WHAT THE PRINCESS WISHES by PEYTON DUPREE
T
ea parties. Royal investitures. Child-bearing. Seated on the fountain’s marble coping, Princess Amelia felt frustrated. And withdrew her delicate hand from its moon-dappled waters. Jeweled drops fell like tears. If only, she wished. If only a proper prince… (not the pompous, pomaded prats her father encouraged). A dashing prince on a white stallion. No, a unicorn… (She tried to imagine a proud unicorn bridled and saddled. Failed. No matter: her prince commanded the gracious animal with gentle words.) If only a prince astride his unicorn would sweep me up in his arms and bear me away. To his castle… (Of course. Remaining here where Father and Mother would corrupt him with the extraordinary boredom of their ordinary royal lives would be…tragic.) As she debated whether she would allow her relatives to visit, a flight of eleven swans eclipsed the moon. One broke off and descended. Skirting the plashy fountain, it bellied into the pool and, breasting the waters, paddled towards her—a bird of luminous beauty, feathers like living silver, bill cast in ruddy gold. Tender-eyed behind a mask of midnight velvet… Amelia’s heart leaped. This is how wishes come true! she thought, her body thrilling. The swan was surely a prince in disguise. Coyly, she giggled behind her palm. It bowed its sinuous neck.
“Oh,” she said, and extended the back of her hand, demurely inclined. It nuzzled her knuckles. Laughing—an effervescence of spirit—she twisted her body, knelt on the coping and, mimicking the swan’s neck with her arm, playfully pecked. The swan kissed her fingertips in return. A prince! No ordinary swan would so amorously entwine its neck with her arm’s arabesque. “I wish you could take me away with you,” she murmured, thinking of her prince astride his unicorn. An impossible dream. The swan turned its back, spread its wings—their span was huge, and she wondered… Dared hope they might bear her weight. And with the impulse of enchanted evening, sprang onto the bird’s back, and was caught up in the thunder of its wings. Found herself aloft, arms wrapped around its broad chest, head hard against its plumage as its neck coiled above her. From its bill burst a trumpet call of triumph. It did not take her to a palace. It took her to a copse of breeze-ruffled trees and there transformed into a short, thin-legged boy, poorly dressed. “You’re not…” she breathed. Dismayed. Outraged. “You’re not what I asked for!” 53
