pavane pour un infante defunte.

I don’t think I’ll make a good wife. I’m too docile to flirt, too timid to make the first move, and too thin to bear children.

But he doesn’t know that.

I’m expected to bring his heir to the world. I’m expected to produce the next prince of his country. I’m expected to look fierce and loving, at once.

My parents gave me no say in the matter. My mother, the Queen, came to my room two weeks ago. Through the distance that her job forces her to be, she’s always showed me love and affection. Her fingers, drowning in rings, weaved through my hair.

“My darling…you are to be married.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask who, I didn’t ask why, I didn’t ask when, I didn’t ask what he was like. I didn’t ask if I was allowed to say no.

She told me anyway. She said I was going to be married to the second eldest prince of the neighboring country, because it was convenient, in a year or so, but the engagement party would be in two weeks, she said he was handsome (of course) and intelligent and charming. She said that he was (perfect) for me and I (perfect) for him.

And then she laughed and kissed my forehead and left to complete her royal duties.

I’d never spoken to him before. I’d heard of him, vaguely, when I’d broken down in a fever and the royal physician began muttering to himself about how teenagers these days were always injuring themselves, and how he had to travel to the neighboring country to take care of the prince, who’d been severely injured while fencing.

I saw him for the first time last night. We didn’t speak and I don’t think he saw me. There was no room for romantic notions, about watching the sunset together while talking of what our lives would be like, where we would go for our honeymoon. He was exhausted, I could tell by the way his hair was disheveled, and the way his eyes would forcibly snap open during a conversation he was having.

I couldn’t help but feel slightly revolted at how much he resembled my brother. I’ve always acknowledged that my brother was handsome, but not like that. And of course, I look just like a much more effeminate version of my brother.

We have the same hair, the same flawless, pale (luminous) skin, the same underweight, delicate figure, and the same detachment about this whole affair. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in weddings, or in me.

I remind myself that first impressions can be wrong.

The guests are outside on the patio, socializing. We’re to enter together a few minutes after everyone arrives, looking perfectly happy and in love, even though we’ve never met.

I turn to the mirror, to pass time as I wait for him to appear by the door and wait with me till my mother comes to fetch us. I push back my hair, noting how it makes me look older than I am. Seventeen is a young age to be married, even for a princess. It took days to pick out my summer dress, to come to a conclusion about which color made me glow, about which style would set off my (nonexistent) figure better, about which shoes went best with the dress.

In the end, it was the flowing, pale yellow dress with the beaded neckline and the lace-up heels.

I look nice, I know I do. But I don’t think I look beautiful, like Cinderella at the ball who snatched the eye of Prince Charming.

(snatched it away from Princess Perfect.)

I can see him walking towards me now, in the mirror. I whirl around, suddenly very nervous.

“Hi,” my voice comes out fluttery.

He offers me a smile. “Hi.”

I’ve already planned the conversation in the back of my head. Because that’s what Princess Perfect does, she’s predictable.

“How are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Did you sleep well?”

He grins, wryly. “As well enough as I could, knowing that I’m resigning my entire life to a girl I’ve never met in the morning.”

He’s turned up the charm, I can tell. It slightly alarms me when I realize how our outfits could appear coordinated, to the trained eye. He doesn’t tower over me, in my heels, but without the extra three inches, I know I’ll have to stand on tip-toe to give him kisses.

If I ever kiss him, that is.

I wonder if he’s displeased with me, if he wanted a voluptuous, healthily tanned blonde, and not some scrawny, A-cupped, pale, black-haired girl. I wonder if he wanted a witty flirt, a girl who could both seduce the moon and write sonnets in two minutes about the timeless radiance it emits.

“Are you…okay with this?”

He asks like he’s concerned about my feelings. Or maybe he just wants to back out.

Before I can answer, my mother appears. She’s beaming.

“Oh, hello my darlings!” She rushes up to him and gives him a kiss on both cheeks (and he blushes) while I get an adoring gaze, a hug and a “You look absolutely beautiful, my dear.”

I’m lost in the moment. Nobody has ever told me that I’m beautiful. Pretty, yes, elegant, yes, but beautiful?

My mother’s telling him something about the seating and he nods, apparently comprehending whatever she’s saying.

“Go, go, they’re waiting!”

He holds out his arm and I docilely take it, pushing back my hair with the other hand, and breathing in.

A servant opens the door, and I plaster on a smile, and out of the corner of my eye, I see he’s glued one on too.

In the pit of my stomach, I suddenly know that I will never feel unadulterated passion, and neither will he.

There is no inexplicable wave of gratitude or sudden affection. He’s dragging me along with him to our table, saying thank you to the congratulations offered to us, and all I can feel is dizzy, knowing I’m not engaged to Prince Charming.

I’m engaged to Prince Perfect.