Page 1 of Praise Me: Princess

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Greta

Beingthe princess of Leidenstein is simply magical.

For one, I’m heir to the throne, which means someday the glorious kingdom will be all mine. I’ll be queen of a place that I cannot see. Or touch. Or experience. But at least I’ll have a crown of jewels so heavy, it will probably give me scoliosis.

Two, as the princess of a country being besieged by rebels from the north, I’m considered a target. So much so that I never go outside of the walls of Leidenstein Palace without a convoy of armed guards.

And I haven’t left the palace groundsat allsince the incident.

My steps pause on the way down the endless stone corridor, my vision blurring until I have to hold the wall so I don’t trip, my heart speeding up at the reminder of what happened last year. I’d always dreamed of leaving the palace, seeing Leidenstein for myself. I’d spent the first seventeen years of my life fantasizing about broad waterways and buildings that kiss the sky and people in coffee shops. Instead, I saw in the inside of a burlapbag and darkness. Sounds that still screech in my ears in the middle of the night.

The inside of the palace is not so bad, I suppose.

Once my heartrate is under control again, I recommence my walk to the grand parlor downstairs where I am scheduled for a meeting with my mother, the queen.

“Are you sure about this outfit, Olga?” I ask the woman beside me.

“Oh, yes, princess. That shade of blue is very becoming on you.”

I trace the bodice of my dress with my fingertips, still unsure if the strapless midi dress with the flared skirt is the right choice for an audience with my mother. It’s summertime and overly warm, especially for my homeland, but that’s not why I wore it. I suppose lately I’ve been feeling a little trapped and this is my way of peeking out of my cage just a tiny bit. Safely. And maybe, just maybe, I want my mother to find me interesting.

Even if it’s for being a little rebellious with my wardrobe.

Most eighteen-year-old girls wouldn’t be fretting about her clothing choice for a meeting with her mother, but most girls aren’t following in the footsteps of Queen Ingrid. Cool, iconic, she fought in the army, became an expert swordswoman and always has a plan.

Meanwhile, my hobby is watching ASMR videos on the web to decrease anxiety.

I need work.

Me and Olga stop outside the double doors leading to the parlor, waiting for permission from her suited assistant to enter. Finally, we’re given the nod and Olga opens the door, stepping back to allow me to precede her. There my mother sits, impeccable in a black pantsuit and pearl earrings, a serene expression, surrounded by doting assistants who’ve slowlybecome mirror images of the almighty Ingrid, their hair coiffed in the same French twist, eyes cool as they watch me approach.

“Good morning, Mother.”

A genteel smile. “Greta.” She tilts her head as I take a seat across a gleaming gold and cream marble table, decorated with vases holding plumes of ostrich feathers. “I’d forgotten what lovely shoulders you have. Thank you for taking this opportunity to remind us all.”

The temperature of my skin spikes. “It was a gift from Princess Kate over a year ago. Every time I saw it in my closet, I felt guilty for not wearing it.”

“It’s a dress, Greta.”

My face is hot. I can feel the sympathy radiating from Olga. “Yes, of course, Mother. I’m only making a joke.”

“Ah.” She folds her hands, right over left. “I’ve been kept informed of your visits with the sick children that come to visit us from the hospital. Very good work you’re doing, indeed.” She studies me for a long moment. “How would you feel about going to them next time, instead of having them transported here?”

It takes only seconds for my heart to climb into my mouth, my ears crackling like someone is balling up parchment paper beside them. I open my mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. I can only see the men with rifles storming toward me in the road, can only feel the pain of a fist connecting with my temple, my knees scraping on rocks as I’m dragged. The smell. The screeching. The desperate hunger. The cold. The fear.

“Greta?”

I exhale shakily in response to being prompted. My mother wants me to leave the palace to visit the children’s hospital and I should say yes. After all, there are some children too sick to leave the premises and I would very much like to meet them, too, but the very idea of being vulnerable to another kidnapping or attack renders me terrified.

“I don’t know, Mother,” I whisper, finally, unable to control my shaking.

“Maybe…the horse ranch would be a better start? It’s a little less transient.”

In addition to my work with the children’s hospital, one of my chosen causes is animal rescue. Most of my week is dedicated to fielding requests from citizens of Leidenstein about animals that need to be rehomed. Over the course of the last five years, with the help of my mother, we’ve managed to open three animal rescue centers throughout the country—and my personal favorite is the horse ranch, only about ten miles to the north. But that’s ten miles closer to the rebel camp.

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