A Malevolent Turn

***Start of the year 1773.***

Guards were seemingly oblivious to my shouts and moans of terror as my husband dragged me out of the ballroom and into the palace corridor. Angels and deers, satyrs and virgins displayed on paintings on the ceilings, walls and even furniture, were all silent witnesses to my being captured.

Maybe that was putting it a little too harshly. However, I felt like I was robbed from my usual environment by a strange madman.

“I will follow you on foot. Please put me down,” I insisted.

“I do not recall you to be so adamant,” said my estranged husband.

He did as he was told, however, and put me down.

"I do not recall you to be so obedient," was my retort.

I allowed a small grin to appear on my face. Peyton seemed confused at this.

"I have been granted a room by His Majesty, perhaps we could talk there."

He looked at the large double doors of the ballroom, as if he would rather burst them open again.

"Perhaps I could return to the festivities, you could as well. After you get properly dressed."

He looked at his dreadful attire in a confused manner.

"What is wrong with what I'm currently wearing?"

I looked at him in disbelief. Of course, I shouldn't have been so surpised at his ignorance. However, it had been so long since I had last seen him that it felt as if the absurdity of his character was again revealed to me for the first time.

"It is not suitable for an event as grand as this. The King may like you, but it will be in your favour if the Queen likes you as well."

He shook his head in confusion.

"Her Majesty dislikes me?"

I ignored the question.

"I think it will be in your favour if you would at least wear a cravatte and breeches. So if you will do so, I will meet you again in the ballroom."

I turned around swiftly, and made the guards open the doors again. I didn't look behind me, but I imagined that my husband looked quite surpised at my sudden autonomy.

I tried to ignore the inquisitive glances of the guards riled up on either side as I made my way back to the elaborately decorated doors.

The cacophony of noises made for a strange contrast with the quiet hallway. Apparently, the Queen had dropped her speech and was now sipping from a glass of golden wine on her throne. The attendees, all in various stages of a transformation of a bird into a human, were dancing around the room. The New Year´s Celebration was nothing like the usual slow balls the nobles normally organised. Wings were flapping, feathers were falling, and some dancers even had the courage to imitate the sound of a chicken.

Soon, I was blinded by a pair of black feathered gloves.

“A little chick has come out to play,’’ said Frederick, his hot breath burning on my neck. I giggled, swatting his hands away from my face.

“I do not intend to play, Sir,’’ I said, my face displaying the opposite.

“In that case, young duckling, we shall immerse ourselves slowly into the dance.’’

He was clad in a raven costume, black feathers emerged from his gloves and his cravatte, making his golden hair even brighter. His blue eyes twinkled, watching the other guests dancing shamelessly before settling again on my face. He took both my hands, squeezing them lightly, and pulled me into the circle of dancers.

I was now used to dancing on ridiculous shoes, and especially now it was a skill that paid back handsomely, as I was able to dodge most of the fairly drunk overdressed attendees. Frederick laughed as I was almost hit by the Duchess of Brimstree, a county famous for its orchards.

“For all that wine at her disposal, she holds her liquor badly,’’ I murmured at Fredrick, at which he hushed me, laughing loudly himself. The poor duchess hardly noticed as she sped off towards one of her Ladies.

I noticed that most of the guests were stumbling around, having trouble keeping their balance. However, the Queen was by far the one that was affected by liquor the most. She was sitting in her chair, her glass broken on the ground.

“Master of Protocol, I said, calling Frederick cruelly by his title as we skipped past all the struggling nobles, “do you perhaps have anything to say about this?’’

“There are three rules for propriety,’’ said Frederick, impersonating the nasal voice of Lady Silverton, the teacher of every young and new noble at the palace, “sense of obligation, sense of occasion and sense of relation.’’

Black feathers pointed towards Lady Brimstree.

“And she has positively shat on all three.’’

I burst out laughing. Normally, this would have blemished my reputation for at least a month, but now the Lords and Ladies hardly noticed.

“How is your husband,’’ said Frederick, his eyes beaming almost feverishly. Had he also been affected? Tonight’s punch must have been extraordinarily strong. I smiled at him, happy to discuss the subject without having to look over my shoulder.

“My husband is outrageous,’’ I said truthfully, thinking about the way he had raised me from the crowd, and brought me outside the palace doors after not seeing him for six years.

“I completely agree,’’ said Frederick, tugging at my waist and lifting me above the dancers without a warning. It sent pleasant waves through my stomach and I laughed without shame. My voice echoed across the golden, intricate decorations of the ballroom, across the dancers, the cupids and the paintings of lovers. I lifted my hands in the air, as if I were a bird preparing to fly.

However, I was soon put down and swept away again, as the orchestra, wearing masks of geese’s heads for the occasion, fluently introduced another song.

“He has some nerve for grabbing you in that manner after six years,’’ he sneered.

I nodded, trying to push away the sadness I had felt from when he had left me without an explanation, all those years ago.

***The autumn of 1766, six years ago***

My heart raced as I walked the marble floors of the palace for the first time. I had tried my best to pick out a dress that would please the Queen, following the advice my nosy mother had provided in one of her letters. I had chosen a pale blue one, even though it did nothing for my complexion, because it was rumoured to be the Queen's favourite colour.

Once the doors to her elaborate salon opened, other ladies, dressed in sharp primary colours, turned around to give me a scrutinizing look, quickly hiding their smirks behind their fans in black, yellow and purple.

‘‘And who might this be,’’ said the Queen.

She was wearing a wig that was twice the size of her head, decorated with golden ribbons.

‘‘The Lady in Waiting from Chestnut Grove, Your Majesty,’’ said Lady Silverton.

She regarded me up and down.

‘‘A subdued little thing, aren’t you. Do you speak?’’

Such a stupid question.

‘‘Yes, Your Majesty.’’

‘‘Can you dance? Horseride? Do you speak any other languages? Can you write prettily?’’

‘‘Yes, Your Majesty.’’

The Queen laughed, and the wig on her head now sat slightly skewed on her head.

‘‘You mean to respond favourably to all of my questions at once. How confident. I cannot imagine why your husband has left you.’’

She regarded me again.

‘‘Perhaps it is because you dress so plainly.’’

And so my life at court had already taken a malevolent turn.

***The winter of 1772, the present.***

I was pulled back to the new song the orchestra played, a slower one. It made me look around curiously, dreamily, around the room. Expecting to see more handsomely, or ridiculously, dressed richards.

However, I heard screams echo through the ballroom. Soon, the whole room grew quiet, except for a young servant girl, dressed as the other servants in the yellow feathers of young chicks, bowed over the Queen.

“The Queen is not breathing!’’