I’m eight again. I’m playing in a garden. My short, blonde hair blows in a light breeze. Someone else is there with me, a girl of the same age as me. We’re playing tag; I’m “it,” but I can’t find her. I chase glimpses of flowing black hair and her tinkling laughter void of direction. At some point, the garden has become a forest, and we have aged ten years. Still I’m chasing her. She leads me to a clearing, but when I get there, no one is there, just a night-black bird.

I wake up to multiple servants preparing for my morning. I creep over to my window seat, hoping none of the overly busy people notice that I’m up. Looking out the window so high up, the world appears so vast.

I imagine it is a similar view as the one seen by that fairytale princess, the solitary individual locked in a doorless tower. I can relate to her, imprisoned in the same life: always the same, never anything new. Except I’m not the fairytale princess or the damsel-in-distress; I’m the prince. I’m supposed to be the hero, the warrior, the adventurer, but really I’m just a pampered prince: can’t do anything for himself, barely allowed outside of safety, let alone on an adventure, and who attracts weirdos.You think I’m kidding, but many of the ladies who pursue me are pretty odd.

It was going well with Cassandra- that is until she decided to show off her collection of previous suitors’ hair. Mary would have been interesting to talk to, if she talked with anyone other than herself. Caroline was nice, with the exception of her reason for liking me- my toenails are smooth; seems she has a thing for well-manicured fingers and toes. Isabella is obsessed with our “shiny” mirrors, and her twin sister is such a klutz that, after not-so-safely making it to her seat, she usually slips off her chair before dessert, breaking bones and dishes in the process.

Not to say everyone around me is weird, but something always seems to happen to the normal people: mysterious deaths, sudden marriages, unexpected moves, etc. Maybe I should get a bard to write my story; they could call it “the Prince’s Curse.” I’m sure everyone would get a laugh out of it.

Of course, all of these horrible experiences could have been avoided if only my engagement from childhood wasn't so complicated. I don't know what happened, we got along and the union would have benefited both parties. Suddenly, it was if she and the arrangement never existed. As usual, no one told me anything and I'm the one to suffer for it. Without the engagement being public knowledge, every girl seems to have their eye on being my future queen.

“Prince Zephaniah, you have a very busy schedule today, and it’s time to get ready.” My steward, Timothy, interrupts my musings. I look up at him, not bothering to hide the half-asleep look in my eyes. “Breakfast in your chambers it is, Sire.” That’s what I like about having a steward like Timothy- he’s such a mind reader.

***

Once I have eaten, the rest of the servants in my chamber acknowledge that I’m conscious. Of course they already knew I was up and around, but over the years we’ve developed an understanding that results in me being able to walk around my room without being weighed down by them waiting on me hand and foot. Once Timothy comes to prepare me for my day, I’m officially “awake.” And that’s when the nightmare starts.

First there are the ridiculous clothes I’m put in; I’ve seen less frilly, less exotic and more practical outfits worn by ladies of the court. I’m not one of my sisters’ dolls and I don’t like dressing like one, but that’s never mattered. They still add even more lace to each new outfit, still cover every inch of skin below the chin. Anyone could be in this casing and, given that they wore a similar face, no one could tell.

Just as I finish donning today’s skin, I hear the giggles of a silver lining and then they run in.

“Big Brother!” I turn around to catch Lucy in one of her falling-into-you hugs and Samantha is right behind her. These girls, my little sisters, are the only reason I stick with this lurid life. As long as I act the pampered prince, I also act as shield for them from the misery of heir to the throne. My sisters must never become political pawns.

***

“…When Edmund had lived 21 years, he became the father of Arthur. After he became the father of Arthur, Edmond lived 60 years and had other sons and daughters. Altogether, Edmond lived a total of 81 years, and then he died.

When Arthur had lived 25 years, he became the father of Rory the conqueror. After he became the father of Rory the conqueror, Arthur lived 59 years and had other sons and daughters. Altogether, Arthur lived a total of 84 years, and then he died….”

A fly keeps buzzing around my head. I don’t know how the tutor expects me to stay awake, much less concentrate on his lessons on every major and minor event concerning the royal family in the last five hundred years. Only the promise of escape with my chestnut horse, Amber, this afternoon for a few hours, can get me through such lessons these days.

The fencing and archery lessons weren’t so bad today, but the military strategy lessons after were horrendous. How much more can one person cram into a daily schedule; it’s not even noon yet. At least after lunch, I will get a bit of time to myself before re-assuming the mantle of prince.