Spoiler! :
Henry was a tiny doll, porcelain cracked on the left side of his head. His right foot crumbled at Bess’s touch, and she braced herself for blood, for shrieks loud enough to wake Mother from her shameful grave. Disturbed by the silence and the dryness of her brother’s skin, she wiped away his shattered foot, and leaned down to examine his ankle. Hollow.
She rushed to her scrap basket and pricked herself on a needle she had neglected to put away but felt no pain. She rummaged through her fabrics, through remnants of past dresses and her mother’s old clothes. Blood seeped through a rag as she held it between thumb and forefinger; she grabbed the cloth it and stuffed it up Henry’s leg.
Bess scooped Henry up with Francis and tucked each everlasting brother into a crib they couldn’t outgrow, where they would dream dreams, Bess was sure, of the heirs they could never become. Perpetually pursed lips met the lip of a glass bottle, and milk dribbled down their ancient baby chins. Bess kissed each brother on each check and set off for tea.
Richard, Bess’s half-brother, two years her junior, was already seated at the grand marble table, devouring a pastry with his chubby fingers.
“How was your day so far?” Bess began.
“It was fine, I suppose. I played about in the courtyard. And you?”
“I knitted a pair of pajamas for Francis.”
“Why? I couldn’t think of a more boring chore.”
“Francis lacked something to sleep in.”
“Bess, it’s a doll. It can’t sleep! You are ten years old–too old to play with dolls.”
“You should look to yourself before you reprimand me. At eight, you still play with hobby horses. At least my dolls have full bodies; you play with a horse head on a stick!”
“You are ridiculous. I will be king soon, and then I will outlaw dolls!”
“No, Henry will be king, and when he dies, Francis, and when Francis dies, I shall rule as queen!” exclaimed an irritated Bess.
“Henry and Francis–rubbish! They are dolls; they are not real! And you—you are but a girl.”
And the weight of these five words struck Bess. Knowing King wanted an heir of the correct gender, knowing Mother’s uterus wouldn’t comply, aware of the dismal truth of the situation, of her mother’s execution, she fled the dining room, sobbing. King grinned at the head of the table.
Bess retreated to her chamber, pacing, pacing. “Maybe Richard is right,” she thought. “Maybe I’m too old for dolls. Maybe they mean nothing; they can’t feel anything; they’re not my brothers.” And she caressed both dolls in her arms, clutching them close to her tiny breasts. “If I am going to be queen,” she said aloud, “I will have to forget fantasy.” And with much remorse, she thrust the dolls upon the floor, watched them shatter, swept up their remains, disposed of their broken pieces, and returned the cloth to her scrap basket.
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