RELEASE DATE: 15 February 2022
In retrospect, telling the prince that death surpasses marriage to him? Maybe a trifle theatrical…
Now she stands at the edge of an ocean-side cliff in boggy, new-spring mud and a crown of ivy, hoping she can make the prince see reason.
He says her magic can win him the war. She insists she has none.
One of them is lying.
A twisty riff on classic fairy tales about taking your future into your own hands. Don’t miss the wedding of the season!
A Wedding of Sorts
In retrospect, telling a narcissist that I’d rather die than marry him was—perhaps—a touch theatrical. People like Prince Jarmien tend to take threats to their egos badly.
My dress of pale ivory with forget-me-knots embroidered on the hem attempted to flutter in the pre-dawn breeze. It managed a feeble flap, but the mud on the hem weighed it down. It was a damp sort of morning, lacking the dramatic red sunrise the cliffs were known for.
Sullen clouds clustered on the horizon, their whispering, conspiring breezes whipping the waves below into a frenzy.
White caps of foam lashed against the gray stone of the cliffs, beating a steady tattoo.
I turned, bare feet sinking another inch into the cold mud.
The prince should have waited a few more weeks. Winter’s frost had barely retreated, leaving the fields soggy messes of bare, boggy earth and scraggly weeds.
In another month the hills would be a luscious, emerald green and dotted with fallen stars, poppies, and buttercups.
Fallen stars with their five, almost translucent, pearly white petals would have made a beautiful crown for a bride.
My crown was ivy, which seemed a little clingy and ill-considered to me.
And it didn’t match the dress at all.
Not that anyone had asked.
After I’d declared I’d rather die than marry, I’d been locked in the uppermost tower for three weeks with little food and less company.
Now I stood at the edge of the cliffs, barefoot and wearing a too-large dress with an itchy crown of poking ivy in front of an assembly of the prince’s court. Most of them were sensibly dressed in heavy wool and fur coats, the colors running from deep reds for the nobles to rich browns with golden accents for the men-at-arms.
The prince was not a poor man.
No, and unlike the maidens standing to the side and letting tears drip past their veils, I was not wealthy.
I had magic.
Or so the prince believed.