The Placeholder

Chapter 9

"You are no longer allowed to play near the bushes, Rhoswen. Is that understood?"

I wince as my mother yanks a brush through the many knots matted into my windblown hair.

"Why, Mommy? I like to let the caterpillars that live there crawl onto my finger."

"You're going to have to forget about that. There are far more important things to be done. Leave the caterpillars to their natural habitat."

My eyes become moist as more rules restrict me from playing and as my scalp begins to throb.

Mommy isn't being fair. I've made friends with the nice caterpillars and I always put them

back safely. I will miss my tiny friends. How will I get to watch them transform into pretty butterflies?

I want to throw a tantrum so Mommy hears my frustration and sees my tears, but the deep scowl etched into the entire lower half of her face informs me that having a fit will result in the opposite of my desired effect. When Mommy's eyes are cold, it's always best to do what she orders.

My bottom lip trembles.

"But, Mommy, sometimes I count how many times I can run around the strawberry patch without getting tired. I can run fifteen laps now!"

"You will have to find somewhere else to run," She persists sternly. Her face is still very unfriendly. "I'm not having this disaster strike again. Look at your hair!"

I had been playing outside earlier that afternoon, spinning around in circles, so I could watch the world swirl into a rainbow tornado. I'd gotten so dizzy that I tumbled into a large bush.

Mabel had found me flailing about wildly as I tried to pull myself up, snapping twigs and getting my hair caught when I jerked my head. Mabel had come to my aid, ushering me to my room after plucking as many leaves and dirt out of my hair as possible.

We hadn't been fast enough.

Mother had gone into a flurry.

"What have you done now, Rhoswen? You ruined your new dress. Didn't I tell you to be gentle with it?"

My expression remained sheepish as my mother had pulled me out of Mabel's helping hands. She had thrown me into a bath immediately, scrubbing me until I was spotless and smelling strongly of vanilla. Mabel had come only to bring my clothes to the washing machine.

My hair was blown dry, and I was dressed in another prissy dress with lots of ribbon and glitter.

Now my hair needed to be styled to perfection as it had before.

"Mommy," I tread carefully. "Why do I always have to be pretty and fancy? I don't want to be fancy if it means I can't play games outside."

Mother huffs impatiently. Then, her expression changes. The angry creases in her forehead smooth and her stormy eyes bore into mine intensely.

"You are a beautiful girl, Rhoswen," She lectures with a deliberate edge, as if she knew something unpleasant that one day I would know too.

"And when you are older, you are going to have an important role. A part of that role is keeping a flawless appearance."

Oh, of course this is about my role! Everything is about my role! Mother hasn't even told me what that role is, yet I have to hear about it incessantly.

Mother grips my shoulders to keep me from squirming. "Everyone has a job," The grave way she speaks frightens me "ln almost every job, appearances matter—some cases more than others."

I knew where she was leading. I have heard this same speech so many times.

"In my job, how I present myself will matter all the time because people judge based on what they see," I drone.

"That's right." She spins my seat so that we face our reflections in my too big mirror. I dislike the mirror because it makes me feel small.

"Do you want people to think bad of you because your hair is messy, or because there is dirt under your nails and you own wrinkled clothing?"

"No, Mommy."

"Good." She cups both sides of my jaw and forces me to stare at my face.

"Then repeat after me. How I look is always important."

My childish voice rings in a bored monotone.

"How I look is always important."

"Again."

"How I look is always important, how I look is always important."

My mother squeezes my jawbone harder. "Do not stop until I tell you."

"How I look is always important, how I look is always important, how I look is always important."

Mommy makes me rehearse those words to myself repeatedly until I say them with earnest conviction. Even after I no longer have to say them aloud, they bounce inside my skull as a consistent echoe for several hours, then several years to come.

How I look is always important…

***********************

Bile is seething in the back of my throat as I stand still. To once again be dressed like a doll.

One of the larger, unoccupied rooms in Ryker and Isadonna's castle is currently being used as a dressing room for all the women who will be attending my wedding tomorrow afternoon.

The men are undergoing last minute fittings in another section, most likely on the opposite side of the citadel.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother had shared my clothing sizes with Cristobel three months prior. The reason being so that they had plenty of time to present to me an exotic array of bridal gowns to choose from. When I had listed my colour and design preferences yesterday, the selection had narrowed.

There were still over fifty options to pick from. That was forty-five dresses too many. To me, only five of them were worth trying on.

"That one is pretty on you, dear," Isadonna practically cheers.

I observe myself in a full sized, rectangular mirror—brought in by a worker nearly an hour ago.

The dress is simplistic and lavender in colour.

It is a classical ball gown. Bell-shaped and sleeves that are long enough to cover my elbows.

I pretend to be taking the Queen's suggestions and "tips" seriously, though I believe her comments are ingenuine. Her eyes and pursed lips betray her.

I don't mind the lavender gown. Cristobel provided good choices. Her fiery passion for fashion will work well in my favour. Cristobel can barely contain herself as she trembles with elation.

"What do you think, Princess? Do you like it?"

I glance at Harriet-Makeba, leaning casually against the wall. She is waiting for her own dress of choice to be brought to her.

As I tried on a slim, flamingo pink dress, a mint green gown, and a bright yellow option that was barely long enough to conceal my knees, my guard had watched. Like Isadonna, her eyes revealed her opinion. However, she is far less vocal and I assume doesn't truly care what I choose for myself. Someone disinterested has less reason to lie, so I hold her discrete signals with more weight than the Queen's.

"It's beautiful. I'm not sure it's what I'm looking for, but it is a possibility."

"It's plain," Harriet-Makeba finally chimes in.

Cristobel turns to her, ears perked.

"Harriet raises a good point," Tanora throws in. She slinks into our group, dressed in a slim, maroon gown. Her honey locks are piled atop her head in intricate waves and curls.

"There is nothing wrong with modesty, but there is no reason why Rhoswen can't reveal some skin. Show she is confident in her body."

Am I confident in my body?

I suppose I must be. I know that many are not satisfied with the shape and size they have. My mind never possesses such thoughts. People are beautiful in their own, unique ways. Although I can't identify my specialty, I know it exists.

I give my assistant a slight shrug.

"I'm not against that idea," I say.

The Queen is mute as she eyes her sister. I can't decide which one is prettier.

My assistant grins. A cryptic, devilish grin.

"Do you trust me?" She asks me alone.

I frown. "I don't know you enough to trust you."

"What was that? You trust me with your life? Perfect, that's what I like to hear."

I roll my eyes as my assistant creeps away. Suspicious with every step she takes.

While we wait, Isadonna turns to her taller sister.

"You look very formal today, Tanora. Is that your bridesmaid outfit?"

Isadonna, Tanora, Harriet-Makeba, and Cristobel are to be my four bridesmaids. My own family will not be attending (I wasn't given a reason why). These women will be taking their places.

I will have to ignore the cavity burning around the edges in my hollow chest; pretend there is no hole to be found. Deep down is a sinister ache that threatens to lurk just below the surface, or to overflow.

Most brides organize their bridesmaids to wear uniformed dresses. I've seen enough uniform in my life and would rather allow a bouquet of colour. I am letting my bridesmaids decide on their own.

Tanora smirks. "As a matter of fact, it is not."

Isadonna decides to play it safe, knowing this is a battle of wills she cannot win. "I look forward to seeing everyone's stunning appearances tomorrow."

She beams at me as she adds, "And I look forward to watching my son finally be married."

Cristobel rescues me from the awkwardness of that comment for the second time since I have relocated. Her hazel eyes glitter mischievously. Her hands are hidden behind her back.

"You have to close your eyes," She orders. The electricity in her tone cracks the delivery.

I obey, knowing we won't be going anywhere until I do. I hear the crinkle of plastic, followed by the sound of a zipper being pulled.

"I designed this one myself and wanted to save it for last. I have the sketches to prove it."

I keep my eyes shut as I marvel at this newfound fact about my assistant.

"I believe you, and I'm excited to see what you envisioned through your sketches."

Harriet-Makeba assists Cristobel in slipping her creation over my small body. I allow them to take control of my movements, but notice by my exposed shoulders that what I'm wearing has no straps. It clings comfortably to my figure.

"Alright, you can open your eyes now."

The softness in Cristobel's tone warns me to proceed with caution. It's the kind of gentle fragility only someone who yearns to have their work validated could feel.

I slowly c***k my eyelids apart. As soon as I do, I cry out in awe.

The majestic fabric on my skin can't possibly be available to me.

Cristobel's creation is a magnificent, layered organza dress. It is a strapless mermaid style—arctic turquoise. The rippled train has three layers; each one a different texture and pattern. A bow placed against the posterior area of my thighs leads the intricate stream of silk. The outer layer has many folds and creases, the second relaxes more and waves like a peaceful ocean. The innermost layer is the longest and flows behind me, trailing a river. This layer is special because of the cloudy cotton, similar to the inside of a bathrobe, which fans around me in a circular whirlpool.

I admire myself—truly admire myself—for possibly the first time in my life.

The icy undertone makes my hair an open flame. Fire and water mingle in an intricate dance. As Tanora had suggested should be, the masterpiece reveals the curve of my hips and the strength in my shoulders. My eyes look like drops of caramel.

This is the one, I say to myself. This has to be the one.

Cristobel is in near agony, her hands flatten against her cheeks.

"Say something," She begs.

"I'm at a loss for words," I gasp. "It's perfect, you're a genius. What more can be said?"

"It's complicated," Harriet-Makeba comments. Her tone is warm. "Yet, you somehow made it work."

Harriet-Makeba is right, it is dramatically complex. So many conflicting ideas would usually ruin something so glamorous.

Cristobel squeals, bouncing as she claps her hands incessantly. "Does this mean you're going to wear it? Is my dress the best?"

I sneak a peek at my guard. She is gorging the finest details, as If her pupils craved the artistry.

"Yes, Cristobel, yours wins by a landslide. I'd be a fool to choose anything else."

The visible insecurity and reasonless intimidation lacing Queen Isadonna's flawlessly, sculpted features confirms that I had made the ultimate decision.

The other workers in our presence had gravitated to our group, gaping at my official wedding gown with shameless admiration.

Cristobel receives immense praise and applause. She undoubtedly deserves all of it.

Now that I, the main priority, has been sorted out, my bridesmaids are being taken to find their own outfits for tomorrow. Harriet-Makeba remains nearby. I take my turn making suggestions, despite that she evidently doesn't need my help. She simply requests something dark green and long, then gives one of the designers her sizes.

She is quick to settle on a long sleeve dress that is formal and forest green.

Soon after, everyone returns to their normal outfits and goes their separate ways.

Cristobel releases me after informing me that the rest of my day is devoid of mandatory activities. I am free to do what I like.

I wander aimlessly with Harriet-Makeba by my side. We don't speak much until we pass a gigantic library.

My guard jerks her thumb to the glass windows, revealing endless shelves and thousands of books.

"Have you been in here yet?"

I pause to recollect any familiarity from my tour two days ago, to no avail. I used to get lost in my own home despite living in it my whole childhood—let alone memorizing anything in this fresh maze.

"I don't think so."

"Would you be interested in going inside?"

"Sure, why not?"

I have to wait outside while my guard searches the entire library. I can't quite smother my irritation by the time she returns.

"Cut me some slack, Ginger. This is only temporary. Eventually I won't have to shadow your every footstep. Have some patience."

Harriet-Makeba begins to browse a science fiction section, her fingers run across each book.

"How come Nathaniel doesn't have his guard with him all the time like I do?"

My personal guard doesn't turn from the books as she speaks.

"Were you ever taught to wield a sword?"

"No."

"Have you been trained to handle a dagger?"

"...No."

"Did anyone teach you to defend yourself against an attacker?"

I sigh, frustrated. "No," I mutter under my breath.

Harriet-Makeba nods to herself as she plucks a thick book off a high shelf. "That is why, Rhoswen. Every royal in this family has been taught a little of at least one of those three categories. Even Isadonna knows how to snap someone's bones in half. Since Nathaniel is high risk, he was trained in all three."

I silently hold a grudge against my mother for weighing looks over self defence in my teachings.

"How can I learn?"

Harriet-Makeba goes to sit down with her book at one of the round tables they have scattered in the right corner of the library. She flips to the first page before answering.

"You would like to learn self defence?"

"Yes."

Harriet-Makeba doesn't miss a beat.

"Fine, we will have our first session after your wedding."

I do a double take. "You're willing to train me?"

"I am. Now, can you go sit down or something? Your pacing is driving me crazy."

Perplexed, but also pleased with myself, I wander off to one of the aisles.

I have never been a bookworm, and no one has ever tried to make me. I had to read sometimes for the tutor, but never felt joy in doing so. Apparently, reading is an outlet, a temporary escape route from one's problems. That has never worked for me. Whenever I tried to read while upset or stressed, I could never release what it was that bothered me. When I tried to read for entertainment, my mind would drift from the story or I would feel too hyper to read for very long.

Even now as I absently browse the thousands of books before me, I am positive I won't pick up a single one. I wander aimlessly simply for the movement.

After some time, I circle back to the front. Harriet-Makeba is sitting in the exact same position as when I had left her. She is making good headway on the book she is reading.

When she hears my return, she looks up.

"That didn't take you long," She takes note of my empty hands. "I'm guessing you're not much of a reader?"

"Not really," I admit. "I like how quiet it is up here, though. I'm sure I can find something else to do."

She nods to an empty office on my left. "There are paper and pens in there. Maybe you could write a letter home?"

A light bulb flickers on in my head as I remember that I told Erick I would write to him.

"That's a great idea!" I say with a little too much enthusiasm.

"I'd promised a- a friend that I would keep in touch."

Harriet-Makeba narrows her eyes as she catches my slip up, but makes no further comment. I scurry to the office before I can make myself look guilty. Of what? I'm not sure.

I stare blankly at my paper for ten complete minutes; wondering what to say, where to start.

I decide to allow the flow to come naturally. Write down whatever comes to mind. No matter the distance, our friendship will never fade away. We have far too many memories to simply let go to waste.

Dear Erick,

I forgot to write to you sooner, though I know it's only been two days. I've been pretty busy trying to settle in. What are you up to? Have you gotten your next assignment yet? Will my parents be giving you a promotion? I really hope they do, Erick. You deserve it.

You must have heard by now, but I'm going to be married tomorrow. I know you thought you could rescue me from my fate, but that's just not how destiny works.

Anyway, my wedding gown is the most beautiful thing in the world. I'll make sure you get to see a picture. My personal assistant made it and she is wickedly talented.

Have my parents shown any excitement over my wedding? Does it seem like they miss me? Any insight on how my parents might be feeling will be greatly appreciated.

I wish you could be here with me. It sucks that friends are often separated. I'm going to come and visit as soon as I can, or you can come here. Whichever can happen sooner.

Hopefully you write back. If not, then I'll completely understand. Miss you Erick.

From,

Rhoswen

I read over my letter for the third time, finally satisfied with the outcome. I don't want to add too much detail in one letter—at least, for the very first one—in case it overwhelms him. Erick has always tried to be strong for me, but he cracks as a normal human does. In actuality, Erick is quite sensitive.

I frown to myself as a flashback of his tearful, dark eyes crosses my memory. I hadn't truly processed how tortured and defeated he had looked.

My heart resumes it's acidic burning.

"Who is Erick? Is he your boyfriend from Verduschkir?"

I shout a stream of profanities as I finally notice someone towering over my shoulder. My hands shake as I hastily flip my letter over to hide what I had written.

Stefan is the culprit who decided coming up from behind me would be a good idea. Once I figure out it is only Nathaniel's obnoxious younger brother, the taut muscles in my neck and shoulders loosen considerably.

Stefan grins widely. Judging by the pure glee of his aura, I can tell he had already drank in every single word in my letter. Possibly, as I was writing them, since I haven't yet determined how long he has been watching from behind.

I give him a vicious glare.

"No, he is not my boyfriend. He is just a friend."

"If I had a dollar for every time I heard someone say that," The young Prince chuckles comically. "I'd be rich."

"You already are rich, moron," calls Harriet-Makeba from a couple tables down.

"Technically, I am not rich. My parents are."

"Technically, you're annoying and need to stop breathing down my neck."

To my utter shock, the Prince obeys. Taking several steps back. I gradually relax.

"I think we are getting off on the wrong foot. I was walking past and saw my brother's fiance and her orange beacon of hair. I just had to come say hello."

He winks at Harriet-Makeba, whose expression remains dull as she is being spoken to. "I snuck a peak of you all in your spectacular dresses earlier. Harriet, you looked spectacular. Didn't she look spectacular, Rhoswen?"

My guard's murderous eyes warn me not to say a word.

"Go search for someone else to bother, Hooligan."

Not sensing the threat, Stefan lifts his chin stubbornly. "What if I don't want to bother anyone else, but you lovely ladies?"

My eyes bulge as he includes me, his brother's fiance, into his flirtatious teasing.

"I am currently armed with a sword and two knives," my guard warns. "Now is not a good time to mess with me."

Stefan raises his hands in surrender. "There is never a good time to mess with you, Scary Harry,"

In less than a second, Harriet-Makeba is shooting out of her chair. To my amazement, the chair itself does not budge an inch. My guard must have been careful not to touch it.

"What did I tell you about calling me that?"

"Calling you what? Scary Harry? I don't see why you don't like my nickname. You truly are terrifying. It's part of your charm."

Disbelief blossoms across my features. I look at Harriet-Makeba's hand itching for her sword, and wonder how a fool could dare to provoke her.

"We will see how charming she is to you after she slices your head clean off," I mutter under my breath.

Stefan hears and addresses me, still carefully facing my guard. "I didn't nickname her Scary Harry for nothing, Princess, I know what I'm getting int-"

Before he can finish, Harriet-Makeba's book soars through the air like a frisbee and, with frightening accuracy, hits Stefan in the face.

He topples to the floor quite fast. Leaning too far back from the impact, causing him to lose his balance. He lands hard on his behind.

I burst out laughing.

Stefan climbs to his feet, utterly stunned. He gingerly rubs the center of his forehead.

"Ow," he says incredulously. "You miraculously made getting hit with a book feel like getting hit with a bowling ball."

"If I had a bowling ball, rest assured I would have thrown that at you instead."

I continue to snicker as Stefan hobbles away. His hair sticking out and his eyes dazed.

Once the Prince is gone, my guard picks up her hazardous book and resumes from the page she had left off as if nothing had gone awry.

I sit still for a while. Grinning to myself as I replay today's events in my mind. Instead of feeling hollow, my chest feels full. I don't expect it to last, but I cling to that fullness for as long as I can.

Sometime later, I pick up my pen. Scribbling one last sentence to Erick's letter.

P.S, I write, I think I am going to make good friends here.