My Dear Damsel

Chapter 3

His clothes feel weird—I can actually move in them. The boots are soft and surprisingly comfortable. The loose ends of my severed hair keep tickling my neck, and my heavily gloved hands keep reaching up to brush the short, wispy ends. I'm certain it looks a mess—people keep casting mildly puzzled glances my way—but it doesn't look like me. I'm pretty sure that, and the caked-on makeup I scrubbed off, are the only things keeping me unrecognized. 

The strike from my mother—my fists curl; I force them to unfurl—left a red mark that's begun to bruise and will certainly deepen considerably soon enough. I walk casually past people whose faces I vaguely recognize from some encounter or another. 

I'm still rattled from the encounter. It's not the first time men have tried to assault me, but who the hell would have the audacity to try it in my own home? 

The knife rests securely in one of the many pockets. I love pockets! Why don't dresses have pockets? I force myself to focus, to not lapse into shock. Which would be so easy. I'm scared, so as always my mind is running twice as fast, clouding reality with aimless chatter and babble. It keeps me busy and alert. Maybe that's why the upper classes talk about nothing so much. Keeps them together. 

Its cool, deadly weight is familiar and reassuring. I've been trained with a variety of weapons—knives, daggers, a couple kinds of swords, and a bow and arrow. I sucked at archery, but I was always good at close-range combat. 

My twin sister taught me how to fight. She was only taught, though, because everyone thinks she's a he because that's the body she was stuck with. She's gone now, away on some mission that requires the immediate assistance of the crown prince. 

I miss her. Mother's always a bit better when she's around. I mean, she'd probably disown her if she knew, but me and Ree are both smart enough not to tell. 

"Prince" Arion's actually a girl. Princess Sorena likes girls. Goddamn, what a disappointing mess we are. 

There are guards at the door. I panicked briefly, praying they don't notice, and do my best to regulate my breathing. 

I'm almost at the door. Aside from the judgemental glances concerning my hair, I've pretty much just been ignored. 

I stuff my hands in my pockets and try to walk out the door. 

"Who're you?" A gruff voice  cuts through my nonchalant exterior.

"I'm—" oh god, I don't know. Hi, I'm your princess. Don't mind me, I'm just dressed in the stolen clothing of the wannabe rapist I left unconscious on that  balcony over there!

Actually... would that work?

Damnit. Focus, Renny. 

"I'm..." 

One of the two guards, very heavily armed men with extremely visible and bulgy and intimidating muscles, raises an unimpressed eyebrow. 

Okay. Um. Blue through it. I'm good at bluffing, aren't I? It's just spinning stories and filtering in little bits  of truth. 

Authority. Acting. One of them have a buzz cut. I look him dead in the eyes. "What's your security clearance?" I ask him. 

The other one, with a rigid scar that follows his eyebrow down his cheek, lets his hand travel down his leg to where a small crossbow sits. "Answer the question." 

Come on, come on—I've listened in on countless royal meetings of every variety. There has to be some kid of code—

Ah. Yes. Perfect. That's the one.  

I look from Buzz Cut to Scar Eye. "It's Lily of the Valley." 

They both suck in a breath. "Wha—" Buzz cut's clearly stupefied. Hey, that's all in my favour right now, but that doesn't bode well for the palace's general security. If this were a real emergency, we'd be screwed. 

"Yeah. I need to—" I gesture vaguely outside. 

"O-of course. We're very sorry for any holdup we may have caused." Buzz Cut looks around nervously. Scar Eye nods with every word. Smiling confidently, I walk out the ballroom. 

God, my heart's lodged in my throat. I can barely breathe. It's summer, so despite the time the sun's only just beginning its descent downwards. 

I haven't been to the main market much in my life. As princess, I've never needed to go. Now I find myself scared and out of place. Along with bakeries, milliner's shops, and clothing stores, little carts and tables line the sidewalks, selling everything from jewelry to woodworks to tiny, intricate contraptions with uses  I can't even begin to imagine. It's wide awake with laughter and chatter, like the ballroom but freer. 

Dad did a wonderful job running the kingdom. Poverty rates are at an all-time low; less than one percent. We're one of the most economically stable kingdoms in all of Wisteria—which is one of the reasons Ree's gone so much. She does all kinds of social work. 

I'm still not entirely sure what I'm doing. Am I leaving? Am I running away? Am I forfeiting my role as princess?

All I really want to forfeit is my role as my mothers daughter. 

My mind swirls as I wonder  what impact my actions will have. I stroll mindlessly down the street, all concern for going unnoticed gone for the moment. Right now, all I need is a place to stay for the night. 

The leeries get to work lighting the lamps. The lazy dying sunlight mingles with the bright, hungry glow of waxy flames. Soon angry shadows will start to creep over everything. 

I spot a tavern across the street and make my way there. The man I knocked out had some money on him, which should be enough to buy me a place for the night. 

The dully painted sign says Angel's Rest. Instead of shouting out its name, though, the dingy lettering and fading colours give the illusion of it being more like a hushed whisper. The windows are greasy but still see-through, and I can tell that the place is packed. Boisterous laughter, bellowed swear words, and clinking glasses fill the air as I push open the squeaky, un-oiled door. 

No one pays me any mind as I walk up to the bar, where a young, pretty woman with a flowered vine tattoo encircling her forearm turns to me. "Whadiya need?" 

"Um." I begin. I've never actually had to, like, buy something. It feels like all eyes in the room are burning into me, though rationally I know no one gives a shit. "A—a room?"

I decide I don't like buying stuff. Or asking for stuff. Or, you know, talking to people. No people would be nice. Human interaction is awful. 

The woman looks me up and down. I smile weakly. Fuck. That was forced. 

"You look young. You sure you can pay for a room?"

I hold up the bag of coins. "How much?"

She checks a piece of paper tacked to the wall behind her. "Five bits." 

"Great." I rummage through the bag and retrieve the money. She hands me a small wooden disk with the number 9 scrawled on it in dark ink and points towards a set of stairs tucked around the corner. 

She didn't seem suspicious of me, aside from the fact that I looked young. That's pretty good. Logically I know that no one really has a reason to question, but logic and I aren't always on speaking terms. 

The room's small.  It's got nothing but yellow wallpaper with stains I'd prefer not to investigate, a desk shoved into the corner, and a tiny, hastily made bed. A flickering, spitting lamp rests on the desk. I can smell grease and alcohol and cheap sex. 

I spot a second door on one of the walls. Opening it, I find a small, reeking bathroom. I shut the door quickly. 

The sounds of useless revelry seep up through the floorboards, providing a soundtrack that completely opposes my miserable thought process. 

I consider every angle. Every move I could've taken, didn't take, could still take. I run through what I believe to be every scenario. The one thing I never consider though, is going back. 

The loud screaming of my thoughts eventually fade to a persistent murmuring. I can't sleep, though. 

So I lie there, wide awake and restless, until the annoyingly bright glow of a new, different life greet me with the morning.