Page 5 of The Queen & the King

“Good morning, Lady Persephone! It is so nice to see you!” she chirps happily.

“To see me?” I ask, blinking.

Margaritte’s smile falters, her eyes going a little wide. “I’ll… draw you a bath.” Margaritte corrects her face and disappears into the bathroom. After a moment, I hear her start to hum the same tune she has hummed since she first started here over one hundred years ago.

I shake my head and look back at the redness, brushing my fingers over the areas.

“Margaritte?” I ask, still looking in the mirror.

“Yes, my lady?” she calls from the bathroom.

“Do you have any idea what this might be from?” I ask.

Margaritte has never been someone I fully trusted, being under the employ of my mother, but she is a constant in my life. I once thought about befriending her. It quickly became clear that we had little in common, and she had no interest in becoming friends with the daughter of her boss. Which is fair, I suppose. I don’t imagine it would ever be a good idea to mix business with pleasure, especially when it comes to my mother.

Margaritte comes through from the bathroom and stops beside me. I tilt my head so she can better see the areas in question. Something I can’t identify passes over her face, something that came and went too quickly for me to even try to figure out.

“Perhaps my lady is allergic to something?” Margaritte says, her voice giving nothing away. “I changed your sheets yesterday. Perhaps a new detergent? I shall ask, my lady.” Margaritte hurries back to the bathroom to continue readying it for my soak.

I look back in the mirror, my brows drawing. Something is different. I know it is, but… what?

I sigh, pushing my chair back and standing from the ornate vanity. Everything in my bedroom has been custom-made for me. There is not one piece of furniture that doesn’t sport a flower or a bouquet. I look around my bedroom, a wash of pastels and softness. Like I’ve done hundreds of times, I cast an eye over it, trying to pick out one thing I would have chosen for myself. I hope that maybe one day I’ll find something that I can say, “That is me. That is Persephone Prosperina.” With that, I might start to fit into the mold my mother so desperately wants to shove me into. But alas, all I see is the perfect little princess my mother hoped for. It’s imbued into every pastel pink and baby blue, into every vase and trinket. So much so that when I look at my room, all I feel is my mother’s disappointment pressing down on me, so heavy that I swear one day it will smother me.

“Lady Persephone, your bath is ready!” Margaritte calls from the bathroom.

“Thank you, Margaritte. You’re dismissed.”

Margaritte leaves the bathroom and curtsies to me. “Your mother wishes you have breakfast with her in one hour.”

I nod, moving over to sit on the edge of my bed. Margaritte hovers for a moment, like she wants to say something, but when I glance at her expectantly, she simply curtsies again and leaves.

The second I’m alone, I open the drawer of my bedside table and pull out my pink journal, placing it on the bed next to me. I roll my eyes at it, and I know my mother reads it. I’m unsure what she expects to find in it, but if she’s looking for my truethoughts and feelings, she’ll be disappointed. Instead, I fill it with wistful ramblings, only ever allowing my positive thoughts to be written down.

The truth is, I’ve always been afraid of my mother and what she would do to me if she ever found out half of what went through my mind. To her, I am the Goddess of Spring, the perfect little princess who she’s kept hidden for centuries. She has never known the other side I keep under lock and key. I have repressed that side so completely, but I still sometimes feel the darkness rage beneath my skin.

I look back in my drawer, emptying it of the pens and books. I glance at the door once, straining to hear. Ensuring no one is outside, I press a spot on the plywood about three inches from the bottom left-hand corner. There is a soft click, and the board pops up enough for me to get my fingers around. I lift it out and smile down at my true secret treasure.

A single rose.

The petals are vibrantly red, the color of love and passion. The stem is the deep green of healthy growth. But that’s not what makes this rose special. What makes this rose special is the single, elegant thorn that sits about halfway up the stem. The tip is sharp, but the sides are smooth and solid gold.

I have always loved roses. My mother allowed me to have a patch in her garden, and I filled it with roses. Her one rule was that they were not to have thorns. Any thorn that grew was to be removed immediately, and if I failed to prune them properly, there would be consequences.

“Why would you want those hideous thorns on your beautiful roses, Persephone? They are only beautiful if they are pure.”

My mother finds beauty only in that which she understands, and she doesn’t understand imperfection.

When I found this rose with its gold thorn, I was compelled to keep it. I’m not sure why, but I’ve never found thorns ugly. They add to the whole picture. In some ways, I actually find roses more beautiful when their thorns are still intact, maybe because I find beauty in complexity.

I lift the rose and stroke the petals before bringing it to my nose and inhaling the sweet floral scent. I look over the flower, gliding my finger over the stem and the thorn, letting it slice into the pad of my finger. The bite of pain reminds me I’m alive.

I tuck the rose back in the drawer before replacing the board and all of my items. I shut it again, and with it, I lock away the other side of me. The one I’m desperate to explore.1

1 The Nightmare & The Daydream Chapters 1 & 2

Four

Persephone

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