The Porcelain Princess
part three
Not idly, time passed. The King used all influence and resources he had to bring the Master Potter to his palace. Famed throughout the lands the Master Potter had travelled as far as one could go to learn all he could of his trade, and was now renowned as the most skillful and knowledgeable across those lands. His price was high but the King was desperate.
Upon arrival to the court, the Master went straight to see the King and was followed by a boy carrying his equipment and tools. Aware already of the situation he curtly asked to see the Princess. Overlooking the man's manners, the King took the Master to her room himself. With a gesture the Master Potter bid the King leave them, and the door shut firmly.
Days passed. The King's anxiety grew yet he continued to send up all that was asked for to the shut room. The room from which, if one listened (and, overcome by curiosity, many did) mysterious and unsettling sounds were heard. Finally the Master emerged, face grim but satisfied. The King was hurriedly sent for and demanded a report of the man. Calmly wiping his hands with a cloth the Master Potter drawled lazily,
“You know none match my talents with porcelain and such materials – I have done all I can and restored your daughter as best I could. Thus I take my payment and my leave.”
Distractedly the King had a page bring forth the bags of gold, his payment. Eyes gleaming with greed the Master snatched them away and left the palace. The King pushed the door open further and entered hesitantly.
“Daughter? My daughter?”
She sat in the corner, a single candle burning near. Her head hung listlessly from its stoop and her skin was more beautiful and pale than ever for the weeks spent in darkness. One hand dangled by her side – in it she clutched a hand-mirror. The tension in the room was taut, tangible; the King could taste it with each step he took towards the silent figure. Absent was the sobbing he had grown used to.
She raised her head and looked at her father the King with eyes dull and empty. And yet was not her face whole and healed? The smile faltered, skipping briefly over his lips and not quite finding his eyes before fading; the King's hope as flickering and weak as the lone candle against the oppressive dark of the room. Her lips moved and he thought he heard a murmur of “Father” - but perhaps not. He stepped forward, lowering himself to one knee, to the only person the King would kneel to. Gripping her chin gently he picked up the candle and looked into her face. The porcelain perfection was whole to be sure; yet the broken pieces showed through all too clearly, a spider-web of lines across her features. Putting on a show of bluff heartiness the King smiled though his heart ached thinking of how such lines tore apart his child. He spoke meaningless words of comfort that she kept her beauty still, that the lines were hardly visible at all. But her haughty fire and her sneering pride were a burst bubble – what she had been and what she was cut at her, leaving only shame. With nothing left to say or do the King rose slowly and once more left her. This time though, with the uneasiness of a man unused to helplessness but who has run out of options.
Upon arrival to the court, the Master went straight to see the King and was followed by a boy carrying his equipment and tools. Aware already of the situation he curtly asked to see the Princess. Overlooking the man's manners, the King took the Master to her room himself. With a gesture the Master Potter bid the King leave them, and the door shut firmly.
Days passed. The King's anxiety grew yet he continued to send up all that was asked for to the shut room. The room from which, if one listened (and, overcome by curiosity, many did) mysterious and unsettling sounds were heard. Finally the Master emerged, face grim but satisfied. The King was hurriedly sent for and demanded a report of the man. Calmly wiping his hands with a cloth the Master Potter drawled lazily,
“You know none match my talents with porcelain and such materials – I have done all I can and restored your daughter as best I could. Thus I take my payment and my leave.”
Distractedly the King had a page bring forth the bags of gold, his payment. Eyes gleaming with greed the Master snatched them away and left the palace. The King pushed the door open further and entered hesitantly.
“Daughter? My daughter?”
She sat in the corner, a single candle burning near. Her head hung listlessly from its stoop and her skin was more beautiful and pale than ever for the weeks spent in darkness. One hand dangled by her side – in it she clutched a hand-mirror. The tension in the room was taut, tangible; the King could taste it with each step he took towards the silent figure. Absent was the sobbing he had grown used to.
She raised her head and looked at her father the King with eyes dull and empty. And yet was not her face whole and healed? The smile faltered, skipping briefly over his lips and not quite finding his eyes before fading; the King's hope as flickering and weak as the lone candle against the oppressive dark of the room. Her lips moved and he thought he heard a murmur of “Father” - but perhaps not. He stepped forward, lowering himself to one knee, to the only person the King would kneel to. Gripping her chin gently he picked up the candle and looked into her face. The porcelain perfection was whole to be sure; yet the broken pieces showed through all too clearly, a spider-web of lines across her features. Putting on a show of bluff heartiness the King smiled though his heart ached thinking of how such lines tore apart his child. He spoke meaningless words of comfort that she kept her beauty still, that the lines were hardly visible at all. But her haughty fire and her sneering pride were a burst bubble – what she had been and what she was cut at her, leaving only shame. With nothing left to say or do the King rose slowly and once more left her. This time though, with the uneasiness of a man unused to helplessness but who has run out of options.