Seven Deadly Sons

Melanie. (15)

Tonight was the night before the summer solstice in the Other.

I had spent the rest of my evening the previous night trying to convince every strange person I met to change the colour of my bedroom, again. Red was certainly awful to look at for obvious reasons, but it was always better with the devil you knew. 

Out of the frying pan, and straight into the fire. 

I could no longer stand the black bed, black fabric walls, the huge drapes blocking out all the light. It was too much, and one of these psychopaths would know how to change it. 

The Prince had managed to switch the colours so quickly that the only logical answer was a trick of the light, but the sun had risen and the colour was still the ungodly black. 

Though, meeting lot's of the courts patrons had had some uses. A blonde woman with skin painted an odd shade of lime had ignored my question and instead gushed about the coming celebrations. "Have you not heard?" she had questioned, shocked. "Do you not have any dresses either? How vulgar! My seamstress shall send some." I had no idea how these dresses would find me, she knew neither my name nor which room I resided in. 

Did I just say resided in my head? Oh, my posh routes are definitely clawing their way back out the depths of scars and rough nights. 

As soon as tomorrows day dawns, the partying would be both raucous and endless, another green woman explained beside the balustrade; drinks will pour until months end, dresses will be ruined and the shoemaker will be inundated with re-soling requests. The floor will only be cleared in the moments between songs, the servants quickly swooping in and removing any damage they can before the crowds converge again, often taking waiters with them.

I thought about that word: convergence.

Brushing through the my copper-black hair a third time, I considered if I would know if I was in the throes of convergence. Throughout history, the fates have supposedly controlled mass gatherings of people. Witches converged in death, slaves converged for boycotting and knights converged at round tables. People were always brought together in large numbers, perhaps just coincidentally. I decide I would not know, and I am glad for it. Some are cursed with knowing too many thoughts. 

My maid — a disgraced ex-lentil picker for the king himself, how thoughtful — quickly entered my room and began laying out all kinds of potions and pottery for my hairstyles. She'd tried to sign to me earlier in the day what hairstyle I would prefer for each night of the celebrations, but I could not make out a single letter, let alone word. I have never learnt to write before I came to Other, I could not speak any other languages and I certainly could not sign — it wasn't even a known language to learn when I was a child.

"I do pity you so", I thought sadly, fiddling with the makeup brush on my lap. The bristles were so soft, it was comforting. Where did that thought come from? I wondered briefly.

She would have been devastating in her prime; natural curly bleach blonde hair down to her waist — in typical princess following fashion — curvy hips and a waist so small I secretly believed she'd had ribs removed. When she stood to attention at my door as she usually does, her legs create a teardrop shape so perfect it is as though someone had stressed a marble statue. And her face! The curves of her cheekbones and arch of her brow were so alike that of the Prince of Passion I'm surprised they are not related in some manner. All these attributes coupled with the sensual way she walks and moves, she'd have me sweating should I have been so inclined.

"Is the iron hurting you today?"

The criss-cross of wires to seal her mouth shut disfigured a once-perfect bow. She'd had both eyes stitched and sealed shut to match, ensuring that she would never miss a lentil or discuss trade openly again — supposedly an honour and kindness from the Lord his Kingliness. The area around the wires was particularly sore today and I had to wonder if someone was hurting her intentionally.