I sing for a while, so Francesca doesn't interrupt me. But I still cannot succeed with my deed. No matter how much I try, I do not manage to liquescent the tiny fragments of ice. So I dry myself and shut the heavy door behind me, hoping that Francesca will be too busy with my procession, and won't go back into the lavatory anytime soon.
'I'm so sorry, I didn't hear your call,' she looks guilty for not taking care of me.
'I didn't,' I say sharply. Sometimes, it is utterly aggravating when they treat me like a baby.
'Your mother wants you to wear one of her dresses to the Grand Event,' she announces as we walk back to my changing-chambers.
'Excuse me?'
'I placed it in here last night.' She opens the curtains of the compartment where all my dresses used to hang in a systematic order of colours, sizes, styles and lengths. Francesca is a hypochondriac. Now there is only one hideous creation of fluff and a suspiciously uncomfortable girdle, enwrapped with a black and red material.
'I'm meant to wear that?' I scowl.
'Isn't it lovely?'
'Is that a rhetorical question, or are you attempting to change my mind?'
'No, Highness, I apologize.'
'It is appalling,' I profess.
'Perhaps if we find some jewellery to suit your taste.'
'Only if the jewellery has some enchantment to convert this dress into something less whorish.'
'Might I convey a message to your mother and see if we may change the outfit?'
'No, not at all.' My mother can be a worse punisher then father when she doesn't get her way. 'This will do,' I agree. Francesca curtsies. Her bun is so tight I could count the collection of blue veins popping out of her pastel forehead.
'You must be quite excited,' she says.
'Yes, very.'
'And, we are all indebted to you Princess.'
'Not at all, I'm only doing my duty,' I say.
'I understand and I thank you.'
'Of course.'
'Are you very nervous?' she carries on.
'Perhaps a little,' I say.
'But I doubt that it'll be hard marrying Prince Rieda.'
'Why?' I ask her, curious.
'Well,' she smiles, 'the courtiers at court won't stop raving about his striking face.'
'Yes, of course, he is quite handsome,' I acknowledge, but I don't feel any joy in regards to Francesca's recollection of my fiancé. Every year they hang a new painting of Prince Rieda in my bedroom. There are nineteen in total. And I admit that he is as beautiful as they say. Blue eyes to match mine, pale skin, thick black hair. He grew up in every portrait, as his clothes became grander along with his maturing body. Some days I stare at him for hours, imagining what kind of life he leads. Father did not request a virgin boy for me; instead he preferred to acquire his father's army. So both sides will finally be rewarded appropriately. However, I cannot stop feeling resentful that he was born with the freedom that I did not have. And I'm struggling to understand why I should feel a smidge of excitement about marrying a foreigner. A stranger.
Might my functioning brain be able to commit my life to eighty years, or more, of marital boredom?
Beauty is an essence for many, but how long will his exterior keep me interested if he has no substance?
