I have always liked stories. My earliest memories are of Mother reading to me; cuddled together in the armchair by the fire in the parlour, or swaddled in blankets in my bed against the cold as the wind blowing up the Medway rattled the windows. Even after she taught me to read for myself, I still loved to hear her read to me. In later years, when the Consumption confined her to her bed, I returned the favour, reading to her from the newspaper, magazines and books until she drifted into sleep.
I must confess, I do not recall this particular tale from my youth, but I shall have to dig it out and read it. In the meanwhile, enjoy this variation on said tale, as told by my beloved Queen.
I am not weak. Now I have brought my sisters back, alerted my brothers, and made myself a creature of legend, there remains only the long, long walk that will trap the monster who intends me to be his bride.
See how I glitter.
See how I glitter? He will never know me. Am I clever? Oh, yes; yes, I am clever. I don’t even feel guilty about it, burning this man who wronged me and all his associates and posessions to the ground.
His precious castle
Only a shell of his precious castle will be left. My brothers are thorough.
But I feel beautiful, and strong
But I feel beautiful, and strong, like the bird I am emulating. This bird is a beautiful fantasy, a vengeful warrior, an irresistible decoy. I wonder, when he sees me, will he want the bird, too? Of course, he can lure me no…
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