1
“You look absolutely lovely, Sophia,” her mother said.
Sophia smiled. But there was no pride in the gesture. The smile was a practiced one, crafted over many long nights to get it just right. She was royalty after all, and everything in her life had been carefully orchestrated to be perfect.
The smile had to be perfect, as well. The people of Lower Marshland would look up to her, and constantly be studying her moods to judge how they fared.
“A little crooked on the left side,” her mother scolded.
Sophia adjusted.
“That’s better,” her mother said, nodding in approval.
“Remember, we are strangers in Lower Marshland,” her mother told her now. “The people here will be keenly aware of even the slightest imperfection. So give them no reason to question their queen.”
The smile dropped and for the first time since they stepped foot in these dreary lands, the girl frowned.
“Mother,” Sophia cried. “Must I marry Robert the Younger?”
“Why would you not?” Her mother said.
“Because,” the girl cried now. “He is still a little boy.”
“Who will grow to be a man,” her mother countered.
“But he is still in diapers,” Sophia protested.
Her mother shrugged.
“These are the sacrifices we make, my love,” she said. “Promises have been made. Alliances forged. Your marriage will united the kingdoms of Upper and Lower Marsh once more.”
“But can he even consent to us being wed?” Sophia protested.
Her mother glared at her.
“You are already married in the eyes of God,” she said. “The ceremony is just a formality.”
“But mother,” the girl cried for a third time. “Can Robert even give me a child?”
Her mother’s expression soured.
“You have no choice in this matter, Sophia,” she said now. “You are of royal blood. You have responsibilities as queen of this land.”
Her mother’s features softened.
“Come sit by me,” she said, while at the same time patted the soft mattress next to her. “Let me brush your hair, like I used to.”
The girl acquiesced to her mother’s demands. Soon Sophia felt the harsh bristle of the brush run through her soft auburn hair.
“Your father was a very young when I married him,” her mother told her now. “Not much older than your husband to be.”
Sophia winced. Her mother was too rough with her brushing.
“I had to coax him to our marriage bed,” her mother continued. “Even then he couldn’t consummate our marriage.
Sophia winced again. It felt as if her mother was trying to tear her daughter’s hair out.
“But over time your father grew into a very enthusiastic lover and remained so until the day he passed.”
She sighed and then leaned in close.
“You must secure our future, daughter,” her mother whispered in harsh tones. “By any means necessary.”
Her mother grabbed her daughter’s long hair and pulled her head back.
“If the boy’s uncle invites you to his bed tonight, accept his invitation.”
Sophia cried out in pain.
“Mother! Please!”
“The two look enough alike that polite society will not question your children’s parentage, understand?”
Her mother let her go, not waiting or expecting an answer.
Sophia knew full well that her protests would not be listened to.
An awkward silence followed, which blessedly was interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
A woman, her mother’s age, with a sour expression entered. Her gaunt figure and pale skin marked her as one of the peasantry, most likely a servant.
“Is it time, Grace?” Her mother asked.
“It is, mum,” the sour-faced woman answered.
Sophia noticed that the sour-faced woman was so skinny that her skin stretched taunt that the girl could see the outline of her bones.
Her mother turned to her daughter and clapped her hands together.
“The happy day has arrived, daughter,” she cried. “All smiles, Sophia. You are to be wed.”
