Her Royal Highness

“Is there anything else that you require, Your Highness?” The lady-in-waiting, still too new to bother remembering her name, curtsied slightly, eyes down, hands buried in the folds of her full, green skirt.

The Princess Tamsin did not turn from her embroidery frame, set to face the open window. “No, no, you may leave.”

Eyes still down, the woman curtsied again and fled the room.

Tamsin sighed and stretched her neck, straining against her tightly coiled hair. Nothing put her in a bad mood quicker than a headache, and this updo was promising to cause one of epic proportions.

A walk in her garden would undoubtedly do her some good. Only there, in all the vast castle, would she be allowed to be truly alone. Even here, she could sense the hovering servants on the other side of the thick wooden door of her chambers. Always with their nervous hands and gazes askew.

Without another thought, she set down her needle, crossed the room in her silent way, and yanked open the door, sending maids scattering like flighty little birds before a snake.

She walked the long halls, passing this or that servant or such and such courtier. All them bowed low, their gazes dusting the stone floors as neatly as the hem of her long, midnight dress. Not a one missed a beat, parting her path then continuing on in the wake of her padding silken slippers. Only when a pair of muddy, humble boots tread before her did she pause.

“Good morrow, little royal!”

Tamsin liked the gardener, he was the only one who called her “little royal”, and the only one who greeted her with a jolly smile. Well, as jolly a smile with downcast eyes could be. She allowed herself a small one in return.

“Good morning, Master Hawthrone, how is my court?”

He swept the straw hat from his balding head, clutching it to his chest. “Oh, very well, my lady, very well indeed. Though I must say, your courtiers leave me wanting sorely for conversation.”

Usually, his answer brought a smile to her lips, but today, it nettled her as sharply as her pounding head. “As you were, Hawthorne."

“Highness,” he bowed and continued on his way, unphased by her souring mood. Nothing seemed to rattle the grandfatherly gardener.

Tamsin continued on, hesitating at the door to the king’s study. Duty told her to go in and greet her parents. The pressure building beneath her skull told her no. Today was not the day to bear the feel of her father’s rough hands on hers, or to endure her mother’s gentle eyes flicking everywhere but to her own. More often than not, the queen would comment on her hair, and how it always had a mind of its own.

Her feet moved on. Not today.

The dark hallways opened to outer windows flush with vines and small courtyards opening to the green grounds as sprawling as the castle. She passed into one, its elegant arches open to the sky. She was nearly to her own private garden, and the safety of its high, ivyed walls.

A whisper caught her ear. “The cursed princess.”

She halted, back stiff as a board. A sharp gasp snapped her gaze to the far end of the room.

A young nobleman and a serving girl fell back under her scrutiny.

“Approach.” Her quiet voice filled the courtyard. The two stared at the ground, still and silent as the grave.

Her order hung as heavy as death in the sunlight dappled air. The nobleman shuffled forward as close as fear and courtly manner would allow.

“Closer.”

Another shuffling step.

“Do you believe me to be cursed?”

No reply but the noisy swallow of a dry throat.

“Look at me, sir,” the unyielding pull of her hair finally broke free, slithering down over her shoulders, “and repeat yourself.”

“Highness, please.” The man, whether lord or count or marquis, she did not care, fell to his knees. “I’m sorry. Please.”

“Call for Master Hawthorne,” Tamsin’s voice remained unaffected as she addressed the shaking servant in the corner. “I have a new guest for my garden.”

The man kneeling at her feet whimpered like a trapped kit. Tamsin’s fists tightened, crushing her dark velvet skirts. Her patience thinned as the pain in her head drew tight as a drumskin. It demanded release. It pressed against her eyes, hard and cold as stone. A gentle, satisfied hiss curled over her ear. She shivered as cool scales slid down her jaw. Cursed. She leveled her unblinking gaze at the man who dared speak it.

“Look. At. Me.”