The Twelve Dancing Princesses retelling
I am the daughter of a king, the youngest of twelve girls. In our kingdom this was not strange; women who bore many children were considered fruitful, and blessed.
I learned very quickly not to expect the best. Youngest children were not given new things, even if they came from royalty, and with twelve in a household, this was even more so. When the royal tailor came to make us new dresses, he would be impatient with me, as I was the last. I know not to blame him now. He had done the measurements for Adeline, Briseis, Cerys, Dahlia, Eloise, Felicia, Gina, Harriet, Imogen, Jessica and Katrina. Surely this was a tiresome affair.
And living with eleven sisters was tiresome indeed. It was not the fact that we did everything together: classes, meals, music and dance lessons—it was the constant chatter, the endless flow of words, that grated on me. Always, always, there was a sister around. If you are the youngest, you will know this is not pleasant.
“Little Lila’s got ink in her fingernails!”
“Oh, Little Lila, fetch me that book, will you?”
My name is Lila, just Lila, and I am not little.
“Yes, sister,” I would say, and did as she asked. I would let them have this.
For I had something that I shared with no one.
Every night, at twelve past twelve, there was a door that opened just for me.
I found this by accident. I was in bed one night, turning sleep; my sisters were all deep in dreams. The chamber we shared was large, circular and tall; our twelve beds were arranged against the wall, and set between them were alcoves. There was a single, wide window that stretched across half the room. You could see the whole Kingdom of Aryxia from here.
It was through this window that the moon shone. The silver light hit the alcove between Gina and Harriet’s bed, and as I turned my head this way and that, I saw it.
The faintest tracings of a doorframe.
I blinked, and it was gone.
I rushed to my feet. The alcove was before me in seconds. There. Now that I was closer, and fully awake, I saw the door again. This time, the silver lines seemed like chalk marks: solid and clear. There was no mistaking the door for a trick of the light. The lines formed an arch around the alcove, like twisting vines and leaves, circling a piece of flat stone. I dared not breathe, afraid that my breath would scatter the tracings.
Carefully, I brushed my fingers against the moonlit wall.
My hand passed through brick as though it was made of air.
