aurora | 1952

20

November 22nd, 1952

Today I have a morning date, which is wonderful because I hate mornings. I woke up at 6 am today, just to get ready for some guy who wants to marry the girl I took place of. God knows how I even found the courage to drag myself from my bed a minute ago. I doubt that Maggie is awake yet, and I figure it's best to let her sleep. She's been really helpful with things I'm plenty used to doing on my own, so she deserves it. For starting a job that's far from what she did before, Maggie is doing better than I could've imagined.

I file through my closet, my fingers sorting through dress after dress. Another thing I never used to do is wear dresses, but I'm not about to complain about them. I don't see why people think they're that bad, they're by far more comfortable than my usual trousers that I'd worn before.. well, you know. I do miss pants sometimes, though. I pull a light purple and white dress around my torso, one of those dresses that has laces in the back instead of just pulling it on. I turn my back to the mirror and crank my neck around, the strings slipping through my fingers. I try not to scream "Fuck!" every time that damn string falls out of my hand. Maybe dresses are that bad.

Knock.. Knock.

I don't bother to turn to the door. "Come in," I barely manage to get it out with my scratchy morning voice. I clear my throat as Maggie enters with a tray.

"Oh, Aurora! Good morning, Miss." She curtsies after setting my breakfast on my desk. "As soon as I heard your date would be early, I rushed over-" Maggie makes her way behind me in the mirror and quickly works her way through tying the strings with ease. It's truly a skill by itself.

"You're a savior, thank you Maggie." I turn to give her a half-hug. I'm not sure why I did it, but when I step away, her pale face has a blush over it. I smile as I walk over to my breakfast, and offer for Maggie to stay and share some. She accepts, and we chat through most of the morning. With her, my day is already looking up.

꧁꧂

At 9:17, I leave the castle to head to the location I was given for my next date. The sun is just warming up to the day, and the only people walking along the sidewalks are businessmen and shop clerks. I walk over the bridge that leads into the entry of the castle, nodding to the guards as I rub my hands over my arms in attempt to warm up. What did I expect? For November to be warm? I scold myself for forgetting a coat as I recall the area I should go to.

"Now, the young man told me you'd go over the bridge, then to the right, towards the water." Florence looked confused herself as she explained the location. "There must be a path of some sorts going down. I wouldn't expect anyone to direct a princess straight into grass and mud." The way she says it is the same degrading way the others do. And she's supposed to be my mother.

I will admit though, like Florence, I was expecting at least a stone path off to the right of the bridge. But as far as I can see, it is mud and grass. Without hesitation, I step into the green blades of grass, immediately squirming as they tickle my ankles. I'll do whatever to prove myself to Florence, even if I am my only witness. And anyways, it's not any different from when I was a kid running through a field.

I pick my dress up by the area near my hips and crane my neck to look around near the river. I'm just about to turn around as I clash with someone's chest. I fall back onto my butt, my tailbone sending a zing up my spine. I wince, closing my eyes while apologies are repeated over and over by someone with a thick accent that I can't identify. Definitely European.

I feel a calloused hand grab my own and pull me to my feet, without concern of hurting my arm as he pulls at it. I brush myself off, combing through my hair with my fingers as I awkwardly smile, a little ticked off. The suitor helps brush off my shoulder before reaching out his hand, this time to shake mine. "My name is Johan Holm, and I'm sorry." He says as he shakes my hand. I look up at him, and notice browline glasses that cover his dark green eyes. "You're fine, it's- alright." I say in an exhale. There's nothing to really get mad about. I look down at his other hand as it holds about three paintbrushes, with two canvases tucked under his arm.

"Thank you," He says in a way that sounds like he's starting a sentence he doesn't plan on finishing. He gestures further down the river, and takes my hand, gentler than how he had before. We don't talk as we walk, which I would mind more if he seemed like he minded. He hums quieter than I've ever heard someone hum before, the early birds chirps along his hums making a symphony. He leads us to two easels, and I try not to say something as I realize-

He thinks I know art. Which I really don't. I'm sure that if I touch one of those brushes to the canvas, I would make a fool out of myself. Johan walks over to the easel on the left, and I stand in front of the one to the right. "I see you come prepared!" I say with a smile, other than telling him I can't do art for shit. I look at him as he softly laughs, handing me a paint brush.

"Yes, well, my Father was always so.. Organized. I get it from him." He laughs, and I realize that he may not be a native English speaker. I notice that he doesn't have much tone in his voice when he talks, and the name Johan doesn't sound too English. He pulls the canvases from his arm, setting them on each of our easels. I nod in thanks, and watch as he grabs a paint palette from his satchel.

Right when I'm about to question where he'll get the paints, he picks a bundle of grass near his shoe, and uses the end of his paintbrush to roll the pigment from the grass, crushing the blades into pieces. My eyebrows come together as I squint to watch him better, and he looks up at me. "You can try too," He says as he grabs more grass for me, and I cautiously squeeze some pigment from the grass using the paintbrush.

I try to hide my excitement, like a child offered candy. Once Johan gets enough pigment, he dips the bristle part of the brush into the new paint, and strokes a line across his canvas. The amount of water that's in the grass decides how dark the paint is, I'm guessing by the way Johan is careful with where he collects the paint from on the palette before each brushstroke. I'm just glad to have an excuse as to why my painting won't be spectacular.