Another day, another banquet, another evening of fake smiles plastered on her face, and bland words falling from her lips. Yet more hours of Crown Princess Moira’s life that she could’ve used for something better.
“I wish she’d let us skip this sometimes.”
She laced the dress mindlessly, with two bows, one at the neck and another under the white wings extending from her shoulder blades.
Her makeup was perfect and her hair was pulled back in an intricate knot with the crown on top, almost as the Queen would’ve wanted it. Had she gotten exactly her way, the few delicate dark curls now softly curtaining her face would have instead been hemmed into the bun so tight they would have been immune to a storm.
Moira glanced out the window. In fact, a storm was on its way, with dark, menacing clouds rose gathering below the bridges that secured Aurora’s floating cliffs to each other. The sturdy bridges near the castle, wide and made of stone, weren’t affected, but she could imagine the rickety bridges at the edges of Aurora swaying in the wind. Far below the floating country, the deadly ocean would be in turmoil amidst the howling wind and crashing waves.
“It’s our job, Mo.” Mari looked at her with warm brown eyes. She sat in a chair by the window of Moira’s room and was long since ready for the banquet. Unlike Moira, her sister Mari never waited to get dressed until ten minutes before the start of dinner. Neither was she out riding until thirty-five minutes before, stressing everyone out.
Moira longed for her winged horse, the chevolant Caol, and the adrenaline rush as they crossed the skies, her hair blowing in the wind. She deserved her freedom. And the people deserved a crown princess who wanted the title. Someone like Mari.
“But don’t you ever tire of it?” Moira tugged at her tight knot in a futile attempt to loosen her hair.
They’d been through this a million times before. Moira whined while Mari was sensible. It should be the other way around; Mari, the rebellious little sister, while Moira showed the way as the responsible one.
Mari wrapped her warm fingers around Moira’s, keeping her from fidgeting nervously. Moira’s arms were still cold from the ride.
“Of course, I do. But there are worse destinies out there, so complaining about ours seems ungrateful.”
Moira gave Mari a doubtful smile.
They jumped at a sudden knock on the door, and the Queen swept in, tall and regal, wearing a long breezy dress that graced the floor behind her.
“Mari, you’re ready. Perfect.” She turned to Moira, and her expression fell. “And you’re only just done.”
Moira hid a sigh. “I lost track of the time while riding.”
The Queen shook her head. “You and your chevolants! Moira, this dinner with the royal family of Chim is important.”
Moira studied the floor. She knew she should’ve prioritized this over a few more minutes of riding. “Yes, Mother.”
The Queen caressed her cheek briefly, leaving a warm imprint on Moira’s skin.
“Oh, if you could only learn your priorities like Mari has.”
It stung as it always did. No matter how much Moira loved her little sister, she hated the constant comparison between the two. She did it enough herself.
She swallowed hard. “Yes, Mother.”
“Mom, she’s done now.” Mari stood up. She was a tall and stately copy of their mother, while Moira was the short misfit. “Let her be?”
Why was it that the younger Mari had to always defend her from their mother?
A little boy thundered into the room, dressed in his finest clothes—shirt, pressed trousers, and a vest chosen by the Queen. Moira raised her eyebrows, and so did Mari.
“Is he going to be at dinner?” asked Moira.
The Queen hesitated for a moment before her grim expression returned. “It’s time Milton learns, too. He will also represent the country as he gets older.”
Mari and Moira exchanged glances. Yes, their little brother would represent the country, but he was only nine years old. The Queen had tried to take him to royal events before, and it always ended with a barely manageable disaster. Mael, the youngest of the four siblings, would’ve been easier—and he’d only turned one a few months ago.
“If you’re certain, Mom.” Mari sounded as unsure as Moira felt.
“I’ve placed him opposite of you, Moira.” The Queen spoke as she grabbed Milton’s wrist and pulled him away from Moira’s bedside table. Moira glanced to ensure nothing was missing, before freezing as she realized what her mother had just said.
“Me?” Panic rose within Moira.
“Yes, so you can monitor him.”
“But Mother—”
The Queen flashed a piercing look. “No buts. You’re seated opposite each other, and you have the Queen of Chim next to you, while he has the Prince. His eldest sister and a male role model, that’s a good foundation for a well-behaved night.”
Moira said nothing. She knew it was a good foundation for complete ruin. Not even four nannies together could make Milton behave.
Her dad knocked on the door frame and stepped inside. Big and round, he had dark, sparkling eyes and a black beard that Moira had loved playing with since childhood. Behind him, his majestic black wings spread out, reminding Moira of all the times he’d used them to make shadows on the walls to accompany stories he told. Giving the Queen a chaste kiss, he walked across the room to Moira.
“You look gorgeous, my princess.” He hugged her and kissed her forehead.
The pride in his eyes made Moira swell up double in confidence. He never compared her to Mari. Dad smiled and turned to the others. “My beautiful family. Is everyone ready for dinner with the people of Chim?”
Moira closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. The Queen of Chim on one side, her mischievous little brother opposite her, all against the backdrop of an event she didn’t enjoy under the best of circumstances. What could go wrong?
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She nodded to her father with a forced smile, and they left the room.
***
Despite Moira’s incessant longing for the stables, an hour and a half later, they were all seated at the table. It could’ve been fun in the storm, chasing the winds and watching the world below through cracks in the clouds. The streets of Aurora were probably deserted by now, as the Aerites hid from the gusts.
Hundreds of guests sat at the oblong tables in the banquet hall, where the table of honor stood in the middle like a spine, while the other tables protruded out like ribs. The starters had come and gone, and Moira had already forgotten what it’d been. She used the menu, hand-written on thick, white paper, as a fan. It made no difference in the stuffy air and none whatsoever to her mood, either.
Bored, she glanced over at the woman sitting next to her: the Queen of Chim. The Queen had more copper-red hair than the rest of the room put together and more jewels than anyone could wear—but the Queen also consisted of quite a lot of Queen. Moira had, as subtly as possible, tried to move to the side to avoid sitting pressed against the Queen’s pale, fat arm, but she was yet to succeed. The more space she gave the Queen, the more she took, as though she wasn’t solid, but a blubbery mass, spreading in every direction.
Moira searched for a question, landing on a simple one. “Did you enjoy the starter?”
The Queen of Chim glanced at her and refused to answer, instead demonstratively turning back to Moira’s father.
Moira’s heart dropped. She’d tried repeatedly, but the Queen of Chim was entirely uninterested in the Crown Princess. The only one she wanted to talk to was the King of Aurora. Moira looked at Mari. She was deeply engrossed in an easy conversation with the Duke of Chim beside her. The man appeared delighted, and Mari’s pearly laughter added to the table’s collective chatter.
Moira downed the glass of wine. It smelled like berries and tasted like something elegant, old, and expensive. She wasn’t sure why she was allowed wine because the Queen thought her too young to drink, but Moira didn’t intend to point out the error—after all, she was sixteen years old. Soon, she’d be old enough to rule the country if needed, although she wasn’t keen on that. She could handle a glass of wine, especially sitting next to a strange queen who despised her.
On her other side, another Duke of Chim sat, delicately drying his lips with the white napkin. Apart from criticizing the food, he hadn’t said a word to her all evening. The entire royal family and their party seemed set on disliking Moira from the get-go. She slashed her knife into the food and wondered how long it would take before the Duke or Queen of Chim crashed on the ground if they fell off the floating rocks.
Suddenly, a small, pale, and sticky ball came flying across the table and landed with a soft smack in the Queen’s bushy hair. The Queen, in the middle of a discussion with Moira’s dad, didn’t notice. Moira stared at the little ball, smeared within the Queen’s hair.
Mashed potatoes.
She glanced across the table to her little brother, who grinned mischievously and sat with his shirt unbuttoned, despite the Queen’s constant attempts. He was small and skinny with black, short hair and was still growing into his adult teeth, too big for his face. Milton didn’t like pheasant, and to avoid a tantrum during dinner, the Queen agreed to let him have meatballs and mashed potatoes instead. Moira wondered what would happen if she threatened to throw a tantrum—of course, she’d get a sound scolding.
The Queen of Chim was still unaware of the mess in her hair.
Could Moira pretend not to see it? Pretend to be unaware of what Milton had done?
She turned to the Prince of Chim, sitting opposite his mother, who was almost her complete opposite. Unobtrusive and so thin that he could hide behind a lamppost, except for the bright red hair that appeared to be a family trait.
“Was the food to your satisfaction?” she asked, forcing a smile.
He looked up at her with fear, like a deer about to be preyed upon. His eyes flickered to his mother’s hair, and the mashed potato mess that dripped onto her dress. Moira’s insides froze, but the Prince quickly folded his gaze away.
“Y-yes. It’s very good.”
Perhaps he thought he could avoid getting mashed potatoes in his hair if he was nice enough when addressed, and invisible enough the rest of the time. But considering the naughty twinkle in Milton’s eyes when he looked at the Prince, she doubted it.
The Queen had expected Moira to control Milton, despite knowing that no one could control Milton. Moira’s intense stare only seemed to further encourage him.
Milton picked up a new ball of mashed potatoes and aimed his spoon at the busy Queen.
“Milton!” Moira snapped.
He looked at her and smirked.
She sprang up, but it was too late.
Another glob sailed through the air—but this time, the Queen noticed because she’d turned to take another bite of her food when the spoonful of mashed potatoes came flying across and, instead of landing in the massive hair, splattered against the Queen’s forehead.
“Ah!” The Queen backed away, and the mashed potatoes—both the last spoonful and the first—dripped onto the table. “What is going on? What is this?”
Moira took her napkin and tried to dry the Chim Queen’s forehead, but regretted it immediately. It smeared further.
“You, leave me alone!” The Queen of Chim stood and turned to the King and Queen of Aurora as if to demand they discipline their children. Moira’s father looked confused while the Queen was glowing with red spots of anger. Moira feared whether she would direct her fury at Milton—because he’d caused the chaos yet again—or if Moira would be on the receiving end for failing to control her little brother.
“Your Highness, we apologize,” her dad said. “Prince Milton has just begun his education—”
“Oh, really? And your Crown Princess, who has been unpleasant to me all evening? Has she also just started?”
Moira gripped her knife so tight her fingers hurt. “Me? I haven’t—”
“Of course, Crown Princess Moira apologizes.” Her mother’s cool, controlled voice interrupted Moira’s protest.
Moira stared at her. Apologize? For what? For the Chim Queen’s disinterest and unpleasantness? For Mother’s lack of sense that naughty nine-year-olds should be kept away from royal dinners?
The hall was quiet, and Moira shifted uncomfortably under the hundred-something pairs of eyes watching her. She looked helplessly at Mari, who gave her a minimal nod. There was nothing to do except to follow her mother’s orders.
“I apologize, Your Highness.”
The Queen of Chim snorted, unladylike and ugly. “That was the least honest excuse for an apology I’ve ever received.”
Dad stood up, and naturally, the Queen was subdued. He was a large man, strong and confident. When the Queen of Chim took a step back under his gaze, he said, “My daughter is entirely honest in her apology. Shall we continue the dinner now?”
It was a showdown, and Moira knew her Dad would win. The Queen ruled behind the scenes, but he was the image of a confident and capable king in public.
The Queen of Chim looked like she’d bit into a lemon. “I need a moment.”
With a slight nod of his head, her father had a servant come forward and follow the Queen as she left the banquet hall to wash away the mashed potatoes.
Moira sank into her chair ‘like a sack of potatoes,’ as her mother would say. She wanted to disappear and never take part in a banquet again.
Mari bestowed her with compassionate looks; Moira sensed them, but refused to meet her eyes. Mari would have been able to handle Milton.
And Milton? He was now stuffing mashed potatoes into his mouth, a pleased grin firmly intact.
***
A dozen servers floated past, clearing the plates, while conversations filled the room. Shortly afterward, they presented the dessert, and the scent of warm apples suffused the banquet hall. Moira picked up the dessert spoon and cracked the apple cake’s caramelized blanket with a satisfying crunch. Without savoring it, she gobbled the cake in a couple of bites. Couldn’t dinner just end? She sipped on her third glass of wine before setting it down a little too hard on the table.
Back straight, she sat rigid, waiting for time to pass.
Their mother would scold Milton, but not in front of two hundred people—and when she was finished, he would shake it off like a goose shaking off water. The Queen of Chim’s statement that Moira had been unpleasant would stand unchallenged. She sensed the glances and heard the murmurs throughout the hall—they believed the Queen. And why would they do anything but? It was painfully obvious that Moira had failed to make conversation with both the Queen and the Duke. She knew what they wrote in the newspapers about her: the shy princess. The unwilling princess.
And it was true.
She took another swig of wine as consolation, despite being aware of the futility of it all. Dad’s cheeks were flushed, and like always, he’d emptied his glass many more times than she had. Moira hated how his eyes turned red, and how his words emulsified when they passed an unruly tongue.
The plumpness of her dad’s cheeks, the sweet smell of apple pie, the murmurs of the guests, the remaining notes of grilled pheasant—it was suffocating. Swallowing the last bite of her dessert, Moira floated up from her chair and out of the banquet hall.