Fog falls off the pond. Water lilies tickle ripples across gleaming water. I wonder, how can one capture light through darkness? I lean against a stone bench and re-situate my sketchbook before staring again at the sparkling flower in front of me. My stylus aches across my hand. Angling it, I start to softly etch out the subdued reflection of the bulb. Effulgence must be implied, framed by dim mirrors. I concentrate on the flesh of the petals; sunlight ravages the top but quiets near the bottom. The blossom sways with the early morning wind, elegantly glazing through swelling undulations, yet always returning to its stem’s center — its chain. As I, it is forever tied down. “Avelina! Avelina, what are you doing out here? Alone — and in scant undergarments no less!” Margaret, my favorite maid, has a habit of whispering at a yell’s volume. “My dear, get inside at once. Especially with guests — especially with our current variety of guests — you mustn’t be spotted in this state, least of all at this hour.” Her heavy cloak and secondhand warmth consume me. I say nothing as I gather my utensils. Margaret is right: if anyone, save her, had found me in our courtyard by myself this early and without proper dress, I would be in hotter water than a boiling duck in a forgotten cauldron. As she blasts her eyes around the spacious enclosure, I steal one last look at my floating lily. I attempt to cement its hazy sublimity and effortless splendor into my mind. Margaret ratchets her hand around my shoulders and whisks me into the palace. Her grip grows ever tighter as we blaze down endless muted corridors. This is the best part of the day. Pale light sags through clouded windows, and half-asleep staff members amble through their earliest tasks as mellow ghosts, but my favorite part is the shimmer of our paintings in dreamlike illumination. Observed from certain angles, even the deadest pictures come to life — my softened vision makes way for imagination. A severe and ever so unimagined pain flies down my arm as my maid hurls me into my bedroom and shuts the door. “That is going to bruise!” I chortle far too loudly for Margaret’s liking. “Alas, it was worth it. If you had not been so busy screaming at me, you could have seen the most luscious water lily. It was drowning in the richest sunrise I have ever seen.” “Her Highness must be well aware that if she stayed a moment longer to ‘drown in the richest sunrise,’ she would have drowned, again, in the richest scolding from her Queen.” Margaret drops into one of my chairs and I watch her hand instinctively shoot to her head. “No, ‘I’ was not drowning in the sunrise, ‘the lily’ was. I was merely observing an unspeakable romance: a fiery embrace of two entities that will never truly touch — the sun and water, with the fresh blossom getting caught in-between and pierced by the love of the sun.” I slump into my frozen bed, still enjoying the fever of the bulky coat wrapped around me. “I would limit my reading of romantic poems if I were you — particularly today.” Margaret trawls herself up and out of her chair. I catch her glance back at the seat with a heavier craving than any lover for another’s lips. Yet, she stretches, regains composure, and turns to me. She tightens her face. “It is important to keep a, to keep… to keep an open mind.” Her voice languishes over the last three words. I see where this is going, so I close my eyes, literally and figuratively, hoping it will pass. She makes some feeble attempts to clean my room. I hear some of my scattered books getting stacked and papers finding a general pile. “It’s possible to make this work you know. Your father and mother came together this way as well.” At this, I sit up. “They tolerate each other, barely. Mother just had our dining table extended — as if they were not sitting far enough apart before. I would hardly call that a success.” Springing off the mattress, I toss Margaret’s cape aside and a sheet of goosebumps flutters down my back. “Ah, that is where you are wrong, Avelina. Your brother, Richard’s, and your existence validate their majesties’ marriage as victorious.” I slide over to my writing desk and gently unveil my study of the water lily. Already, the sun has sharpened. Coarse rays collide with my sketch, juxtaposing the supple marks against the brightest scrutiny. One would hardly be able to determine the subject of the picture, let alone see the wonder I tried to capture. “Useless, utterly useless.” I sigh into my desk seat. “Oh, come now — you cannot say that. You have not even laid eyes on the poor boy. If he is anything close to the painting they sent, you will be in luck.” I see Margaret begin to lay out the mountain of clothes I am to be asphyxiated by on this “very special” day. “Get up, let’s get you dressed; yesterday, the Queen sent up the gown you are to wear.” My head and shoulders limp as I stand up. “I was not even speaking of Ferdinand, yet by all accounts, he is useless as well.” Margaret helps me wrestle into my petticoat. As she fastens me up, I surrender to the tension I have always known. Rigid cloth digs into my skin in all of the wrong places. “You know, in seeking to create the finest clothing in the world, one would think something would be done to make these atrocious things more comfortable.” Margaret only laughs and brings out the kirtle, and slugs it over me. I continue my diatribe, though she has heard it on more occasions than she could count. “I mean, this is essentially just the same thing I already have on — why would anybody want two petticoats?” I grudgingly begin to meter my breath and take a “proper” posture. Today, I feel the lacings pulled tighter than usual. I speculate on whether or not she is doing it on purpose: either to make me look better or punish me for being reckless. “All right, we are down to the last layer.” I glare desperately out of a window, which has by now been robbed of all its mist. A clear morn, devoid of mystique. “Even you cannot deny that this is gorgeous,” Margaret smirks and produces a killingly vivid emerald gown. As much as I detest dressing, the piece is fantastic; equal parts satin and brocade, its artistry is tangible. Golden thread seams through the vivacious viridescent masterpiece, edging in designs of trumpeted flowerets down the sides and waist while leaving the center open and undefiled. The unadulterated fabric seductively shimmers. I want this hue as paint. I am taken aback. “How long did this take to make?” Margaret cautiously floats this masterwork over my head. As it glides over my face, it kisses my cheek. “It is hard to be certain, yet I know her Majesty has been swept up in arrangements as long as two years previous.” While I get tied up in the back, I run my hands across the center silk. An ember of a rustle escapes the weaves as I finger it. “How lovely. Ferdinand will not know what has hit him.” I let this comment go, upon the exercise of inordinate self-control. “Now that you are put together, their majesties have requested your presence. It seems they have a gift for you.” I cannot help but burst with laughter. “My father and mother up at this hour? Something must be dreadfully wrong; but even so, when have I ever refused a present?” “Actually, your highness, they have been up for quite some time. You will find them in the King’s study.” A despicable smile steals across Margaret’s mildly condescending face, “In fact, they meant to surprise you in your room… but I had… the “foresight” to recommend they let you “rest” a little longer.” Her eyebrows chuckle. “I would suggest you delay no longer, however.” I meet Margaret’s cheerily restrained eyes, “Thank you.” She nods, and I do my utmost to gracefully walk out into the hall, though I feel like a camel parading through a snowy sea. — - — When I reach my father’s study, a stiffness sweeps through me. The King, donning his military uniform, poses behind his tight-lipped queen with an arm solidly resting on her right shoulder — it is almost as if they were ripped out of the portrait that keeps watch behind them. I imagine how long they have been waiting, straining a sorry compromise of amicability and regality. His Majesty steps forward. “Darling, you look positively wonderful. Mary, I cannot commend your taste further, but again your exquisite eye has quite over-exceeded expectations.” He kisses me on the cheek, though not as softly as the praised dress did a few moments earlier. More matronly than a church’s marble statue, the queen rises, deliberately angling her head and pursing out the slightest grin. “You look angelic, dear.” I take a shaky step forward and summon a smile. “Thank you.” My parents look at each other through veils of curated affection, before my father winks at me and pulls a luxurious wooden chest from his desk. My mother nods at him, and he deftly places it in my hands; its weight catches me by surprise. “It is not every day that a King announces the betrothal of his only daughter. Open it, Avelina.” I lift the pearl-inlaid top and gasp. These are the most opulent emeralds I have ever seen, fixed in pure gold on earrings and a thick necklace. “Thank you, Papa, but—” “You are very welcome. You are already wearing your mother’s gift — maybe she can help you put mine on.” As my dad steps back, I turn and hold the jewelry box out to my mom, who silently ornaments me. Her hands are ice — I cannot differentiate her touch from the cold of the gold. The metal hangs heavily on and from my skin. I feel like a holiday tree, fully fledged with tinsel. A few moments pass with my parents’ fixedly deliberate and appreciative gaze upon me. My mother breathes out, “beautiful,” a total of three times. Suddenly, the atmosphere snaps. The King reclines into his favorite chair and the queen toes the ground beside him. Seeing my static state, my father motions to the open couch opposite his. I sit, cautious and overtly mindful of my gown’s sensitive nature. “Now, today is important for a multiplicity of reasons, not least of which is your betrothal.” The King fastidiously twists his largest ring. “You see, plans have been ‘updated,’ as recently as last night.” My mother steps forward with distasteful amusement coloring her face. “We have been presented with an exciting ‘opportunity.’” She starts to “shark-circle” me, “As you recall, our previous arrangement was for Ferdinand to come here, to stay, as you two begin your life together; however, after a highly providential discussion last evening with our visiting king, it has been determined that the optimal place to start your new life with the duke is not here.” My lips reach for words; none are found. “It is decided. You will leave with him tomorrow.” “But I—“ “I expect you will be pleasantly surprised when Ferdinand proffers this proposal to you. What an exquisite thing, to be wed.” “Why—“ “All proper preparations have been made — this is not a negotiation. That was yesterday.” “But I was not even consulted.” “There was no need for you to be.” A frigid satisfaction melts across my progenitors. I close my eyes. My sumptuous jewels crush my chest, as my throat chokes on itself. Everyone has a ball and chain as every flower has a stem. Gold or green, all beauty has a price.