I have a rather unromantic but deliciously cynical tale today as I thought I’d try out the Daily Post prompt. The one-word prompt was Primp
Cinderella, no longer Cinderella now, but Her Royal Highness, looked intensely at her own eye in the mirror, trying to apply the perfect shade of blue.
She had no chores now, there was no mop in sight. The mops and brooms would do their job, pushed by some mute human being who never dared to look at her, and then disappeared to whatever dark corner they had come from.
She didn’t have to worry about that now. This was her only duty, to look good for her subjects. And she was running late again, smearing too much paint all over her eyelid in her haste… She’d have to start over.
Well, not so much for the subjects but for all the noble gentlemen and ladies who were watching her every move, waiting for her to trip up, or at least to wear a mismatched outfit. It was becoming harder every day to keep up with the fashions. How could the same girl who used to do an incredible amount of work in a day find this one simple task such a challenge? She was disappointed with herself.
And of course, for the Queen, who never thought she was good enough for her son. The queen, who kept glancing at her belly in the tight corset with both fear and impatience to see if she was “showing” yet. Even if she was pregnant, it wasn’t likely to show in these dresses, which choked the life out of her.
“Gus, would you pass me the curling iron?” she began.
Then she remembered. There were no mice. They had all found excuses to leave the royal palace as soon as they possibly could. What creature in their right mind would want to live here?
And her prince? He loved her, surely, but it was one thing to fall in love and another to really get to know someone and to be there every night to listen patiently to his grandiose speeches about his plans. He certainly liked to talk. Mostly about himself.
Well, she could still sing, couldn’t she? But her throat felt so tight. Nothing escaped from it except a strangled sob.