Monsters

The first thing my mother taught me about being an adult was that nobody knew what they were doing.

The second was that nobody wanted to admit it.

I was reminded of those lessons early on a normal Tuesday morning, standing barefoot in the kitchen while my mother argued with a loaf of bread.

“Melodi.”

I looked up from the ribbon I was attempting to weave through my hair. “Yes, Mama?”

“Did you move the flour?”

“No.”

She turned around slowly.

I met her eyes and smiled.

She narrowed hers.

“Melodi Seraphina Ardent.”

“Alright… alright, yes I moved it! But I needed the counter space!” I said defensively.

“You needed counter space to do what exactly?” Mama stood, hands on her hips, playful smile teasing her lips as she took in the mess I made.

I glanced down at the small collection of ribbons, hairpins, and half-finished braids spread across the kitchen table.

“Improve my appearance.”

Mama looked at my hair, which held my version of two braids with ribbons woven through them. But right now the braids move everywhere along my scalp and roughly resembled a wounded bird.

“Quite an ambitious project.”

“I’m a woman of ambition.”

“I see.” she gave me another look. “With those curls I don’t see why you don’t just leave them down. You’re already one of the most beautiful girls in town by a long shot. If you just let down that hair of yours men will be banging down this door asking for your hand in marriage.”

“I know Mama.”

For the past two years since I turned eighteen Mama has insisted that I need a man in my life. She’s insisted that I need someone to provide for me and care for me just as Papa has been doing for us.

I think I am better off independent. I need no man to define me. And when a woman hides behind a man, she hides her true self.

“Did you see the note your Papa left you?” She asked me as I took the braids down and settled for a ponytail with two plats instead.

“No.”

Mama dusts off her hands on her apron and hands me a piece of parchment which had been scribbled on by my father earlier this morning.

It read:

Seraphina. I have already left for the northern road. Don’t let your mother convince you that the market can survive without you. It cannot.

Also, please tell her I took the good boots.

Love, Papa.

I laughed out loud.

“Mama, he took the good boots.”

“He did? Those were mine!”

I nod, “Yep, I’m headed to the market now.”

I head towards the door.

“Dressed like that?” Mama stopped me, looking me up and down, stopping particularly on my calfskin trousers, and my ruffled blouse.

“Yes?” I shrug.

“Baby, go get changed. If you’re going to the market you need to dress like the respectable woman that you are.”

I groaned, walking towards the back of the house, “Yes, Mama.” I replied.

My skirts ruffled around my ankles as I took in the scene around me.

The market was already alive with the sounds of merchants calling out their prices, children weaving between stalls, and the occasional argument over whether a basket of apples was worth three copper pieces or two. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled wit that of herbs, spices, and the rain that had fallen sometime during the night.

I loved the market.

It was loud, unpredictable, and full of people who had absolutely no idea what they were doing half the time. Naturally, I felt right at home.

I adjusted the basket resting against my hip and made my way through the crowd, offering a few greetings as I passed. Old Mrs. Bellamy was arranging her jars of honey near the fountain, and the baker’s youngest son was attempting to convince a customer that the slightly burnt loaves was a special northern recipe.

The customer didn’t look convinced.

Neither was I.

“Melodi!”

I turned just in time to see Amara waving at me from behind her family’s apple stall.

Her dark skin glowed in the morning sunlight, and the colorful headscarf wrapped around her braids matched the deep red of the apples stacked before her. She wore the expression of someone who had been waiting all morning for an opportunity to bother me.

Which, knowing Amara, was probably true.

“You’re late.” She announced as I approached.

I glanced at the sun overhead. “The sun has barely risen.”

“And yet, somehow you’ve managed to disappoint me.”

“That’s a remarkable talent of mine.”

“One of many, I’m sure.”

She’s talking about my magic. The one thing that I know how to do for myself. But also the one thing that could get me arrested.

She smiled up at the palace dreamily. “So… How you submitted your application for the royal archives yet?”

“No.” I said, taking an apple from the pile and inspecting it briefly.

“Why not? You’ve only been talking about it all your life!”

“I know, Amara. But that would mean I’d have to be like a right hand man to Prince Micah and his people.”

“So?” She said defensively. “I’d love to stand next to that sexy—”

“Amara.” I warned just as a couple older women passed by her stall, glaring at us.

“Good Morning Madam, finest apples in Veyra sold here.”

One of the women stopped by the stall, taking a handful of apples and keeping a steady glare on Amara and I as she paid.

“I’m just saying.” Amara continued after the women walked away, “With your looks and that gorgeous hair of yours you’d have a shot with the prince.”

“The prince is a stone cold killer, you’ve heard the rumors.”

“Yes, and I’ve also heard the rumors that he is looking for a bride.” She squealed.

“Amara. You know where I stand on this.”

She jabbed her pointer finger at my forehead. “Will you just listen to your mother for once and get it through that thick skull of yours that you NEED a man?”

I swatted her hand away, “First of all. OUCH! Secondly, I need no man to define me. Especially not some stuck up prince.”

“Oh Mel, you’re so lost.”

“No, you’re the one who’s lost.” I retorted. But she said nothing back.

Instead her eyes remained focused on the road behind me. And when I followed her gaze to where she was looking I realized exactly what she was looking at.

A carriage decked out in beauty and our kingdom’s colors rode down the cobblestone street, pulled by two beautiful, healthy looking midnight black horses.

Carriages like this only show up every so often and for three reasons, and three reasons only.

1: A royal decree is to be announced

2: They are searching for a fugitive who escaped from the dungeons.

or 3: A poor unlucky soul has came against the crown in some reason and are about to receive their due punishment.

And reasons two and three are exceedingly rare. And reason one is the most prevalent, often coming at least three times a year.

A royal messenger steps out of the carriage, scroll in hand.

The man wore a navy-blue coat embroidered with golden thread, his shoulders adorned with the royal insignia. He stood tall, his chin lifted as though he were personally responsible for the existence of the crown.

I immediately disliked him.

“Citizens of Veyra!” he announced.

The marketplace fell silent.

Well, almost silent.

Somewhere behind me, a chicken continued making an extraordinary amount of noise.

The messenger cleared his throat.

“By decree of His Majesty, King Alistair, all eligible unmarried women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five are hereby invited to attend a royal ball, to be held at the palace on the evening of the twenty-first!”

A collective gasp swept through the square.

Beside me, Amara seized my arm.

“Melodi.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say!”

“I’ve known you for fourteen years. I can practically hear your thoughts.”

“Then you know this is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to us!”

“To you, perhaps.”

She ignored me.

The messenger continued reading, though I could hardly hear him over the sudden eruption of excited chatter.

“His Majesty requests the attendance of the kingdom’s most accomplished young women, that His Royal Highness, Prince Micah, may have the opportunity to become acquainted with those who may one day serve alongside him in the royal court.”

“Serve alongside him,” I repeated quietly. “How romantic. Nothing says true love quite like being interviewed for a position.”

Amara slapped my arm.

“Will you stop?”

“Ouch! Why does everyone insist on assaulting me today?”

“Because you refuse to appreciate the opportunity standing before you!”

I looked toward the messenger.

He was still reading from the parchment, apparently oblivious to the fact that half the women in the square were already planning their weddings.

“An opportunity to do what, exactly? Stand in a crowded ballroom while a prince decides whether I’m worthy of his attention?”

“Yes!”

“Amara.”

“Melodi.”

“I would rather marry a goat.”

She considered that.

“A wealthy goat?”

“An exceptionally wealthy goat.”

“With land?”

“Acres.”

She sighed dreamily. “Well, I suppose there are worse arrangements.”

I laughed.

Unfortunately, our amusement attracted the attention of the messenger, whose gaze swept across the square before settling on us.

I immediately straightened.

Amara, naturally, waved.

I wanted to disappear.

“Furthermore,” the messenger continued, “each household shall receive a formal invitation bearing the royal seal. Attendance is expected of those summoned, and arrangements for transportation shall be made for families unable to provide their own.”

Expected.

That was an interesting choice of words.

I frowned.

If the king wished to invite women to a ball, why not simply invite them? Why announce it as though he were ordering soldiers to report for duty?

Then again, royalty had never been particularly skilled at asking politely.

“Did you hear that?” Amara whispered. “They’re sending invitations!”

“I have ears."

“Your mother is going to be delighted.”

My stomach sank.

Mama.

Oh, heavens.

Mama was going to be unbearable.

She had spent the better part of two years attempting to convince me that marriage was the greatest accomplishment a woman could achieve. And now the king himself had practically handed her an excuse to begin planning my future.

I could already hear her.

Melodi, darling, perhaps you should wear your blue gown.

Melodi, you must remember to smile.

Melodi, for the love of everything sacred, please do not argue with the prince.

That last one was going to be particularly difficult.

The messenger rolled up his parchment.

“May the crown endure, and may the kingdom prosper!”

A few people applauded.

Others cheered.

Amara practically vibrated beside me.

I stared at the carriage.

Something about the announcement bothered me.

Not the ball itself. Royal celebrations were hardly uncommon, and the palace had hosted enough elaborate gatherings to feed the entire kingdom for a year.

It was the way the messenger had spoken.

The invitation sounded less like an opportunity and more like an obligation.

And I have never particularly enjoyed being obligated to do anything.

“Well,” I announced, adjusting my basket, “that was sufficiently disturbing. I believe I’ll go home now.”

Amara grabbed my wrist.

“Not so quickly.”

I looked down at her hand.

“Amara.”

“You’re going.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Melodi!”

“Amara!”

Several people turned to stare.

I smiled politely.

They turned away.

“You cannot seriously expect me to attend a royal ball simply because some man in an expensive coat told me to.”

“It’s not just some man! It’s the king!”

“Then he can come ask me himself.”

Amara stared at me.

For a moment, I thought she might actually faint.

“You’re going to get yourself arrested one day.”

“Probably.”

“And I’ll have to visit you in the dungeons.”

"Bring apples."

She snatched the apple from my hand.

“Not if you keep stealing them!”

“I was going to pay for that!”

“You’ve been holding it for twenty minutes!”

“An extended inspection.”

She rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips.

I handed her three copper pieces, which was considerably more than the apple was worth.

“Keep the change.”

“How generous.”

“I am a woman of exceptional character.”

“You’re a menace.”

“An exceptional menace.”

I leaned across the stall and kissed her cheek.

“Goodbye, Amara.”

“Goodbye, future princess!”

I nearly tripped over my skirts.

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

Her laughter followed me halfway down the street.