The Little Princess

I crawl into bed late that night. It’s colder than it usually is. I wrap my arms around her frail little body and whisper, “I’ve another story for you.” She rolls over and smiles at me sweetly through her bleary eyes.  Barely audible, she whispers back, “What is it?”

           I begin to tell her the story of the little princes.  Pushed away, and hidden in the attic cold, no one knew her diamond’s worth. Gently she swept, silently she woke, all alone in that attic cold. Her value unknown beneath the layers of dirt. Gently she swept, softly she sang, kept warm by the stories of old.

            “What’s her name?” She wants to know.

“Shhh,” I caution her. For our tale is not over and she shall find it in time.

I continue the little princess’s story--

The little princess was beautiful, although her ragged wear and dirt smudged face told the world otherwise. But she kept herself warm with hope alive and the stories of old.

She’s falling asleep. She denies and protests, claiming I must finish to the end or she’ll never rest. She and I both know this is not true. She’s much too exhausted. And we must keep these stories as long as possible to keep us warm. I kiss her smooth little cheek with the promise of the continued tale tomorrow, but she is already sleeping.   I, too, close my eyes to meet her in the world where dreams come alive. For a short time can we forget where we really are. What we really are. She sighs gently as we slip into oblivion.

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                We awake the next morning, huddled into each other under the thin gray blanket and an even grayer reality. An ugly sense of foreboding crept over my shoulder and down into my heart where it nestled itself neatly away, but still there. And I knew it, even despite my denial and utmost efforts of ignorance and avoidance. Still it was there. Still I knew it was coming, although I pretended not to. Putting on the same gray dresses we wear every day, we get ready silently next to the clouded, dull sky. Noiselessly we make our way down to the kitchen to begin the Lady’s breakfast. She is as cold as the unlit hearth. Her black cloth is sharp and uninviting. But it fits her angular features, and her raven hair, one simple strip of gray running its length. Everything about the house is bleak. Though immaculate.  For if she was to find a single speck of dust, we would be back out on the slimy gray cobble-stoned streets. And even this was better than that.

                “Grab a kettle of water, my love,” I whisper as I begin the fire. As she begins to work on that, I hurry to the Lady’s room to restart the fire there. Heaven knows how much more cold and bitter she would be if she did not wake up to a warm room. I leave as cautiously and silently as I entered. I hurry back to the kitchen.  I take the bread dough that has risen overnight and place it in the brick oven. 

                I watch as her thin little arms pick up the broom and pan to sweep the Lady’s dining room. I follow closely with a dusting cloth and watch her as gently and silently she sweeps. Sweeping her life away…  

                Our hour is up and the bread is almost done. I can hear the Lady coming down the stairs. We rush to the kitchen to fix her platter. I carry out the eggs, bread, and seasoned porridge to the dining room to find the Lady waiting suspiciously and expectantly. She says nothing to acknowledge my presence other than the slightest of nods; I let out an inner sigh of relief.

 

Reviews

[Cupcake.]

This is very good, I can't wait for more! You have a definite talent with vivid descriptions, which I definitely appreciate. Despite the occasional typo or two (which is expected), the story flows quite well. Good job :]

[Madison.]

Thank you so much! I really appreciate it(: