabel and Cecilia laughed, while Nicholas shrunk further into his mother. He didn’t like attention.
“Mary, don’t bother the poor boy,” Isabel chided her daughter lightly.
Mary frowned. “He’s not poor, is he?”
Cecilia laughed again. “No, darlin’. And Nicholas will play with you, won’t you, honey?”
Nicholas said nothing, simply turning to bury his head into his mother’s apron.
“Oh, it’s all right, Cecilia,” Isabel said. “Mary can get along just fine by herself. Can’t you, Mary?”
“But, Mommy,” Mary whined. “Miss Cecilia said he could.”
“Nicholas is tired right now,” Isabel said patiently, winking at Nicholas when he peered out of his mother’s skirt at her. “Maybe later. Now run along.” She set Mary down, who proceeded to skip down the hall, not phased in the least by the conversation. Nicholas clung to his mother, not relaxing until the girl was out of sight.
Cecilia suddenly stiffened. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, bowing her head to Isabel, who stood up straighter, knowing who was coming. “Right away, ma’am.”
The maid ushered her son along with her down the hall as the king approached from behind Isabel.
He put his hands on her shoulders, and she turned around.
“George,” Isabel said, curtsying.
“Mary and you are expected at lunch in an hour,” the king said curtly. His eyes were blue, hard and cold, and his crown always rested on his close-cropped brown hair. Isabel felt like the world was closing in on her when she looked into his eyes.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” was her reply, with yet another curtsy as he walked away.
It took quite a bit of effort for her to put a smile back on her face when she went to go find her daughter to get ready for lunch.
Mary skipped all the way down the hall to her room, where she produced two, beautiful, porcelain dolls and started to play with them. Nicholas was never any fun to play with anyway, she told herself.
When her mother opened the door minutes later, the girl knew something was wrong, despite the smile on Isabel’s face. Mary’s eyebrows furrowed.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Mary,” Isabel said. “But you’ve got to get ready. You and I are going to a lunch with your father in one hour.”
The girl’s eyes brightened. These lunches and dinners were the only time she ever got to see her father. He was always so busy. “Can Nicholas come?”
Isabel relaxed slightly, the warmth returning to her face. “No. He’s going to eat dinner with his mother. Enough about Nicholas now, and let’s get you ready.”
For the next couple of hours, Mary was primped and readied from each strand of hair on her head to the tips of her toenails. Her servants dressed her in a lovely pink silk dress and matching pink ballet flats.
When finally allowed to look in the mirror, Mary giggled with delight, as she always did, and the women standing around her smiled fondly. Catrina took Mary’s hand and led her outside the room where Isabel was waiting.
Mary smiled up at her mother. “Mommy, it’s so pretty!” She performed a little twirl, giggling again as she did so. Isabel laughed lightly with her daughter and, thanking Catrina, led Mary down the hall to the dining room.
When they arrived, right on time, Mary’s father was already seated.
“Father,” Mary said, curtsying politely. She knew, even at the young age of four, that her father was different from her mother, and that she should not call him “daddy” or “dad.” He barely allowed her to call Isabel mommy.
“Mary.” The King’s voice was stiffly formal. Mary loved him, she did, but she hated how he never seemed to love her or her mother. He was never anything but stiff and formal. And part of her absolutely hated that.
Mary suppressed a sigh, but managed to keep her smile plastered on her face. After all, the food was coming soon and it would be lovely. More lovely, even, than the beautiful dress Catrina and the others had put her in.
