Princess

Princess

         Anna glared at the door in sullen resentment. "Nurse?" she called hopefully. "Can I come out now? I'll be good, I promise." No answer. She stomped her foot -- clad in leather shoes with little bows -- but the sound was muffled by the rug, and besides, there was no-one listening. She knew why she was in here, of course -- but it was such a little thing. She'd hidden by the stairs and jumped out when her governess had just reached the top, startling her; now Nurse had dressed her early for Court and left her here to think over her sins.

         Her tone was more desperate as she shouted, "Anyone? Can anyone hear me? I need to get out -- I'm thirsty! I need a drink." Nothing. "I have to go to the bathroom." Nothing. She kicked the door in frustration -- her too-tight shoes pinched at her toes.

         She circled restlessly about the tower room and sat down on a bench by the window. From here, she could see the pigeons whirling about in their flocks -- she could sit and imagine flying about like one of them, fast and wild and free, doging past the telephone wires and narrow alleyways, fighting with the currents of the air -- loose in the City she couldn't see.

         She sighed and bit her lip, her hands absently worrying at the red ribbon at the end of her wheaten braid. It had been neat and proudly tied in a bow when her nurse had deposited her in her room with an injunction to behave herself; now the ribbon was knotted and slipping off the end of her braid. Her hair was wisping free and starting to tangle itself. She didn't notice.

         Anna stared out the window, at the vista of fields and wood-lots which was her particular horizon. She knew, on some level, that her tower was the only window in the building with such a view: from all other sides, there is only the City, but from this room, the view is that of a country manor.

         Her father had chosen this room especially for her, given it to her on her fourth birthday -- how long ago that seemed from her lofty just-turned-nine perspective. Father had sat on the bench and held her and told her it was a gift only for her, his princess. A little kingdom until she inherited her own.

         Father didn't visit so often now; of course, he was very busy. She knew that -- all her life she had been taught that the City came first -- but it was hard to remember and be good when there was no one around to talk to!

         Anna jumped off the window-seat and wandered about the room. She picked up a china doll in a blue silk dress, one which happened to be missing its head, and tried to remember how that came about. Sadly, there were all too many occasions when it could have happened -- whenever she played with the dolls, they got broken, and dirty, and then Nurse told her to act more like a little lady and play quietly.

         People always gave her dolls. Every year, for her birthday, at Yule and Beltane, they gave her dolls -- of all sorts of materials, from plastic to porcelain, stuffed and painted. Father said it was a sign of how much her people loved her. All she knew was that the dolls appeared, dressed in silk and lace and velvet, all delicate and beautiful. And then they dressed her in gowns, too, like she was a doll, gowns like the one she was wearing now: a red velvet dress with white lace and holly embroidery, with tights that were itchy and shiny black shoes that were too tight. Anna frowned and dropped the doll to the counter -- it promptly fell to the floor. In her sulky mood, she didn't much care; she left it where it fell.

         She sat down in the middle of the floor and unstrapped her shoes. The buckle on the left one caught; frustrated, she kicked her heel against the rag rug she sat on, throwing up clouds of dust, until she worked her foot free. She picked up the hated shoes and threw them under the window-bench, out of sight.

         Defiantly, she looked around, meeting the relentless gazes of the dolls. Hundreds deep, they lined the walls, encircling her. She fancied they looked disapproving as she hiked her skirt up and scratched her itching legs all over. The thick tights didn't tear, but she did feel a little better. She faced the dolls with her chin up, ignoring their pursed mouths.

         She stood up, trying to set her skirt right. It wasn't ladylike, what she'd just done -- but how could she be locked in a room for what felt like hours with itchy legs and not scratch?

         The dolls didn't care; they were always tidy, quiet, and pretty. They never itched, and they never felt so restless inside that they wanted to scream with the need to run. They didn't feel an aching for cool green, for the forest and for running water.

         Maybe if Mother were still around, she would understand that need. Maybe Anna took after her -- she didn't know; all she remembered about her mother, really, were warm arms, a voice like rippling water, and the sweet smell of apples. She'd only been a year old when Mother went away. Nurse didn't understand, though, and neither did her governess; not even Father had known what she'd meant.

         She was bored and tired and sick of doing nothing. If she couldn't help Father by doing something important -- Anna's grasp on what that could be was rather shaky -- then why couldn't she run outside and play in the trees?

         She could see them from her window -- but that was the closest she ever came to the growing things. Instead it was lessons in the morning, play in here -- alone or with Nurse -- a quiet lunch and nap, and then more lessons. Some nights after supper, Father would join her and tell her stories until she went to sleep.

         She liked the stories about Mother best. Mother, who was a faerie princess whose grove was surrounded by the City. Mother, whom people loved so, they made her the ruler of most of the Downtown. Mother, who fell in love with Father despite his inability to see her fae self.

         Was Mother, Anna wondered as she slouched about her room, ever so filled up with the urge to move, the green song, that she couldn't sit still? It was hard to believe, somehow. The graceful woman with the laughing eyes in the portrait looked as if she'd never known a day's discontent. Unless Mother had been surrounded by people who understood the aching -- not trapped in a cage built of good intentions. No, it must be what the servants already whispered: Anna was a throwback.

         She paced around the room, her sweet face, screwed up into a scowl of unhappiness. It felt as though the dolls' eyes were following her, taunting her with their perfection. Tears pricked her eyes. It wasn't fair! It was so hard to remember to be good and ladylike -- but the dolls didn't have to remember at all; they just were.

         In a flare of sudden anger, she swept several of the dolls to the floor. China heads cracked, porcelain arms chipped; they made a very satisfying clatter. Anna threw dolls about at raged and cried -- until eventually, the fury spent itself and she threw herself into the pile and wept.

         Sleep stole over the exhausted child as her tears finally ebbed. And in that sleep, the scent of apples sprung up around her; somehow, she felt that her mother was with her -- even though fragments of memory were all Anna had of her. More: she saw a vision of her mother, slipping from the City in search of starlight and green life. Not as a child, either, but as an adult, escaping her responsibilities as carelessly as a child skips classes. Certainly her mother had felt the call, the magic of the growing earth. And knowing this, she was comforted, even though it slipped away as dreams do on waking, leaving just the trace of emotion to mark their passing.

         When she came back to herself, her eyes were burning and her nose was running -- but she felt somehow better, as though the wildness had drained away from her for the moment. She sat up and picked up one of the dolls, holding it on her lap. One of its sparkling blue eyes was chipped -- now it looked as if it was winking at her. Anna smoothed the curling black tresses, the delicate red lace-and-gauze gown. "I'm sorry," she told the doll in a small whisper. "You can't help being what you are, any more than I can." Was it her imagination, or did the pursed pink lips curve in a smile?

         Slowly, Anna stood up; her head was throbbing. Carefully, she began to pick up her battered dolls and to place them back on the shelves. Her tiny fingers smoothed the rumpled dresses.

         She had no sooner finished putting them away than there was a knocking at the door. "Princess," a woman's voice called -- her Nurse -- "Princess, it's time for you to go now. Your father's ready. You mustn't keep him waiting--"

         Of course not. They might call her princess, but she had no say over what she actually did. Anna heard the click of the key in the lock as her nurse continued, "I hope you've had time to think over your naughtiness this morning."

         Anna looked around quickly -- the room was clean, no signs of her fit of temper, but she was not. Her shoes were missing, her white tights dirty, her dress wrinkled and crumpled and dirty... she looked every inch the ragamuffin as the door opened. With her tangled head held high, she walked towards the open door, feeling a wicked delight at Nurse's cry of dismay. They called her princess, but she knew her only court was her dolls.