Maristella had always known she was special. Well, not special. Her mother had always made sure she knew she was everything but special. Different. That was the word. Maristella had always known she was different. She didn’t have a normal life. Yet again, her mother made sure of that. But it was beyond that…it was as if there was something in her blood–something that made her stand out. Something that made her shine. Which is why her mother had named her star of the sea.

Technically, they didn’t live anywhere near the sea. The nearest sea was miles away, but they did live close to a raging river, one that was constantly flooding and causing endless headaches and lost crops which meant less food for everyone. So it was close enough, as her mother always said.

Another thing different about Maristella was that her existence was concealed from almost everyone. She could count the people who knew her name on her right hand. This was because of her mother, of course. Before they had moved to Attlenstain, Maristella had had friends. Everyone in the village had known her name, not because of her mother or her personality or her smartness, but because of her…differences. The ones that Maristella had always known were a part of her from the very beginning.

For one thing, Maristella was beautiful. No, not just beautiful. Breathtaking. Dazzling. Stunning. Enchanting. It was unnatural. She was the most riveting, pure, lovely creature you could ever hope to lay your eyes upon. Some people stopped dead when they first saw her. Their jaws dropped, their eyes widened like saucers. Then they’d look around for the source of her beauty. In other words, her mother.

This always hurt her mother, because she didn’t exactly…well she wasn’t as…eye catching as Maristella. Her limp, brown hair usually was unkempt and dirty. She had dull, brown eyes, a fat nose, and a double chin. Her back was bent over after years of working as a low-class slave. People weren’t very good at hiding their shock when they realized that Maristella’s mom was, well…Maristella’s mom. 

This was part of the reason why Maristella’s mother didn’t like their old village. The other reason was because Maristella’s father lived there. 

Maristella missed many things about Srlovak, but she didn’t usually miss her father. Perhaps this sounds cruel, but it’s just the truth. Maristella was never particularly close to either of her parents, but her father was even more distant than her mother. Yes, he occasionally showed up for her birthday. Sometimes he’d wave at her when they passed in the streets. On a few occasions, she’d spent the weekend at his house, when her mother just couldn’t take it anymore. But her father, if anything, was only useful for when Maristella needed a break from the endless beatings and misery. He hardly ever talked to her. Whenever they were left alone together, which was rare, awkward silence filled the space between them.

To be honest, Maristella found this silence relieving. She needed a break from her mother’s ceaseless rush of words, the vast majority of them angry and horrible. Her father hardly looked at her, and when he did he never found anything to criticize, unlike her mother. Mostly, she had noticed, he looked a little baffled, as if he couldn’t believe he had birthed something so beautiful.

So Maristella only missed her father when she was tired of her mother’s harsh words. That made Maristella sound like a horrible person. But she wasn’t really, was she? She had a good heart, didn’t she? People didn’t just like her because of her differences, right? Well, that’s what this whole story is about.

So…where were we? Ah, yes! Adara–er–Maristella’s differences! You’ve heard about one of them of course; her beauty! Are you ready to hear the second? 

Maristella’s mother made sure no one–absolutely no one–heard about this difference. This difference wasn’t as obvious as Maristella’s beauty. It could be hidden, and Maristella’s mother made sure it was hidden. She didn’t like all the attention going to Maristella’s head, or rather, she didn’t like all the attention going to Maristella.

You see, Maristella had the most lovely, pure voice anyone had ever heard. It wasn’t just that, it was if…how do I explain it? It was as if the whole world faded away and all you could hear was those beautiful sweet notes that she sang. 

She could make you feel anything she wanted you to feel. In just four notes, you could experience the tragic loss of a family member. In just two, she could make you feel happy and elated, as light as a feather, as if you didn’t have a care in the world. Her voice could be your delirium or it could be your downfall. It was up to her. It was as if she had all your emotions at her control. She could make you feel anything.

Anyway, she wasn’t allowed to use this gift for anyone but her mother. Her mother abused this gift. She made Maristella sing happiness and praise every single night. Maristella’s mother took advantage of Maristella’s gifts. 

Maristella, at least up until when she left her mother, kept her thoughts to herself. Usually she complied with her mother’s commands, even if she didn’t like them. She knew her place in the world. Now, like I said earlier, she could count the number of people who knew her name on one of her hands. She didn’t have any people friends, at least in Attlenstain. But…she did have animal friends.

Which leads us to Maristella’s third gift. 

You see, Maristella could talk to animals. This was the one gift her mother didn’t know about. She had had many friends in the woods when she lived in Srlovak. Foxes, birds, badgers, coyotes. Mice and rabbits. Stray dogs and cats. 

One time, Maristella’s father had taken her to the zoo. He told her to look around while he got a bite to eat. Maristella had had the time of her life talking to exotic animals. She was still pen pals with a peacock she had met there.

Anyway, Maristella made sure that no one knew about this gift. It was her one secret. The thing she could lean on when she was having a horrible day and just needed someone to talk to. All she would have to do is ask to go outside. Then the animals would come to her.

So…that’s the background for Maristella’s story. I’ve only left one part out. You may have wondered why Maristella’s existence was concealed. It’s because her mother’s job didn’t allow children. Maristella’s mother worked in the castle.

She was a servant for the queen, Queen Vakra, who was married to King Balthasar. They were a good king and queen; they had ruled for many, many years. The one bad thing I can say about them is they were extremely old-fashioned. Everything had to be done the old and proper way. For instance: Servants were not allowed to have children. No exceptions! 

Maristella’s mother had always fancied herself living up in a great big palace. So when she heard that the queen of Attlenstain was looking for a new lady-in-waiting, she jumped on the opportunity to leave Srlovak. And who cared if she was breaking a few rules along the way, like bringing her eight-year old daughter with her?

Maristella’s mother had left her daughter in the village square while she entered the palace for her job interview. That’s right. Without anyone watching her. She sat Maristella down on a tree stump and told her not to leave or else. Being the dutiful child that she was, Maristella didn’t move. 

Maristella’s mother ended up getting the job and moving into a small servant’s room. She came back and told Maristella, then told her to stay on the tree stump until the dead of night, which is when she came back and smuggled Maristella into the palace.

Anyway, that’s the background for Maristella’s story. Let’s fast-forward a few years, to when Maristella is fourteen.

“ I’ll be back for lunch. Don’t leave. Don’t sing.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Maristella’s mother slammed the door behind her as she left to serve the queen her breakfast. Maristella sank down on her mother’s bed and stared dejectedly out the one tiny window. She was fourteen and she hadn’t left this room in months. The one thing that she loved, singing, was the one thing she wasn’t supposed to do. Not that she listened to that rule. 

Maristella got up and brushed out her silvery hair. Most of the time, she sat at the window and just watched the castle grounds. People crossed over them all the time.

She had names for some of the people that passed, like Mr. Grumpy, the caretaker of the gardens, who passed every day at promptly noon. He always looked mad and red in the face.

Or kind-hearted Ms. Willtonshire. Maristella had always liked her. She was the prince’s caretaker. Why he needed a caretaker, Maristella didn’t know. He had just turned fifteen. 

Occasionally, Maristella glimpsed the prince or the queen or the king. She didn’t like any of them. How could she, when they were the reason for her misery, trapped up in this room year after year?

The queen was vain, the king was a blind old bat who just wanted to live in luxury, and the prince…

She wasn’t sure about the prince. She supposed he was vain, just like his mother, but Maristella’s mother barely talked about him so it was hard to know. Perhaps he wasn't quite as bad as the king and queen though, because she’d heard that they were having a very hard time making him follow the “old fashioned” rules. Still though, he was royalty.

Maristella sank down into the chair next to her window. She began to sing one of her favorite songs, a sad ballad. 

Things have changed.

Ain't like they use to be.

Our lives have come between us

What more can I believe?

Won't tell me what you're thinking

Don't tell me it's ok.

The thing you are avoiding 

Has made me feel this way. 

You need to talk to me

Tell me that you care

The little things, you do, but

There's one that can't compare.

Talk to me

Don't just tell me what to do.

The little things are sweet, but

There's more for me and you.

You know just what I'm saying

You know that I know too.

Don't let our lives mislead us 

There's more that we can do.

You need to talk to me

Look into my eyes.

We can be so much better. If you realize. (that)

You need to talk to me

Tell me that you care

The little things you do, but there's one that can't compare.

Talk to me...share with me, care with me....

Maristella practiced the feelings of deep depression and horrible sadness. By the end of the song, she was confident if anyone would’ve heard her they would’ve been on their knees crying.

She sighed. What was the use? No one would ever hear her sing anyway, besides her mother. And she’d never sing emotions like that to her mother. Many times she’d wanted to, but she was good at squashing her feelings down and not letting them reach her songs.

She tried to keep herself busy while she stayed home alone all day. She cleaned. Cooked whatever she could using their meager pantry. Sang and sometimes danced. Wrote stories, poems, songs. Sometimes a bird would fly near her window and she’d call out to it. They’d have a nice long chat inside. 

But that was the extent of her life. 

Most girls her age were probably having wild adventures. They were dreaming of new gowns and silk slippers and marrying and how they looked. And here Maristella was; feeling utterly alone with no one to talk to, even though she would have every boy crooning over her if she was allowed out of the dreadful castle.

It was her mother’s fault. But how could she escape her mother’s firm hold on her life?

Maristella hated to admit it, but her mother scared her terribly. Once, and only once, Maristella had dared to sneak out of the flat. It had been the middle of the afternoon, and Maristella was so sick of the boring, gray room. They had just moved in and she was young. There was nothing interesting to do! She had decided to explore the castle and maybe try and get outside for a few minutes; it had been weeks and weeks since she had breathed in fresh air.

Unfortunately, she ran into her mother. Maristella had been walking down the hall absentmindedly, taking in the splendid murals and the rich tones of a choir that was obviously meeting in a nearby room, when all of a sudden her mother had turned the corner bearing a tray laden with delicate lemon cookies and tea. 

She had taken one look at Maristella and dropped the tray. China crashed, tea spilled, and the scent of lemony goodness had filled the air. Maristella’s mother had grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back to the flat as fast as she could go, her other hand clamped around Maristella’s mouth to keep her from screaming. 

Once they were back in their room together, Maristella’s mother had locked the door and turned around. 

“You’re a nasty little girl, you are.” She had growled through gritted teeth. “Nobody loves you. I don’t love you! You almost just lost me my job, that’s whatcha did, you little rat! Good little girls would’ve never done that! No one will ever like ya, not me, your daddy, not nobody! You need some punishment!”

With that her mother had advanced and slapped her right across the cheek. It stung and left an angry red welt. 

“Ow!” Maristella had wailed in protest. “I’m just so tired of this room, mommy! I wasn’t trying to be mean!”

Slap! Her mother had slapped her again. “Well, you were. I hope this teaches you a lesson, girl. If ya ever sneak out again…well, I don’t know what I’m gonna do, but it’s sure gonna be a lot worse than this.”

So. That was why Maristella feared her mother. And that wasn’t the worst her mother had done, either. No, there had been many worse times, ones Maristella hated to recall. Maristella remembered writing her very first song after the incident. She laughed as she remembered how bad it was. She sang it softly to herself.

As I watch, my mother slams the door

Things ain’t right between us no more

I messed up, but I don’t know why

She won’t tell me, all I know is I have to comply

I try to make things right over and over again

But nothing seems to work, my friend, my friend

I love ballads, and now I’m writing one

I hope my sorrows cease before my life is done

In Maristella’s defense, she had written it as a nine-year old. Not bad, for that age she thought to herself absentmindedly, slowly twirling a piece of her silvery-blond hair over and over around her finger. 

Maristella opened The Folder, as she called it. It was a folder that she kept hidden from her mother. She kept it under a loose floorboard. In The Folder was every song, poem, or story she had ever written. You may be wondering where she got the paper. Well, truth be told, she didn’t use paper. She used toilet paper. 

I mean, think about it. What other options did she have?

Maristella rifled through the hundreds of squares of toilet paper, searching for something interesting to sing. She found a song she had written a long time ago that had a catchy tune and interesting lyrics.

People have a right to their own opinion
But how do you know that yours is right?
Does it have principles the world can rely on?
Does it banish hurt and selfish pride?

We each have a right to a personal opinion
But not who should live or who should die.
That decision isn’t ours.. We don’t have the power
To change a heart and read a mind.

Stop negative thoughts and harmful deceptions.
Start to show that you care and know how to love.
Our world can transcend divisions and borders.
Share a vision of this earth that comes from above.

Life’s a precious gift so use yours wisely.
Life is always sacred and not yours to take.
If you want to make this world a better place
Banish the anger and show love not hate.

Show the world that love is the only answer.
Show the world we can live without tears and pain.
Show the world a life without stress or confusion.
Show the world that peace can remain.

She had written this one all by herself, and she was quite proud of it. It was a very good song, in her opinion. The tune was even better. 

It was terribly hot in the room – the dead of summer, she supposed. She fanned herself with her hand, failing at cooling her overheated body. She panted from lack of water, too, because the bottles that her mother occasionally brought in had run out. 

Suddenly, there was a light tap on her window. Delightedly, Maristella ran over and unlatched the rust hinge with difficulty. She finally pried it open enough for Pixon to squeeze through.

“Sorry about that.” She said regretfully.

Pixon ruffled his wings and smoothed them out. “Ah, us robins are used to getting jostled. Don’t worry about it, Mar.”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t like that nickname!” She laughed. She was so very happy to have company, especially on such a lonely, boring day.

“Sorry, then.” He said briskly. He was a very matter-of-fact bird. “I’m just stopping by for a few minutes–it won’t be a long visit.”

“Oh, but it’s so good to have company!” Maristella said happily. “Let me get you something to eat.”

She went over to their shelf that stored all their food.

“Would a little bit of corn be alright?”

“Yes, that would hit the spot, Mar…istella.” She laughed as she scraped some of it off a cob and into a plastic bowl.

“Here you go, Pixon.”

He looked at her fondly. All the animals in the area were smitten with Maristella, even if they couldn’t visit her up close and personal like some of the birds could. 

Maristella knew all their names and she occasionally sent down cards and gifts.

“How are Twinkle, Sadie, and Mints doing?” Maristella asked politely.

“Ah, well, you know, just the usual sibling squabbles.” Pixon finished his corn. “I miss them during the day though, while I search for food. I know it is the duty of the father, but they’re my children and I wish I could see them more.”

“I understand,” Maristella said sympathetically, even though she didn’t. “I’ve always wanted a sibling, but mother says I’m enough work, and she’s divorced anyway.”

“Well your mother is a much bigger piece of work than you are.” Pixon said. “I’m very sorry that you have to be cooped up in this room all the time. I wish I could help in some way.”

“Oh, but you do!” Maristella replied. “You give me something to look forward to! I’m so glad you stopped by.”

“It’s always a delight.” Pixon said pompously. “I’ll try to stop by more often. It’s been too long.”

“It has,” Maristella sighed. “I know you’re busy with hunting and all that, but it gets so dreadfully lonely up in this room. I wish I could talk to you more.”

“I will try to stop by later this week.” Pixon said.

“Thank you!” Maristella said, a huge smile spreading across her whole face.

“Yes, yes, of course, Mar. Now I’d better be going.”

“Already?” She sighed. 

“Yes, I’m anxious to do some hunting. I will see you later.” 

“Alright, goodbye, Pixon.” She pried open the window again, and watched sadly as he flew away.

“There goes all the company I’ll see today.” She said dejectedly to herself.

Maybe I’m being too selfish, she thought. I sometimes get enough to eat, and I’m incredibly talented in many ways. I had lots and lots of friends in Srlovak. I still have friends here, too, like Pixon. 

Her mother was always telling her that she was a no-good selfish rat. Maybe she was right, just this once. 

No, Maristella thought again. I could be a lot more selfish, but I’m not. I usually don’t argue with my mother, even when she beats me. A selfish person wouldn’t do that, right? When mother forgets to feed me I don’t even yell or cry. I just accept it. I suppose I’m a good person then.

As if on cue, Maristella’s stomach gave out a humongous growl. She went over to the dusty brown shelf that held all of their food. She reached up and grabbed a very bruised, soft apple, as well as a piece of plain, wheat bread. 

An unapeasing meal, but at least she had a meal. Sometimes she’d go without for as long as a few days. Her mother, as well as not being a very good parent, was an extremely forgetful person.

It was a very monotonous, stodgy day. Maristella meticulously dusted the small flat, and picked up the ragged, filthy clothes that her mother had dumped on the floor before she left for work. She sang all day long, practicing her high notes and the emotions. She cooked some grits for dinner, and then she sat down on the floor, since they didn’t have a desk, and she wrote the first chapter of a story she had come up with in her head.

Chapter 1, she wrote feverishly, her stubby pencil flying over the wrinkled squares of toilet paper.

Phoebe didn’t put up with anyone or anything that got in her way. She had gone through too many heartbreaks, too many promises that fell through the cracks, and too many people who promised to keep her safe. They never could. Ever.

She didn’t know why. She wasn’t that beautiful or charming or outgoing. She just had bad luck. It seemed she was always in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Her waste of a life had made her hard on the edges, like a burnt pastry. She wouldn’t let anyone near her heart, not anymore. 

She traveled from place to place, never staying, just taking enough to stay alive, nothing more. It was the only way for her to stay happy, she thought. Humans would always fail, and she couldn’t experience heartbreak one more time.

“Would you like an extra blanket, honey?” the aged innkeeper’s wife asked her, smiling. “It gets quite cold up in the room at night.”

“No,” Phoebe said harshly, averting her gaze. 

“Are you quite well?” she stooped down, peering at Phoebe over the rim of her spectacles. “Where are your parents?”

Phoebe forced herself to answer politely. “I’m sorry, ma'am. I’m very tired. It’s just me and my papa, and we traveled all night. He is already in the room. He checked in with your husband.”

“Oh, you poor dear! Would you like a cup of hot cocoa or something else special?”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you though.”

“Of course. You’re in room two. Head upstairs and it’s directly on your left.”

Phoebe forced herself to grin. The moment she was on the stairs her face returned to its usual scowl. She hated talking to people. It made her feel all squeamish and itchy everywhere. She had to make up stories and smile. Phoebe couldn’t remember the last time she actually smiled for real. 

She opened the door and it squeaked loudly. She screamed silently in her head. If she had to get out of here in the dead of night, that door was going to be a giveaway. She decided to prop it open just enough for her to squeeze through if needed. She was extremely underweight, so there wasn’t much space for anything else to come in.

She took a glance around the room. A cheery fire was in the corner, a small stack of firewood waiting next to it. On the bed was a bright patchwork quilt and some overstuffed pillows. 

The whole place was old and faded, but somehow the innkeepers had made it seem bright and cozy at the same time.

Phoebe noted the window. She could also make an escape by jumping down onto the roof below it, as it was less than ten feet below. 

Finally she curled up on the bed like a cat, her amber eyes glancing around furtively, expecting an attack. After about an hour she finally drifted off.

Maristella stopped. She was tired of writing, and she was bored. She decided to take a nap. She curled up on her mothers cot (she slept on the floor) and fell asleep in an instant.

“Get up, you idiot!”

SLAP! Maristella’s head began to spin. 

SLAP! SLAP! 

“What did I say! Get up!” 

Maristella slowly opened her eyes. She wished that the room would stop spinning in circles. She tried to stand up, but ended up falling back on the bed. Her feet collapsed under her as she dizzily felt the top of her head. There was already a humongous bump.

“Get UP, you lazy bum.”

Maristella forced herself to roll off the bed. She then slowly sat up and looked up at her mother.

She was red in the face and looked as mean as she had ever.

“The grits burned.” She panted, her huge chest heaving up and down. She didn’t even look that angry though, more like she was happy and excited to be able to beat Maristella. “You need a punishing for that, girl.”

“Please,” Maristella said anxiously, her head still spinning. “I’m really sorry, I really am, mother. It was an accident. It’s just–”

She wasn’t even able to finish her sentence. Maristella’s mother advanced, her left hand drawn in a wicked, merciless fist, a cruel smile playing along the edges of her lips. She looked unnaturally happy.

She punched Maristella as hard as she could in the stomach.

“Please stop,” Maristella cried out as she writhed on the floor. “Ow, ow, ow.” She gasped in deep pain.

“Oh, you think that hurts?” Maristella’s mother laughed. She grabbed a whip hanging on a nearby hook and yanked Maristella onto her back. 

The whip hit Maristella’s back with a jolt so hard Maristella swore it felt like a bolt of lightning. Her body heaved upwards and she fell back upon the wooden floor with a tremendous thud. The whip spikes had slashed at the top of her back, and she could now feel the blood trickling down it, probably soaking through her shirt. 

She cried out once more, her back and stomach burning, her whole body feeling like it was on fire with angry rage. Hot, acidic tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and she fought to push them away. She would not be weak like her mother wanted her to be. She would not. She fought to remain conscious as the belt buckle hit her again and again and again.

The sounds of her agony mixed in with the horrible laugh of her mother as she beat her only daughter, tearing her to shreds, ripping her dignity and composure into pieces that could never be healed.

After at least fifty lashes, Maristella went unconscious. She woke up much later alone in a pool of her own blood. The lights were off, and it was dark outside. Her mother must’ve gone down to the bar in the village. That was the only place she ever went outside of work. 

Maristella lay there for a while, scared to sit up and feel the hot, blazing pain. She finally tried to sit up, and she groaned in agony as her back sent jolts of fire through her body. She almost blacked out again, but she forced herself to remain conscious. 

She leaned heavily on the bed and tried to raise herself to a standing position. She was able to do it, but then she vomited all over the floor.

The vomit mixed in with the blood, creating a vile, disgusting mess of Maristella’s own waste, a reminder of the damage her mother had inflicted on her. The lashes would cause scars, and the scars would be a permanent reminder of this day, not one that could be cleaned up, like the blood and vomit.

Maristella already had a few scars, but none like this. This had been the worst whipping she had ever had to endure. Her mother must’ve had a horrible day. 

Maristella leaned over slowly, mopping up crimson blood with a gray washrag that had already been on the floor. It stained the rag. 

She used all her remaining energy to mop up the rest of the blood and throw the washcloth to the side, before she passed out once again.

When she awoke it was morning, and her mother was already gone for work, leaving a mess of filthy clothes and smashed beer bottles behind her. 

She let out a little whimper as she remembered the events of the day before. It had started out so well…with Pixon and her writing the first chapter of Phoebe's story…

As if to match her mood, it was raining outside. Again. Howls of wind tore across the castle grounds, sending spinning torrents of leaves and rubble flying up into the air. Trees swayed and creaked, their branches slapping each other angrily. The rain poured down in relentless sheets, roaring and pouring mercilessly.

She got up and used the bathroom. There were two buckets on one end of the wall: one was for her to relieve herself, and the other was for washing. Every week or so, Maristella’s mother would fill it with soapy water, and every day Maristella did her best to cleanse herself of the grime that she collected. 

Maristella watched as Mr. Grumpy sloshed through the mud, looking even more red-faced than usual.

So it’s noon, she thought. I was out for a long time.

What could she do to escape this horrible life of hers?

Maristella had thought of running away thousands of times, but there were a few massive flaws in the plan.

First off, she didn’t know the palace at all. All she knew was that she was in the Servants Wing, which was located above-ground in a high tower that was almost at the center of the palace. She’d have to make her way through the palace probably without running into anyone, for they would surely wonder what a child of her age was doing there. She had thought of sneaking off in the dead of night, but their door squeaked very, very loud, and her mother was a restless sleeper. 

Besides, Maristella was a bit scared to venture into the world. She was so beautiful and young, and she didn’t know her way around. She was scared that something would happen to her. 

Another thing: where would she go? She had no relatives that she knew of, other than her father, of course. Srlovak was hundreds of miles away, and Maristella had no idea if it was to the east or south or north or west. 

That was why she stayed. If only one of her differences was superspeed or invincibility…

She pushed the thoughts out of her head. Escape was impossible – there was no use speculating. She forced herself up off the floor and cleaned up her mother’s vile mess. 

Over on the stove were the charred grits – her mother hadn’t even bothered to eat dinner. She had just let the grits sit there. 

Maristella let out a little huff of air as she slowly walked over to the stove, wincing. Even the smallest motion sent white-hot bolts of electricity through her back. 

After scrubbing the pan for over half an hour, Maristella finally was satisfied that she had gotten every inch of grit off the bottom of the pot. She sank down on her mother’s cot and let a slow, cold shutter out. 

Then she began to sing. She didn’t sing a song – she just sang notes and melodies. Stanzas and tunes and choruses mixed together, weaving above and below, anticipating and colliding. Her rich voice filled the heavy silence. She wove heartbreak and agony into every measure, horrible suffering and the deepest uncontent you could ever feel. 

After she was done, she curled up and cried. When no more tears would come, she just lay there, aching all over and wanting to fall asleep into oblivion.

Sleep would not come. She tossed and turned, counted to 347, and tried to sing herself to sleep. The pain in her back was so great that she couldn’t think of anything else. Eventually, she sort of sat up, but on her side, in a position a bit more comfortable. How she longed for company to distract her!

A bit later, she heard footsteps stomping up the stairs. It must be her mother. A few other people lived in this wing, but they never stomped, and her mother made sure to tell them to stay away from her room. Maristella wished so badly that one of them would accidentally open the door one day, but that would never happen and probably never would. Servants were responsible for keeping their own rooms clean, so no one ever came by to dust or mop unfortunately.

The door squeaked open and Maristella’s mother tramped in, unceremoniously dropping some linens on the ground. Her eyes were rimmed with red.

“Marastella,” she said, washing her hands in a water pail in the corner. “You’re awake. Thought you’d still be out.”

Maristella tried to make herself smaller. 

“Well, you’re not gonna answer me? Think you’re better than me? Don’t you ever disrespect me like that!”

Her mother advanced and Maristella let out a little squeal against her own will. 

“Please, don’t! I’ll do anything.”

“Sing me a good song then,” Maristella’s mother crooned, sinking down on the bed next to her and actually stroking Maristella’s hair before her gaze hardened and she tore her hands away. “Or else.”

“Don’t you have work?” Maristella hated singing for her mother.

“I’m on break. You trying to give me an excuse to beat you?” Her fist shot into the air almost excitedly.

“No, of course not! I’ll sing,” she consented. 

“Love it may be

But my I didn’t know 

it could feel like this

I never want you to leave

But at the same time 

I can’t stand this bliss 

You’re wonderful and good

Too good for meeee

But still you stay by my side

Never go and let me be free”

Maristella repeated it a few times, pouring out soft, honeyed love and pure goodness and happiness. Her mother closed her eyes and smiled. It looked unnatural, like her face was stretching muscles that were out of shape.

“Now I’d best get going. Make dinner and if it burns I’ll beat you ten times worse,” her mother said. She heaved herself up and exited the room heavily.

Maristella quickly rose and began preparing a stew consisting of boiled water, charred vegetables, and a little bit of broth. Hopefully the spices would flavor it up. 

She sank back upon the bed. Then, she decided something. She was going to escape her mother in some manner, even if it killed her. 

“Do you need anything, my Lord?”

Ky looked up from his desk, his brow furrowed and a few spots of midnight-blue ink dotting the bottom of his chin.

“No, thank you so much. Would you please let my parents know that I will be late for dinner, and they needn’t wait on me?”

“Of course, your majesty,” Aisha curtsied, raising her thin cotton skirt to her knees, avoiding eye contact respectfully.

“I’ve told you to not call me that,” Ky said kindly. “We both know we’re equals.”

“Thank you,” she answered primly, “but I am just doing my duty. I will inform the king and queen.”

Ky returned to his letter. He was writing to the village doctor, asking him a few questions and enclosing some medicine that was out of stock in the town.

A few minutes later, he rose, regally smoothing down his onyx robes and walking down to the dining room . The rich hallways coated in crimson velvet and sparkling golden edging always seemed much too grand, when he knew what some of the other rooms looked like in the palace. Dank prisons lined with mold and infested with rodents. Stuffy servant quarters with ramshackle walls and insufficient insulation. Slick kitchens with crust and dirt cramming into every available space. 

He shook his head as he walked down the main marble staircase, his hand sliding along the mahogany rail. Why wouldn’t his parents let him help the less fortunate in the castle? Of course they were old-fashioned, but they were good people. He didn’t understand.

“Kyler,” his mother’s voice awoke him from his day-dreaming. “You’re late. Please sit down and have supper with us.”

“I apologize,” he answered as he seated himself in a plush purple upright across from his mother. “I was finishing a letter.”

“You are forgiven,” his mother’s warm brown eyes met his and in that split second he could see how much she loved him. Her hand reached out and patted his. “Let’s enjoy this meal together.”

Although she was aging, Ky’s mother was very lovely, in a sweet, innocent sort of way. She had a dark honey colored sort of hair (that was now turning gray)  with light brown eyes and soft features. She was very small and often got headaches. She’d also get hurt from even just bumping into a wall. Everyone in the palace treated her like a lovely, delicate flower to be taken care of with the utmost of care. Ky agreed.

His father rang a bell, signifying their first course. In a moment, an army of servants would enter bearing large trays carrying elaborate meals that the three of them would never be able to finish.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Ky said to his father, taking a bite of the tender steak that had just been served onto his plate. “Ring a bell, I mean. It makes them seem no better than livestock or cattle.”

“Kyler,” his father answered, exchanging a glance with the queen, “we’ve had this conversation before. They aren’t livestock, but we are the royal family and ought to be treated like it. They know their place and we know ours.” 

His father was almost the polar opposite of his mother. His very figure commanded dignity and respect, making people stand up straighter and avoid looking into his piercing blue eyes. He wasn’t fat, he was just tall and broad. He had a gravelly voice and a penetrating stare. As many people told him, he was one of the best kings Attlenstain had had for centuries.

Ky was very grateful for both of his parents of course – he loved them deeply – he just didn’t always agree with their morals and values. You see, Ky was one of those few people you meet that’s just really a good person. He hardly had any bad traits – he really just wanted to help others, no strings attached.

“Darling,” his mother said. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Ky asked, taking a small sip of the red wine in front of him. Although he was only fifteen, it was a luxury his status allowed him, although always in small amounts.

“Princess Anastia along with the royal family Plove will be joining us tomorrow,” the queen answered. “She is a lovely girl, your father and I both agree.”

The king patted his wife’s back gently. “It would do you well to not dismiss and renounce her as you have done the last four.”

“Anastia?” Ky said with an angry huff of air. “Is she the one that would not leave me alone at the last royal banquet and tripped over her gown four times? And then when she was talking to me about my studies admitted she didn’t know how to read?”

“Well, she may not be the brightest, but her kingdom is large and full of wealth,” his mother admitted. “Just give her a chance.”

“I want to choose who to marry, and not because of how wealthy they are or how they look. Love should not be based on those sorts of things!” Ky said passionately. 

“Kyler, please refrain yourself!” his father said. “Let’s have a civilized dinner.”

His mother stopped clutching her temples, and Ky realized he must have upset her with his sudden outburst.

“Mother, are you alright?”

She opened her beautiful eyes. “I – yes. This meal has been lovely. If you will excuse me, a headache is coming on and I – I would like to rest.”

“I’m so sorry!” Ky said as he sprang up and moved to the other side of his table to help his mother out of his chair.

“I can help her from here, my Lord,” his mother’s lady-in-waiting said respectfully. She was a large woman with gray hair and a double chin. Although she wasn’t much to look at, his mother quite liked her. 

“Please don’t call me that, and are you sure?” Ky said in a large rush of breath. 

“Yes, thank you my–your highness.”

Ky sat back down, avoiding his father’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, after the silence had gone on for too long.

“It’s not your fault,” his father answered. “Your mother is…very delicate. But Kyler, please keep yourself under control during supper! If you ever want to be successful, and, and rule the kingdom, you must act like a dignified prince. And whether you like it or not – you’re going to marry a princess.”

“You can’t force me to do anything!” Kyler said with enthusiasm.

“Of course I can,” his father said. “In face…I think I will write a letter to Anastia’s parents after supper…proposing an arranged marriage.”