A Princess’s Choice

I love my dad, the king. And I love my mom, the queen. They are so kind and full of love. They are good people. I know that they're good people. So why are all these people against them?

I run through the greenery of the vast, stretching lawn, sunlight painting the world in front of me in bright colours. 

"I'm going to get you!" Papa exclaims, putting fake menace into his soft voice. He is so funny. I scream in excitement. 

"You can never catch me, Papa!" I yell back at him, my shining blonde curls blowing in my face, my hands lifting the skirt of my colourful, layered dress. 

I keep running through the palace grounds. It's a rather beautiful palace. With neatly manicured lawns, citrus fruit trees growing all around, huge, gilded fountains scattered all around, neatly trimmed hedge sculptures basking under the trees, and marble pillars holding up a roof over the vast stone walkways. 

There is a flower garden not too far from here. And Papa got it commissioned just especially for me. It's my favourite place to go. I love sitting on the carved marble benches and looking at all the pretty flowers and the butterflies and birds kept in by the fine mesh net around the place. 

Papa is so nice to me. He gets me everything I want. All the clothes and toys and treats. And even the bigger things, like the flower garden. He throws special parties just for me, his princess, and he invites all the nobles from the whole kingdom to come. 

Right now Papa is pretending to be a horrible monster, and he is chasing me through the grounds. I am running from him, and it's the perfect thing to do on a beautiful summer day like today. 

I run faster as he is gaining ground on me. 

"Oh no you don't!" I shout. 

"Oh yes I do!" He shouts back, keeping a mirthful growl in his voice. "I've almost got you!" 

I run into a heavily carved, painted gazebo made out of blackwood. The sloping roof is lined with birdcages made of fine gold, each housing an exotic bird with clipped wings. 

"You can't get me here, monster! This place is enchanted to keep you out!" 

Papa stops in his tracks and hits the palm of his hand to his face. His dark polished shoes shine in stark contrast to the gay grass. And he suppresses a smile, which is only visible in his eyes. 

"Whatever shall I do!" He exclaims, prowling around the wide gazebo. "However shall I capture the beautiful Princess and take her to my lair?" 

"You never can!" I laugh at him. "I will be free! Now go away! Get lost you foul fiend!" 

"I will not give up so easily! I will find a way to break your wards, and I will return again to make you mine! You will become mine! Whether you like it or not!" 

"No! I will always find ways to defeat you!" 

He stalks away in exaggerated motions and I run in the other direction, on the hunt for something with which to defeat him with. I pass fountains and statues, and I pass by gardeners busy keeping the grass and the hedges trimmed. I pass by servants sweeping the walkway and I pass by a servant polishing a gazebo. I eventually find bright berries growing on a low hedge lining a walkway. I take handfuls of them and hide them in my purse. These would do. 

I walk back to the gazebo. And I wait. 

I see Papa coming back with an ivory cane, which he probably had a servant go and fetch for him. 

"Are you ready for your final demise, beautiful Princess?" 

"It is you who must be ready for yours, foul fiend!" I smirk at him and he smirks back. A sparkly, flighting thing, just the faintest bit dark around the edges. 

"I have brought with me a spell stick, that can undo the most powerful of protection enchantments. When I wave it, and speak the magic words, your protection will dissolve and so will your chances of remaining free. What say you now, fair and lovely Princess? However will you defeat my scheme?" 

"I will easily defeat you! You need only to wait and see! You will sow the seeds of your own demise!" My voice rings confident and clear and jubilantly light, the drama happening around me making my heart swell with delight. 

I feel so bright and joyous here in the garden, with my father, playing games that rouse my imagination and my heart. I know that this is what happiness is. This is what the meaning of life is. This is what the meaning of love is. This is love, right here, right now, out in the garden, between a daughter and her father. 

He raises his cane, and declares that he will have me soon. 

"By the witch's brew and the wolf's bane. By the new moon and the joy of pain. By the dark night and the fires bright. Poison and potion, lightning and thunder, bring down the spells that keep her from harm. Lie and lunacy, swell and swelter, break the enchantments and break all the charms." 

I scream as he finishes saying his incantation, pretending that the gazebo walls are breaking all around me. I double over myself, falling on the floor, my thick dress protecting me from any pain. 

Papa strides towards me, slowly and confidently, grinning widely, eyes sparkling with victory. But I will not give him his victory. I spring up and start running in the opposite direction. 

"You can't get me!" I laugh at him, the lushness of the gardens passing by around me. 

I hide behind the large stone figure of an angel dressed in battle armour with wide, stretched-out wings flaked in gold. The angel has rosy cheeks and eyes made of blue gemstones. Her bronze armour gleams in the sun and her bright red dress underneath it falls to her calves. She's almost as pretty as me. Almost. Papa says that I am the prettiest girl of them all. 

I peak out from behind the pedestal of the statue and see papa approaching, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with colour. I throw a handful of berries at him and they hit him square in the chest, on his creamy white shirt filled with curling ivory patterns. 

"I have thrown a potion of destruction at you!" I declare. "And now you will dissolve to ash!" 

He screams in fake agony, throwing his arms up into the air, coming down to his knees. 

"See!" I yell, "You are dissolving!" 

"Foolish girl," he begins, rising back to his feet, "I am far too powerful for a mere potion to destroy me!" He springs after me and I run away from him, squealing. He makes pained sounds, as if he is hurt from the potion. And I know that they did something to him. I just need to make them more powerful. 

I hide behind a fountain, that has colourful little fishes swimming around the water. The fountainhead is a beautiful swan streaked with silver, with black at the tips of its wings, raising its graceful neck high. I peak around. Papa is nowhere here. Perfect.

I stand up and I dip the berries in my purse in water. And I put them back into my purse. I stroke the fishes for a few moments, their smooth scales hard against my fingers. Then I crouch down in anticipation. 

Papa strolls up near my fountain. He scans all around the garden for any sign of me. But of course he doesn't see me. Not yet. 

"Oh little Princess!" He calls out. "Come out, come out wherever you are!" 

I spring up and throw my berries at him. 

"You fool!" I pronounce, "These potions have been dipped in the waters of power! They have the ultimate power! They can defeat you easily!"

He screams in agony and falls to the ground. There he writhes in pain for a long time, horrible, wretched sounds coming out of his throat. I stand over him, and I look at him, and I laugh, victory painted all over my delicate features. 

"You have defeated me!" He exclaims. "You have defeated me fair and square. Please, show mercy! Please let me go! I promise that I will not chase you any longer!" 

I think about that for a long while, my thumb and forefinger wrapped around my chin. 

"Okay," I finally reply. "But you better not come after me again. I have more of those potions in my purse." I pat my light green purse covered in satin ribbons and white lace. 

"I promise," Papa begs. "I promise I will leave you alone." 

"Fine." I stroll through the gardens, looking for anything to use as an antidote. I see a couple of flower petals, pink and delicate, sitting under a rose bush. I guess the servants haven't gotten a chance to take these away. Perfect. This is my chance. 

I take them and run to my Papa, and hold them up above his writhing body. I let them flutter down from my hands and land on his side.

"There," I state declaratively. "You're cured." 

"Thank you so much, fair Princess. However can I repay you?" The gratitude in his voice is overexaggerated and his eyes shine. 

"Maybe with a new dress?" I offer mischeviously. 

"Whatever the Princess wants." He gets up and he pinches my cheeks. "After all, she is such a beautiful young girl." 

"Papa!" I notice, "Your shirt. It's stained!" I point to the faint red berry stains that dust his front. 

"Oh don't worry about it," he reassures. "The washers will wash it away. And if they can't do that properly, it'll be time to get a new shirt. And new washers. I've been thinking of getting a new shirt." 

We walk hand-in-hand the long distance back to the castle. 

I get ready for dinner, telling my personal servants to change my light-coloured dress into something more appropriate for the evening. They are silent as they take off my dress in parts and take the ribbons out of my golden locks. They do my hair in a complicated style with many braids and they put me in a gown of deep royal blue and shining gold. They slip on gold slippers, with just a slight heel, and give me sapphire earrings and a bracelet studded with matching gems. 

I am watching them in the spotless, perfectly-shining mirror the whole time. I am watching myself get prettier and prettier. Though I am already so pretty to begin with. I watch all the beautiful blue and gold shining upon me. I watch my golden hair being sculpted and perfected. I smile. 

I go down to dinner, and meet my Papa and Mama there. Papa is wearing a dark red jacket trimmed with rich fur over a blindingly white shirt. The jacket has accents of gold. And his shirt has silver buttons. My Mama is wearing a dress made of very many frills, of dark magenta and light yellow. Her bodice is bright magenta with intricate yellow patterns. And her hair is piled high over her crown. 

"Hi Mama. Hi Papa." My voice is bright and calm. 

"Hi baby," Mama coos at me. "How has your day been? I was so busy preparing for the upcoming banquet, I barely saw you." 

"Oh I had a great day, Mama. Me and Papa were playing in the garden." 

"Yes. It was really lovely playing with little Angelina. We had such a great time." 

The servants bring us our first course, roasted dove breasts in thick gravy, with crisp vegetables on the side. Papa gives me the biggest piece on the platter and I smile at him.

"What was it like preparing for the banquet?" I ask Mama, voice laden with bright curiosity. She smiles in my direction, her calm face looking like gold in the light of the many torches. 

"Oh it was very hectic. I had to give instructions to all the servants. They were unruly and did not want to follow instructions. It was such a task to get them all under control." 

"I'm sure you did an amazing job," Papa tells her, smiling. "You are the best at commanding that there ever was. The best at organizing too. I am beyond lucky to have you as my queen." 

"Oh say nothing of it." My mother blushes a little bit, her eyes sparkling as she looks over to my father. "You are such a flatterer." 

"I only tell the truth my Queen. Nobody can give orders the way that you can. No-one is as fit you rule as you." Papa's voice is warm and fond. 

"Oh stop it, you!" She swats her embroidered napkin at him playfully. I smile and look up at the painted sunset clouds stretched out across the ceiling of the large dining room. I look around at the carved scenes painted on the walls. I look at the ornate golden candlesticks spread out across the middle of the table. I look at the vases of flowers. At the embroidered tablecloth. And I look at my Mama and Papa. 

"Anyways, I'm glad I'll be able to relax and play with Angelina this evening." Mama's voice is light and airy. "You are in charge of writing the speech and getting all the invitations sent for the banquet." 

"That I am. You have the good job this evening. It's so wonderful spending time with Angelina. She's a little ray of sunshine."

"Papa!" 

"You are, sweetheart. Is a man not allowed to tell the truth? First my wife, then you. First my Queen, then my Princess. Is no-one on my side?" He feigns offence. 

"You know what I mean Papa. Don't be such a flatterer."

"I am wounded!" My father clutches his chest as if he has been struck by an arrow. 

It is then that the servants bring in the second course of the meal. A smoked fish drenched in herbal sauces and lime. One servant, a young-looking woman, lets go of her side of the platter a little too early. She catches it quickly, but some of the food falls a bit to the side. 

"Be more careful, girl!" My father roars harshly. "We don't pay you to daydream and spill everything!" His eyes are hard with disgust. 

"Sorry, your majesty." The young woman's voice is meek. "I swear I won't do it again!"

"You better not! If you know what's good for you." There is true menace laced into his biting words now. 

"Yes, your majesty." 

"Now go! Get out of my sight!" My father barks his orders, and the girl hurries away. 

My Papa is a bit harsh with the servants. I know that he is. But that's only because he needs to keep them in line. They need to be given their orders. And they need to know to obey them. 

Really it all makes sense. 

"Anyways, my dear ladies," his voice is full of warmth as he turns back to us, "what are your plans for this evening, when I will be so busy at work?" 

"I was thinking we might go through my old collection of doll clothes, and see if there are any Angelina would like for her dolls, if she wants to do that." 

"Oh yes, Mama! That will be so fun!" 

"That sure does sound very fun," Papa agrees. 

"Where are they, Mama?" 

"Oh, they're stored in a big chest in one of my storage rooms, little rose. I'll get one of the servants to bring them out for you." 

"That's perfect. I'll bring my dolls. And then we can decide which clothes are for which doll." 

"That sounds like a marvellous idea, little rose," Mama chimes. 

"What are the dresses like?" I ask her.

"Oh they're just like real life dresses for real life girls," she answers. 

"Oh how lovely!" Papa chimes in. "Then all of Angelina's little dollies can feel like they're real girls." 

"They'll be very pretty," I tell him. 

"But not as pretty as you," he quips. 

"Papa!" I exclaim, "You really have no shame!" 

"She's right, you know," Mama adds in. "You don't have the slightest bit of shame at all." 

"What use us there in having shame?" He retorts. "I'd rather just say how I am feeling. 

"Well you better be more well-behaved during the banquet," Mama presses. 

"I will be, I will be, you don't have to worry." 

"I am indeed worried, Papa. You're never well-behaved." 

"What are we going to do with him?" Mama asks me in fake exasperation. 

"We have to lock him up and put him in the dungeon," I state plainly. 

Everyone bursts into roaring laughter at this, and it lasts until the servants bring us out next course, a thick, creamy soup. It tastes warm and savoury in my mouth. I eat until I am full, but I leave enough space for desert. 

We keep talking all the way through the meal. Talking and joking and laughing about everything and about nothing. I really love my family. And I love it when we are all together, sharing in each other's company, resting in each other's mirth. It really makes me feel whole inside. And it makes me feel as if everything is right in the world. 

Actually, I don't care if everything is right in the world or not. Everything is right in my world. 

It's sweet. As sweet as the raspberry creme brûlée that is our main course of desert. 

�"�"�"

I wake up and stretch out in my four-poster, king-sized bed, laden with silk sheets and a mattress of soft down feathers. I gaze out the window at the brightness that coats the whole world. And I just lay there, under the translucent blue curtains of my bed, looking at everything. 

I suddenly remember that today is the day when I will get my new dresses for the upcoming banquet! I gasp in excitement and pull myself up off the bed. I call for my servants, and they tie my bed curtains to the bedposts, and they help me down. 

I walk into my closet room, where there are rows and rows and rows of dresses hanging from ebony racks, all sorted by colour. I decide to put on a soft, cornflower blue satin dress that has ivory white fabric that drapes over my hips and a low trimming of ivory blue. The sleeves are ruffled and reach halfway down my upper arm and the neckline is ruffled and cut as a square. 

My servants get me out of my silk nightgown and bathe me, scrubbing me down until I am pink and glowing. They soak my body with oils and perfumes. I watch them work, thinking my own thoughts. As always, they are perfectly silent. They wash my hair, first with soap and then with herbal potions to keep it soft and silky and shiny. They brush my hair with a fine-toothed comb dipped in special hair oil. And they rub my nails with special oil. 

Once I am shining under the morning light, they layer on the many layers of my underclothes and they place me in my chosen gown for the morning. Then I look at myself in the large, full-length mirror and I am awed by my own beauty. I am awed at how good the light blue looks on me. I am awed at how perfectly it brings out my eyes. I made a terrific decision. 

I look through the many pieces of jewelry in fine glass boxes in my jewelry room and I pick out the pieces I want. I choose a set of necklaces and bracelets made up of many fine silver chains with silver chains hanging off of the main loop, topped with light blue sapphire.

They do my hair, and I am ready to go down to breakfast. 

Breakfast is a lighthearted affair, and the excitement is tangible in the air. We all are looking forwards to what we can buy and how they will look on us and what an impression they will make at the banquet. It's rare that I ever see my parents this excited. Happy, sure, I see them happy all the time. But it's only on occasion that they look forwards to things so much. 

We get into the spacious blackwood carriage and we sink into the plush seats. 

"I love almost nothing more than to take my two ladies out shopping for new dresses," Papa tells us. 

"And I love almost nothing more than shopping for new dresses!" I tell him. 

"I can think of a few things you love more," Mama tells me. 

"Like what, Mama?" 

"Oh I don't know. Seeing your friends at the banquet." The banquet! She's right. I'll get to see my friends again after a number of weeks! I don't get to see my friends often, and so all the time spent with them is a treasure. 

"I can't wait to see them," I tell my parents. "I bet you both cannot wait to see your friends either." 

"Oh, friendship when you're an adult is not nearly as fun as friendship when you're a child," Papa tells me. "But still, it will be lovely seeing them all again. It's always entertaining to have new people to talk to." 

"It is, isn't it?" Mama agrees. "You get to look into another life that is different from your own." 

"Wow, that's really insightful, Mama." 

"Aww thanks, baby." 

"Don't mention it Mama." 

"Averill and Stacia will be there," Papa tells me.

"Aww that's amazing! I haven't seen them in months!" 

"I'm glad you get to see them again." Papa smiles. "I'm glad you get to see all of your friends again." 

"I'm glad too," I agree. 

"I love it when you're happy," Mama coos. "My whole heart lights up inside."

"Oh yes," Papa agrees, "I feel the same way. It's as if the whole purpose of my entire life is to make you happy. You and your Mama."

"Aww thanks, Mama and Papa," I gush, "You guys are too sweet." 

"Well what is life of you can't dote on your little one?" Mama asks rhetorically. 

"Exactly," Papa echoes, "what is the point of life without you? What is the point of life without both of you?" 

"You make things bright, and shiny, and beautiful," Mama tells me. 

"You make me feel bright and shiny and beautiful," Papa adds. 

"So what are you going to be doing during the banquet, little one?" Mama asks. 

"Oh, I'll probably be showing all me new toys to my friends. And then we'll probably go play with them out in the garden." 

"That's a great idea," Papa tells me. "The garden will be decorated with many coloured torches so you guys will be able to play into the night." 

"Make sure you take them into the castle too," Mama suggests, "you'll want to show them all the new additions."

"Oh yes. There is a lot to show them inside the palace as well." My voice is merry. 

"You'll have plenty of time to show them everything, don't worry," Papa reassures. "The banquet will be going on for three days after all." 

"I can tell you, the servants were not pleased with having to clean the whole palace." Mama's voice carries a hint of heaviness to it. 

"Who cares what the servants think?" Papa's question is rhetorical. "The guests will love the banquet." 

"Oh they sure will," I agree. "My friends will be so impressed." 

"Well you better make sure to buy the prettiest dresses possible," Papa advises me, "then they'll be doubly impressed."

"Oh our little Angelina looks impressive no matter what she wears," Mama contends. 

"Of course she does," Papa agrees. "It's just that, a lovely sculpture looks even lovelier with good paint."

"I'm not a sculpture, Papa!" I laugh. 

"Of course you're not. You're our lovely little girl. It's just a metaphor." 

"You're not as good at metaphors as you think you are." We all laugh at Mama's words. 

"I agree, I'm not. But at least I try." Papa's voice is mirthful. 

We sit in silence for a little bit after that, looking out at the beautiful countryside and all the pretty estates and the farm fields. 

Eventually we near the city. I know because I can feel the road becoming smoother underneath the carriage. My Papa pulls down the curtains of the carriage windows so that I can't see outside anymore. 

"Why did you do that, Papa?" 

"You know we can't keep the curtains up when we're in the bad part of the city, sweetheart."

"But I want to see it." 

"There's really nothing to see. Only little wooden buildings and dirty, filthy streets. You're not missing out on anything. Besides, we can talk. Don't you want to talk?" 

"Sure I do." I want to see the forbidden part of the city, but I know that there is no winning this argument. Papa and Mama will keep the curtains down and that will be that. 

And so we do talk. We talk about the latest book I was reading, and the story that it told. It was a fantastical story, full of magic and dragons and brave knights who saved the day. I love brave knights who save the day. Papa loves brave knights who save the day too. But Mama prefers wizards who cast all sorts of spells.

We talk about the clever, brave, beautiful princesses who need to be rescued from wicked witches or trolls or ogres. We talk about how hard it must be for them to leave their lives of luxury and be trapped by the villains. Papa tells me that he hopes that I'm never in danger and in need of rescuing. I laugh and tell him that these stories are not real, and I won't have to worry. Mama tells me that even if they were real, she wouldn't be worried. I'm far too smart to get captured. 

We keep talking until Papa lets me put the curtains up again, and I look at the regal stone buildings lining the streets with fascination. The city is so interesting. 

Finally we get to the dress shop and enter it's spacious confines. It's so large. It's like a palace. Everywhere I turn, there are dresses and dresses and dresses and dresses. They are arranged by size and style and colour and cut. There are mannequins displaying different voluptuous dresses. There are racks all around. 

I immediately run to the girls' section, and I turn around to see that Mama and Papa did not follow me. Oh well. They're probably looking for their own clothes. I'll look for mine. We always tend to get seperated in dress shops. 

I comb through the inventories displayed in the shop, looking over dress after dress after dress after dress. There is so much incredible variety. It astounds and amazes me. But I still can't find any that really speak to me. I can't find any that make me want to just bring them and take them home. 

Well there is no rush. We'll be eating our food at a restaurant in the city. We have all day to shop for clothes. We don't have to find anything right away. I can just keep looking through the inventory. And so I do. 

I get absolutely lost in it, in all the pretty colours and patterns and designs and cuts and frills and laces and tassels and ribbons. And I am unsure of how much time has passed. I feel like I'm in a different world. 

Eventually a low chanting sound buzzes in my ears. I look up from the dress I'm admiring, look around the shop. I see nothing amiss, but I hear the noise still. Like muddled voices, all speaking at the same time. All speaking together. 

I walk to the window of the shop. And outside I am met with a scene the likes of which I have never seen before. 

The streets are teeming with people. People in ragged, worn-down clothes. People who look ugly, who look angry, who look terrified and fearless. They are all crowded together, crammed in the wide street so that in all its wideness it still looks small. They just, they just keep coming and coming and coming. 

Next to the glass of the window, I can hear their chanting better than I could in the middle of the shop. But it still comes muffled. It still comes muted. 

"Give us bread and give us beans! Give us rest and give us peace! Give us bread and give us beans! Give us rest and give us peace!" They say this over and over, shout it as if their lives depend upon it. What a strange thing to be saying. What a strange way to by saying it. I wonder why they are chanting such bizarre poetry. 

I have to learn more. 

I take off my dress, unlacing it all by myself and letting it stay there on the floor. In my white underdress that hangs loose against my legs, I look a lot more like the people outside. But still, there is a vast difference between myself and them. A difference that is obvious. I take my jewelry off and I open the window. I climb up and slip outside. 

A few heads turn towards me. Strange, ugly heads. Strange, angry heads. But mostly the people keep walking and chanting. In my infinite curiosity, I walk along with them, chanting so that I do not get noticed. 

The chant changes to a different poem about a minute after I get there. 

"Stop killing us! Stop enslaving us! Stop threatening us! Stop starving us! Stop killing us! Stop enslaving is! Stop threatening us! Stop starving us!" This is an even more bizarre thing to be chanting. Who is killing who? Why? This is real life, not a book. Stuff like this doesn't happen. 

But nonetheless I walk on, determined to get to the bottom of whatever this bizarre march is. 

The chant then changes again. 

"We are not your subjects! We are not your slaves! We will show defiance! We won't let you get your way!" Who are they yelling at? 

Well whoever it is, their anger is overwhelmingly tangible, as if it's something you can reach out and touch. Like it's something you can feel in the air all around you as you walk through it. Like it's something that impresses upon you, holding on and never wanting to let go. I have never seen such anger. Not really. I have never seen anything like this at all. 

I chant alongside everyone. And I feel the anger swelling up inside of me, I feel it moving through me. I feel it changing something within me. Something I cannot name. Something I cannot place. Something I doubt I'll ever understand. But whatever it is, I can tell that it has changed. Maybe not permanently, but for this moment right now it has definitely changed. 

"Down with the powers that be! Down with the powers that be! We want equality! We want equality! Down with the powers that be! Down with the powers that be! We want equality! We want equality!" I find myself calling out this new chant, this new chant that is just as strange as all the others. But this strangeness feels almost natural on my tongue now. As if it was always meant to be there. 

Everyone is yelling at the same time. Not exactly at the same time. But in such a way that it feels like it's the same time. I have never heard anything like this before. It's almost like a song but it's not at all like any of the songs I have heard in my lifetime. It's musical. Lyrical. But it's not any of those things. It's power seems to come from a source undefined, a source unnameable. Or at least, I cannot name it. 

Everyone looks invigorated, like they could fight an entire army and not become tired. Everyone looks absolutely exhausted, as if right at this very moment they could drop down dead. It's a strange sort of contrast. One which I never thought possible. But one which I am seeing right in front of my eyes. 

And they are ugly, so ugly. Their skin is ugly, their hair is ugly, their clothes are ugly. But even amidst all this ugliness there is a strange sort of beauty. There is a strange sort of awe-strikingness. 

We keep walking until we reach a large building that stretches up to the sky. It is made entirely out of marble and there are statues carved on its front. On its front there are also large steps. We stop just before the steps, the front edges of the crowd meeting the marble. 

From the crowd a young woman steps forwards, and strides purposefully up the stairs. Standing about a meter taller than she would be normally, she looks out into the crowd. And there is something fierce in her eyes. And something fiercely protective. I would almost call it loving, but I have never seen any love of such a fierce and raging type. I have never seen a face as hers. 

Someone comes up the stairs and hands the young woman - or maybe she's a girl - a metallic megaphone that looks bent and beaten up, completely lacking lustre. She takes it and she addresses the crowd. 

"Dear friends and companions," her voice is strained, "glory be to this protest and glory be to this day. We are gathered here today to stand up to the lords and the nobles and the pathetic b*****d king who hides away in his castle. We are gathered here today to show them that we are not the docile subservient subjects they want us to be!" 

The crowd cheers. And I cheer too, so that I do not seem out of place. But my mind revolts. She's cussing out the king. My father is the king. My father is a good, nice man. Why is she cussing him out? Why is she slandering him? I decide right then and there that I do not like her. 

But my curiosity keeps me glued right there under the harsh sun in the crowded streets, wanting to know what happens next. 

"Thank you for riding up with us!" The woman declares to the crowds. "For our first speaker today, we present Marki the street urchin!" 

The crowd cheers again, a pathetic, breaking sort of cheer, as a man in ragged clothing that is far too big for him takes the stage. He takes the megaphone and the woman leaves. He has aching, hollow eyes. And just looking at his eyes makes me shiver. They make me want to both recoil and come closer. They pierce my heart.

"Hello, comrades!" The man's voice is equally hollow and haunting. "I'm sure everyone who lives in the city, who lives in the slums, has seen people like me. I am sure you have seen people who have nothing and are denied everything. Many of you have even passed your kindness and coin our way, even though your own children are hungry and cold in their broken-down one-room shacks. 

"But you know who never gives of any generosity? You know who has no generosity to give? The royals and nobles in their huge mansions and palaces! The people who eat roast pork and pudding and cake every day! The people who have more than enough to spare, more than enough to share, but they do not give any of it! They live in their mansions gilded in gold while people starve to death and freeze of cold on the streets. While people die of preventable and curable sicknesses! While people have less than nothing!" 

The people around me burst into cheers again, a deafening sound even though they are not very loud. A sound that grates the strings of my heart. Leaves me hanging onto the edges of my mind, of my knowledge, of my belief. 

"It's painful," the man continues, "starving every day on the streets, under the weather. It is beyond painful. It is beyond description. Beyond imagination. The violence of my life is overwhelming. But it's only a single one of the many types of violence my people are forced to contend with in this world!"

There is cheering all around me. All desperation and power. It terrifies me. The man terrifies me. All these people, crowded together, they all terrify me. But I do not let any of them know it. I keep on cheering with all the rest. And I can feel eyes trailing over me. But I do not think they think much of my presence here. 

"But you know who does not care?" The man shouts out after the crowd is done screaming, "Do you know who does not care about the violence and the suffering our people are facing? The king! The one who thinks that he is so much better than us and we are worms to be crushed underfoot!" The crowd cheers again and the woman from before trades places with the man. 

"Fellows," she shouts into her instrument, "can we have another round of applause for Marki!" The people cheer. "And now," she begins, after the cheering dies down, "I would love to announce to you our next speaker, Aria the ex-peasant!" 

Another woman takes the stage, older than the last one. She had something tired amidst her eyes. Something terrified. Something terrifying. There is something both desolate and radiant in the way that she holds herself. And she vaguely reminds me of the queens in my stories. Only vaguely though, as her clothes are old and worn and her face is streaked with sweat. 

"Dear friends!" She calls into the megaphone, "thank you for joining us today! I am here to talk about the horrific state of the farmers and growers in the kingdom! I was a peasant for many a year before having to move to the city in order to feed my growing family. I now work in a workshop. But before that I worked on a farm in the countryside.

"Now let me tell you," she continues, "the life of a peasant is an incredibly hard one. We have to work, we have to toil in the fields, from sunup to sundown every single day. It is exhausting. And we are hungry. And we feel like slaves. We feel like slaves because we are slaves. We are, all of us here and all of us beyond, slaves to the powers that be!" 

The people of the crowd shout their cheers. And I cheer along with them. Because I have to. I do not know why I have to. I do not know why I am glued here to my spot. But I am. Something with the force of a thousand suns is keeping me here and I can't leave. 

"But you know what's worse?" The woman continues, "We are understaffed. We work so hard, inhumanly hard, like animals, from dawn to dusk but there still isn't enough of us to keep this country fed! Our crops are dry and under watered. They are overrun by pests. They are choked by weeds. All because of the powers that be who do not pay enough for good, fully-staffed, healthy farms!" 

They shout their cheers again. And I cheer. And for the smallest, briefest second I feel like I am one of them. Like I am cheering alongside them. And it feels bright just as much as it feels rough. I try to grasp onto the feeling but it slips away from me and I am left there again, an alien, glued to the spot. 

"The farmers feed the kingdom!" The woman exclaims. "They are the very thing that keeps everyone alive! So do you not think that the king and his cronies would fund the farms better? But they do not! Because they do not care about the lives of anyone in the kingdom!" 

The crowd cheers and the woman steps down, doing a clumsy little curtesy as she does so. 

"Down with the king! Down with the king!" Everyone breaks out into this new, many-voiced, many-toned chant. I feel a deep, dark resentment in my heart towards all these people. None of them know the king. Not personally. Not like I know him. None of them know the way that he laughs or the softness in his eyes or the brightness of his smirk. They just want somewhere to direct their anger. 

Finally all the chanting dies down and the young woman speaks again. 

"Now let's hear it for Carro, the miner!" 

Amidst all the cheering and the energy, a desperate, weary sort of energy, another person steps up onto the stage made by the staircase. They are very strange. I cannot tell whether they are a man or a woman. The long shirt they're wearing is not really a tunic and not really a dress. But they take the stage anyways and I listen to what they have to say. Because I have to.

"Dear companions," he begins, "it is an honour to be here among you today. I come to you to express the pains and the strife of the miners, and to ask why the lords and ladies, and why the king, is forcing us to work so that they can have their riches." 

Cheers erupt all around me and I have a sour taste left in my mouth at all that is happening. I try to tell myself that I'm spying. That I'll tell my Papa this information so that he can deal with these rebels better. But I know that I am lying to myself. I know that I will not tell my Papa anything. I don't know why it is that I'm here. 

"Mining is horrible!" The strange person tells us. "It's dirty! It's degrading! It's dangerous! We have to stay there under the ground, in mine shafts that are are stuffy and difficult to breathe in. We have to bang and bang on our picks until our arms are aching and our joints are in agony. And still we have to work on. The work is maddening, repetitive, and unnatural. And even worse, all the vibrations from all that clanging metal make their way to our backs and leaves them sore and aching." 

The crowd grows rowdy again, voicing their rage and their discontent. And I mean, I can almost understand what they mean. A lot of people have tough lives. But they shouldn't be taking that out on an innocent person. They shouldn't be taking it out on my Papa. 

"But do you know what is worse?" The miner tells us. "It's horrifically dangerous. Rocks and dirt fall and they hit people square in the head. They bury them alive. Entire sections of the mine sometimes collapse, due to not having adequate supports and also due to the fact that working underground is undeniably dangerous." 

The crowd erupts around me again. The speaker waves at them to calm down. 

"It's dangerous. And they make us do it anyways. They make us go in there and die anyways. Do you know why they do it?" 

"Why?" A bunch of people call out, probably rhetorically. 

"Because," they continue, "the lords and ladies and all the fine, royal, rich people need us to give them jewels. They need jewels and they need energy for their overheated palaces and they make us go risk our lives, go sacrifice our lives to bring them that!" 

The crowd cheers again. And it's too much, it's all too much. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to feel. I only know that something is deeply not right here. Something is deeply not right. But what? What is it that is settling so unpleasantly in my heart? 

"My best friend died in the mines," the speaker continues, "he died and there was nothing I could do to save him. He died and so did everything he was, every joke, every smile, every word of comfort, every hope, every fear. And who do we have to blame?"

"The king!" The crowd shouts out. And they're not right. They're not. They're not. 

But it doesn't matter whether they're right or not because the miner steps down and the young woman from before steps up amidst the chanting. 

"My friends! My friends!" She calls out. "I know you are angry. But we have more speeches to get through. So please calm down!" 

They do. It takes a bit of a while, but they eventually do settle into silence. 

"Our next speaker is named Robin! And he will talk about the healthcare inequalities that exist in the kingdom!" 

The crowd roars to life again as this Robin man steps up. His eyes are filled with grief and heartache. And I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But I don't feel sorry for him. Not sorry at all. 

"Hello friends," his voice is surprisingly calm for someone with his eyes. "We are gathered here today to express our grievances to the king. I know, like all of you here, I have many grievances. But what I want to discuss with you is the inadequate state of the healthcare system in this kingdom."

The crowd roasts around me, though in my mind this man hasn't said anything of note yet. Well, whatever. I'll go along with the whims of this rabid, excitable crowd. 

"My sister," the man continues, sadness seeping into his voice, "had gotten sick with a dreadful sort of illness." He takes a moment to pause. "She had horrible cramps all along her belly and her chest would seize up and she couldn't eat any food, she would just throw it up. 

"I nursed her for weeks. I stayed there by her bedside whenever I was not working, giving her whatever I could and trying to make sure she stayed warm and drank water. I was desperate, hoping against hope that she would get better. And at first it seemed like she would get better. Like she would beat her pale illness. But she didn't get better. As the days got by, she only got worse. 

"It was then I knew that she needed to see a doctor. And I went to the doctors quarters of the city, with all the coin that we had saved up. I knocked on every door and begged each doctor to please show mercy, to please see my sister. But they all refused. I did not have enough coin. 

"But do you know who does have enough coin, always? Do you know who sees the doctor and gets medecine for every small cough, every little sniffle, every twisted ankle? The nobles. They hog all the medical staff and all the doctors and leave nothing for the rest of us." 

Around me the crowd is deafening. This is an unfair condemnation, I think. For the nobles have a right to have their medical needs looked at. And they have a right to take care of the medical needs of themselves and their families. Even if those are small things. The crowd should not be condemning us for that. 

"But do you know what's even worse?" The man asks. "The fact that even a couple of generations ago I would have been able to get treatment for my sister, for free. A couple of generations ago, our woods-spouses would be able to look at the people needing treatment and would be able to give them the herbs and poultices to cure them. But who waged war against the spouses of the woods? Who killed them all so that they couldn't pass on their knowledge? The royals!" 

"Down with the king!" The crowd chants again. And again, it's an unfair condemnation. The woods-spouses and their magic were dangerous. It was otherworldly. It was a threat to the kingdom and everything we held dear. They had to be dealt with.

"My sister was a kind and passionate and curious and radiant soul," the man speaks. "But what is the worst thing of all is that she is only one of many such souls, one of innumerable souls, whose radiance and glory was cut short due to the inequalities of the kingdom. We need justice. Justice for them all." The man steps down and the woman steps up as the crowd goes wild. Wild. I suppose they are like wild beasts. But still ... there is something about them. Something I cannot define. 

"Fellow comrades!" The woman declares when the crowd dies down, "for our final speaker today, we have the young Amilee, from the butchers' district!" 

The girl who steps up amidst the cheering cannot be any older than me. In fact, she looks a year or two younger. She's brave, for doing this. I do not know why I think that. 

"Hello everyone!" Her voice is far too dark for anyone of her age. But it's the voice she speaks with nonetheless. "I'm here to describe the death of my sibling, who I loved so much. He should still be here with us in this world, but he's not here. He's not here like so many other people who are not here. Do you know why he died?

"Because he stole from the Nobles. And he only stole a little bit. Only a few silver coins. So much that the nobles would not notice it was gone. But they did notice it. Because he couldn't run away fast enough. He wasn't sneaky enough. He tried his best but he got caught." 

She pauses for a while as the crowd cheers her on, giving her their support. I think it's right that her brother died. He was stealing. And stealing is bad. He has to get punished for that. He has to face the consequences. Well whatever though. What's done is done. And it's not my Papa's fault if the guards of the kingdom have to enforce the kingdom's laws. 

"I was there when he was killed," the girl finally gets out. "I had to watch it happen. It was horrifying. So horrifying. I get nightmares about it every night. The guards, they forced the whole neighbourhood to watch. The whole neighbourhood is full of people who love my sibling. They watched him grow up. They raised him. But they had to watch him die. 

"Do you know why he stole? Because all the people in our community were hungry. And we were cold. And we were cold and we were hungry. And my sibling, he wanted to help. He wanted to help our people. He wanted us to have more. He wanted us to have enough. And he wanted us to be well. 

"He thought that he could be sneaky. He thought that he wouldn't get caught. But he did get caught. And do you know how old he was when he died last summer? He was thirteen."

Thirteen. That's how old I am. Oh my gosh. Still, he deserves to be punished for what he did. Stealing is a sin. It is not okay. 

The crowd stills silent, taking that fact in for a moment. I still silent with them. It's like a strange sort of camaraderie shared between us. It's like a strange sort of oneness. I don't like it. I don't like it but I do, in a small part of myself that I cannot name. I don't like it but I do. 

"My sibling is not the only one," the young girl continues on after the silence. "So many people get executed because they broke small laws that aren't even important." What is she talking about? All laws are important. "The system punishes us for trivial things because they want to keep us in line. They want to keep the order that holds us down. And they want to stop us from going against that order. But we have to go against the order. Because the order is cruel. The order is unequal. The order is unfair. And the order has to be overthrown!" She raises her fist in the air and everyone else does the same. 

After the chanting and yelling dies down, the young woman takes the stage again. These rebels are such troublemakers. But still. ... Still. 

"And we are done our demonstration in front of the House of Lords! Hopefully they have heard us, or will hear of this! Now, I have sources which tell me that the King is at a dress shop in front of Fairove Avenue. We will take the protest there and chant outside so he can hear us!" 

Te crowd roars to life. We move again, back the way we came, marching tiredly and with purpose. The chanting around me becomes increasingly frenzied and part of me feels like I can almost get lost in it. Almost. 

"The guards! The guards are coming!" Someone shouts in the crowd. The chanting dies down immediately as everyone starts scattering in different directions. Fear is imprinted stony on everyone's faces, as they go down whichever street they can, running. It was already pretty chaotic before but this seems like pure madness. 

So what? The guards are coming. What's wrong with that? The guards are here to protect us, to keep order, to keep everyone in line. But I don't think I will ever understand the psychology of this crowd. 

"People of the city!" A high, booming voice thunders out from somewhere amidst the crowd, "Disperse now or we will be forced to use lethal force!"

There is screaming all around me and I cannot even tell which way is which. But I try to keep walking down the street, looking for the dress shop I left my parents in. It must be along here somewhere. It's where we were going after all. 

"Bang! Bang!" There are screams all around me. People are screaming. I am screaming. They're shooting! Someone is actually shooting shots. Why would they be doing that? I don't know. All I do know is that I'm in danger. All I know is that I have to get out. 

Shots echo all around me as I run and run as fast as my feet will carry me, mind racing to keep up with my pace. What if I get shot? What if I get shot? I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. 

Finally spotting the dress shop in front of me, I breathe a sigh of relief and slip through its doors. The chaos and confusion of the ragged, jagged outside world is at once silenced by the shining and pristine polish of the dress shop adorned as it is by its many fabrics. I can still hear the chaos outside though, but it's muffled with the calmness inside. It feels as though it's not real, as though it's from another world. 

My heart rate quickly slows and my breathing evens out. I'm a princess now, I tell myself. I'm a princess. Not a protestor, but a princess. I have nothing to hide. Nothing to fear. I only have to pick out some nice outfits for the banquet. That's all that matters. The banquet is all that matters. 

Finally having calmed myself, I walk through the rows of clothing until I find my discarded dress. It's difficult, putting it back on all by myself, but I manage. I think that my bow at the back might be a little lopsided. But still. It's good enough. 

"Angelina! Where are you?" Mama's sing-song voice cuts through the cavernous room. 

"I'm here!" I call out. 

In a few minutes I am face to face with my mother and father. With the king and queen of this land. They are beautiful and shining as they look at me with loving eyes and smile. I feel at peace, seeing them. I feel as if I am finally home. 

A thought crosses my mind, dark and terrible. It leaves a sick feeling in my chest and my gut and makes me feel as if I am falling through a darkness. What if those protestors were right? What if my Papa is a bad leader, a bad person? What if he has really caused all that hardship? What if he is really to blame? 

Then who am I? Then what can I do? What should I do? How can I ever look my parents in the eyes again? How can I live my life? 

"Sweetheart," Papa coos, "we were so worried about you!" His voice is gentle, his eyes are soft and I run into his arms. 

I feel safe there, safer than I have ever felt anywhere else. And that's when I realize. Those protestors were wrong. My Papa is not to blame for all of their problems. They themselves are. 

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