Heavy lies the head that wears a crown.
Despite my many objections about putting on such an ostentatious show of wealth — ‘Everyone already knows I’m a princess, why rub their noses in it?!’— Lady Morrell gave me no choice in the matter.
Nonsense! Queen Abigail wore that same tiara to her sister’s wedding in Sweden nearly twenty-five years ago. It suits you beautifully. If only you would dress like this every day, Your Highness… I will never fathom the appeal of those dreadful yoga pants you insist upon wearing here at the palace…
Teeth set in a winning smile, I wave and keep walking. It’s only fifty yards to the podium, but it feels more like fifty miles. I’m not sure whether my cheeks or my feet hurt worse by the time I finally near the end of the gauntlet.
“The Princess!”
“Look! It’s Princess Emilia!”
For the most part, the din of the crowd is indistinguishable — a melody of greetings and good wishes blending together into a cacophony of sound. One voice manages to cut through, though: a child’s high-pitched squeal, pure and sweet with little-girl wonder.
“Mama! Mama! She’s a real princess!”
I glance to my right, searching the sea of faces until I find them. There, at the very front, a small girl in a shabby dress is standing with her mother. The woman can’t be much older than I am, but her face is etched with lines — the fingerprints of poverty and pain. Her coat looks threadbare, far too thin for this winter weather. Her little girl isn’t even wearing a hat; I can see the pink tips of her ears sticking out over the top of two braided blonde pigtails.
It’s clear from one glance that whatever path they walk is not an easy one. Still, there’s pure love in the mother’s eyes as she stares down at her young daughter.
Something about them stops me dead in my tracks, makes my eyes sting in the chill morning air. Unbidden, I’m flooded with the image of my own mother — how she’d laughed and turned it into a game when our power was shut off because she couldn’t pay the electric bill.
We’re camping in the living room tonight, Emmy! Grab your flashlight. Come on, let’s make a pillow fort…
I have a thousand memories like that. Her chucking me playfully on the chin when I was feeling sorry for myself because I couldn’t take ballet lessons like the other girls in my kindergarten class. Her waving away my concerns that she wasn’t taking her asthma medication because the refills were too expensive. Her quick smile, covering up the stress of another debt collector knocking at our door. Her empty plate as she set down a full dinner in front of me.
My heart pangs painfully.
Mom.
We never had much of anything… but we had each other. And somehow, that was always enough. Somehow, it was everything.
Stay bold, pure heart.
“Your Highness?” Simms prompts, confused by my sudden stop in the middle of the street. “Are you all right—”
I don’t even look at him. I’m busy straining to make out the little girl’s words as she sways on her scuffed shoes.
“Mama, can I grow up to be a princess, too?”
The mother’s expression falls a bit. Her mouth opens, presumably to break the bad news.
No, you can’t, sweetheart.
Before I can stop myself, I’m in motion — diverting from my path to the podium, heading toward their spot on the sidewalk instead. Behind me, Simms makes a sound of distress and Galizia hisses something indecipherable, but I ignore them both as I approach the barricades.
The crowd’s screams grow deafening when I come to a stop a few feet away, everyone crying out my name, attempting to catch my attention, taking photos rapid-fire with their phones and selfie sticks held aloft. My gaze never shifts from the mother-daughter duo.
“Hi, there.”
The woman’s eyes have gone wide as saucers. The little girl is staring up at me in awe. I crouch down to her level so our eyes meet through the metal bars of the partition. She’s no more than four or five years old. There’s a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose.
“What’s your name?”
The girl looks up at her mother for approval before whispering, “Annie.”
“Hi, Annie. I’m Emilia. It’s nice to meet you. Where are you from?”
“Hawthorne.”