She knows what’s allowed, smooth, confined, and decorated till the awful red hair is hardly noticeable. Even one loose curl makes the Queen cringe and is the only thing that will make her touch me, tucking it back behind my ear, out of sight.

Hideous, she said the first time she saw it. Disgraceful, just like her mother.

She could invest in dye to change the color, turn it a rich chocolate brown like her own, have May straighten it with steam and trim the ends, making me presentable. They may even believe I am her true daughter if they knew I existed.

“You're eighteen, Princess Alea,” May says, reading my silence. “You are old enough to decide how you want your hair done.”

For the first time this morning, I avert my eyes to the gold-framed oval mirror mounted on the wall beside the wardrobe and above the short dresser that shares the same mahogany wood as the wardrobe. The sun behind me, I glow bright orange and green, but my face is a shadow, hidden and gone, an empty void.

I’m not fond of my reflection even on occasions like this where it seems to echo beauty very faintly, if I allow myself to listen closely enough.

My little beautiful princess.

Fathers are supposed to say that to their daughters whether it’s true or not.

“Down,” I say, a sudden bitterness poisoning me.

The Queen didn’t shed a tear after reading over the letter declaring the death of her husband. After learning how to read her eyes, I came to the realization that it was amusement, instead of shock, that lit them, circling around her hazel irises, lifting her thin eyebrows.

I see, she said, and that was it.

The funeral was too short for a fallen King, only extending three days. The decorations were extravagant, but they were only a reflection of herself and meant to lure the people to her, their new Queen, their new dictator.

I will not let her win today. As May said, I am a woman now. I can root myself and stand firm, let my head of. She can try to dig me up, snap my trunk, but even so, at least I lived if only for a day.

May’s fingers are hard at work again, separating three strands from the mess atop my head and weaving them into a loose braid, fanning the outer strands. One by one, the curls around my face are pulled back and clipped here and there, becoming one with the braid. She creates smaller braids, splaying only one side, then curling them into tight spirals, forming flowers that sit around my head like a daisy chain.

“There,” May chirps with satisfaction. “Take a look and tell me what you think.”

I look back up at my reflection, turning to the side so the sun catches the intricate design May has made, and I actually smile, a woman wild and free, like in my dreams.

I have to correct myself. I’m merely an image of a free woman, a portrait. As soon as I move, as soon as I stand before the Queen, I must face the fact that I’m only daydreaming yet again.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, the smile fading. I loop a curl around my finger, pulling it straight and letting it bounce back.

What will Queen Elsyra say?

“And your shoes,” May says, beside the wardrobe. She must have moved while I was staring at my dimming reflection. She sets a pair of ostentatious gold shoes before me, heeled and small. A single white gem sits nestled in the center of a gold bow at the mouth of the shoe.

I grimace as I shove my foot into the stiff spaces, arches cramped and toes smashed. The edges dig into my flesh as my heels throb against the wedge beneath them. The aching in my lower legs increases, my knees even tighter.

Elegant and tall, I try to push the pain off my face, radiate the pride my image portrays.

May nearly squeals, her hands clasped and pressed to the white apron that sits over her black maid dress, frilled at the bottom of the skirt and sleeves. Pure joy, practically hysterical, she shakes her head back and forth, looking me up and down, her masterpiece. “You look lovely, dear,” she breathes, bending down to smooth out a few creases in the train of the dress.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Now, go run along to the Queen. I’ll have your breakfast waiting for you when you return.”

“Thank you, May,” I say again.

With a final glance in the mirror, I take my first step away, my ankles wobbling, pain wriggling through my whole leg. I continue toward the door, stepping off the rug, the heels clicking on the stone. I pull open the door, fingers wrapped around the gold handle, and emerge into the empty hall. The door shuts with a quiet thud and I begin striding down the hall, the click echoing now, drifting to the ceiling and back down to me.

My eyes pass over the paintings along the wall to my right—my ancestors stare back. Blue eyes, brown hair, white skin, the definition of royal. They practically sneer and pride glitters in their eyes. Adorned with jewelry and the finest clothes, they look doll-like, sitting on a dresser, untouched, for show only.

They mock me, an outcast like a crippled calf left to die by its mother who’s in search of a better one to replace it. I don’t fit in among them, lacking that regality they all possess, my appearance too unacceptable.

At the end of the hall, I stop in front of my father’s portrait. His sharp blue eyes, pale skin, and sweet smile peer back, humorous, teasing. His light brown hair is tussled, curly, unruly like mine, but lacks the flames, the stain of red. Mild freckles dance across his cheeks, but not to the extent of mine. His crown is lopsided ever so slightly, in a childish manner, laughing as he did while chasing me through the halls, carrying me through the rose gardens, lying beside me in the shade from the willows.

Only one necklace, the one that now hides beneath my mattress, sits around his neck, a small sapphire accenting his white shirt, resting amongst the ruffles down his front. A rich purple cape is draped over his shoulders, a gold threaded pattern of flowers racing around the edge. A true King, proud and humble, strict and compassionate, vengeful and loving.

I feel the urge to cry as I always do when I see his pleasant face, so I move on before the tears can reach the surface.