Seven Deadly Sons

Melanie. (19)

My dress is, quite frankly, disgusting.

I've worn better scraps at the orphanage.

The man, now introduced to me as the Prince of Sloth, handed me the revolting thing after digging around in the wardrobe, snagging it on the split wood and tearing a slit into the crumpled mess.

Looking at the golden doors in front of me now, I'd much rather be back in that room with the prince. I had never been announced to a crowd before — although, my birthright would have, should have meant I had been — and now my apprehension loomed. What if they all laughed at me like the prince had?

I had no skills in beauty, and had sat in front of the stunning vanity for ages before I picked up one of the brushes. Not knowing what else to do, I powdered my whole face and smudged a stick of red over my eyelids.

When I had emerged from my bedroom wearing both the violet monstrosity and new look, the prince had laughed so profoundly I'd tried to walk straight back in.

Grabbing my elbow, he had squeezed and dug his nails into the soft inside, seething "If you go back in there, I'll make sure you never come out again." Then, smoothing down his own crinkled look, had said: "Let's be leaving."

"We're late! Well, I'm always late, but it's terribly offensive for you to go so late." He had continued whilst dragging me down the hall, in the direction of the ladies room I had previously stumbled on. I'd kept my mouth shut. Better to do that than lose my tongue.

"Please turn your attention, esteemed guests! The Lord his high holiness, the Prince of Sloth; lethargy and laziness in all his glory — Prince Kismet." The crowd claps politely, but distractedly.

"And his guest..." he looks at his rolled list then back to me, confused. Awkwardly, he re-scrolls his list and turns away. He doesn't announce me.

I do notice that from the corner of his eye as he stands stoic by the door, he looks at my outfit in disgust.

I find myself impossibly embarrassed that someone - technically lower - than me from a hierarchical perspective is being so rude and disrespectful. I keep catching myself like this, slipping back into the person I was raised to be. All those lessons at finishing school are coming back in dribs and drabs, I wonder if I'll be able to show off my dinner etiquette, I do hope I remember...

Turning around to ask the prince just that, I open my mouth and only get out a vague "Uh," before I see - nothing at all.

The prince is already gone. As I wander down the stairs as prettily as I can manage in these strange high shoes, I teeter back and forth as I desperately try to hide the rip in my skirts. It is so unseemly for a lady - you're not a lady! I scold myself again. I overhear an actual lady whisper that the prince ditched me to go off and be announced again with his parents; the king and queen.

Despite myself; all my embarrassment and fear for the trial ahead —if I ever end up attending —, I'm excited to see the King and Queen of England. I'd never gossiped about them before like other girls had in towns I had passed through, but I did know they were profound in their beauty.

Or, so they were rumoured.

I try my hardest to fit in; whilst also standing upright, gently holding a very sticky champagne flute and getting a good look at the royals all together. I only manage one of those things, and even that's looking likely to fail soon as the glass literally starts to melt into my fingers — what on earth is this made from?

I fail to even hear the introductions over the violin blaring in my earhole, the musician smiles viciously after I glared at him several times, so much so that I consider throwing the disgusting sticky drink at him. I don't succeed at seeing any of them either, the guests here so tall — even with my ridiculous shoes on — that it's like being surrounded by the fir trees back home, by the sea.