The Porcelain Princess
part five
Those in the palace who chanced to see the Princess while performing their duties – carrying food or linen to her room, removing dirty dishes, clothing, sheets, and those who had no duty but used the pretence to see for themselves – noticed a change in the young woman. Quiet with an air not bespeaking sadness, but of one subdued. With lowered eyes she had even thanked a number of servants, once causing the boy in question to turn crimson and drop half of the robes he was carrying. Still she kept her face away from all eyes, but when intruded upon was more oft found gazing out of her window than into her mirrors. And the mirrors unused gathered dust – the Princess' need to feel her loss over and over again had abated. But what was left behind? None in the court knew what to make of her. Long-formed habits not easily put aside the Princess kept her own counsel, and kept secret the visits she continued making to the world so far removed from hers.
It was not the next escape which took her back to the young potter. Nor the next; nor the next. The Princess suppressed her thoughts of the youth and his lamenting song, exploring the town and pretending she did not weave most often through the streets of which she could yet hear strains of his voice carried over houses, shacks and shabby stalls by sympathetic winds. Eventually though she was drawn back to him by the stirring she felt: like a pain, but not hers. Like a sharing of the pain – though it perplexed her as to why, how, what she felt. A heartless girl raised and a heartless life led. Returning to him she was struck by both relief and jealousy at the small crowd which allowed for an unnoticed presence. He was working with porcelain that day, she realised, a lump forming in her throat. It was some piece of crockery which he would give away for a fraction of its worth – and yet he put as much care into it as if it were his final will and testament. Were he to die, perhaps it would be. A testament to his life long after it ended. The light changed as the sun began its descent into the hills, and the potter's crowd began to disperse. Finally there was but the transfixed princess and a merchant browsing through the potter's finished work. Glancing at the sky the merchant left with a grunt of dissatisfaction. And so remained two figures – potter in filthy but cared for working garb, princess so swathed in oversized robes it would have taken a sharp eye even to know her a woman. His song held her and even as it became softer she did not turn but rather fought the impulse to come closer still. Almost seamlessly – though surely it could not have been – his song ended, and he spoke just as softly and clearly to her.
“You remind me of a rabbit, girl. Will you run?”
And she would have had he looked up, asked why she was there, or finished with anything but that. She paused and shook her head pointlessly. She swallowed and spoke in a whisper.
“No.”
Berating herself for such timidity, she coughed and repeated it firmly. He nodded and continued working, and his humming filled the air; as if the reason for his singing denied him silence. He continued working and she stood watching with an awkwardness she had never known.
“You'll return tomorrow.”
He phrased it mildly between request and statement. Head cocked to one side he considered the plate before him, nodding and placing it in a stack of similar dishes. And before he could speak again or look to her or any action she knew she would not know how to react to, turn and run she did. Out of sight she slowed immediately, feeling a fool. She might come back tomorrow. She might come back the next day. She would make the decision herself though, not on the words of some - some peasant potter.
The words in her mind stung her as wrong, a ghost of herself – or rather of who she had been. Absently the Princess raised a finger to her face. Her fingers told her she felt no marring and no disfiguration, but her mind acidly whispered otherwise. Her memory strayed back to her childhood, to an old saying about a thing mended never being as strong as that never broken. Or was it the other way around? The perfect porcelain princess. The pride of a kingdom. The words seemed strange, as if spoken by one out of the practice of speech – rusted and broken.
She would return tomorrow. The knowledge settled upon her as she settled into her bedclothes that night.
It was not the next escape which took her back to the young potter. Nor the next; nor the next. The Princess suppressed her thoughts of the youth and his lamenting song, exploring the town and pretending she did not weave most often through the streets of which she could yet hear strains of his voice carried over houses, shacks and shabby stalls by sympathetic winds. Eventually though she was drawn back to him by the stirring she felt: like a pain, but not hers. Like a sharing of the pain – though it perplexed her as to why, how, what she felt. A heartless girl raised and a heartless life led. Returning to him she was struck by both relief and jealousy at the small crowd which allowed for an unnoticed presence. He was working with porcelain that day, she realised, a lump forming in her throat. It was some piece of crockery which he would give away for a fraction of its worth – and yet he put as much care into it as if it were his final will and testament. Were he to die, perhaps it would be. A testament to his life long after it ended. The light changed as the sun began its descent into the hills, and the potter's crowd began to disperse. Finally there was but the transfixed princess and a merchant browsing through the potter's finished work. Glancing at the sky the merchant left with a grunt of dissatisfaction. And so remained two figures – potter in filthy but cared for working garb, princess so swathed in oversized robes it would have taken a sharp eye even to know her a woman. His song held her and even as it became softer she did not turn but rather fought the impulse to come closer still. Almost seamlessly – though surely it could not have been – his song ended, and he spoke just as softly and clearly to her.
“You remind me of a rabbit, girl. Will you run?”
And she would have had he looked up, asked why she was there, or finished with anything but that. She paused and shook her head pointlessly. She swallowed and spoke in a whisper.
“No.”
Berating herself for such timidity, she coughed and repeated it firmly. He nodded and continued working, and his humming filled the air; as if the reason for his singing denied him silence. He continued working and she stood watching with an awkwardness she had never known.
“You'll return tomorrow.”
He phrased it mildly between request and statement. Head cocked to one side he considered the plate before him, nodding and placing it in a stack of similar dishes. And before he could speak again or look to her or any action she knew she would not know how to react to, turn and run she did. Out of sight she slowed immediately, feeling a fool. She might come back tomorrow. She might come back the next day. She would make the decision herself though, not on the words of some - some peasant potter.
The words in her mind stung her as wrong, a ghost of herself – or rather of who she had been. Absently the Princess raised a finger to her face. Her fingers told her she felt no marring and no disfiguration, but her mind acidly whispered otherwise. Her memory strayed back to her childhood, to an old saying about a thing mended never being as strong as that never broken. Or was it the other way around? The perfect porcelain princess. The pride of a kingdom. The words seemed strange, as if spoken by one out of the practice of speech – rusted and broken.
She would return tomorrow. The knowledge settled upon her as she settled into her bedclothes that night.