Bride To Be

• Elizabeth Hunt, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2022

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Sharp light pierces my eyes and half-blinds me as I startle awake to the harsh sun beaming in through the open drapes. A hand maid positioned near the cord waves me an apologetic gesture and scampers away. I coordinate myself into a some-what presentable sitting position on my bed and come face-to-face with a fuming Abigail tapping her foot on the ground impatiently as a sea of servants rush around her. Apparently, my sheepish smile does not pass as an acceptable greeting, because Abigail glowers and forces me out of bed and onto the freezing hard-wood floors.

“Do you know what time it is!? I was supposed to have you bathed and dressed 15 minutes ago!” She rouses at me.

“Good morning to you as well.” I mutter back, grabbing for a snug sheep fleece on my bed that is sure to keep me warm.

Abigail smacks my hand away before I can even touch the wool.

“No, it is not a good morning, because it is midday for Christ’s sake! The ball is well-nigh, and I will not have the princess in silk pajamas!”

To be clear, I wouldn’t mind attending the dance in my nightgown, but Abigail would never let me. Still, I express my dismay very clearly by sulking as my handmaids unbutton my clothes and guide me to the tub. We’re halfway through the routine now. I’ve done this so many times I know what comes next. My Mother, the crowned Queen as it happens, will storm into my room, and begin to chastise me about how it’s the tenth ball they’ve thrown, and I ought to at least try and find a consort. She’ll then continue her perilous rant about finding a husband throughout my dress fitting, so as I admire myself in the mirror, I will not be able to help but spy her fuming behind me. Abigail, the traitor, is nodding along the whole time and agreeing as she dresses me in petticoats and blue ruffles galore. I look like a clown in an overpriced gown, but the Queen seems to like it, so I wear it without complaint.

I fiddle with my fan as I’m guided through the double doors and onto the Royalty pavilion. The masquerading gentry beneath cheer and bow at my entrance, I heed them no attention though as my eyes sift through the crowd.

“Consort, consort, consort…” I chant under my breath, glancing around at the dancing mass.

And then I see her. Adorned in emerald green velvets and beads. Truth was, I had already found my one and only at the very first ball. I only continued to decline suitors so every new dance I would be able to watch my true love, dressed to the nines, have the time of her life. She must feel my scorching stare at the back of her head because she turns and waves at me. I smile, waving back. She really is the only one for me.

My bride-to-be.