Work Text:
Irene sat primly on the edge of a chair, hands folded in her lap. A royal delegation from Attolia had been invited to spend a month at the palace in Eddis as a show of goodwill and a reassurance of peace, as happened between the three countries on the peninsula from time to time. Irene, seven this year, had been allowed to come with her mother and older brother on the trip.
Not only that, she and her mother had been personally invited to lunch with the queen of Eddis and quite a few Eddisian princesses and baronesses. She had hoped to meet the princess Helen today, but it seemed that Helen had not been invited. Perhaps five was still too young for formal lunches.
Irene tried her very best to pay attention to the conversation in the room, but it was all so terribly boring, nothing like the stories her nurse told her about the people in the palace. She felt herself starting to yawn and forced herself to hold it in. She wished there were other children here to talk to. The youngest baroness in the room was at least twelve.
Shouts of laughter came from outside, and Irene turned in her seat to look out the window. Craning her neck, she could see down to where four or five wild-looking Eddisian children ran through the snow, pelting each other with snowballs.
The queen of Eddis, seated to Irene’s left and also looking out the window, sighed. “The king wanted Helen to join us today; he thinks the two of you will be fast friends once you meet. While I agree, I also know that forcing Helen to come inside on such a beautiful day would cause her to sulk for the duration of this lunch.” She smiled ruefully and looked at Irene. “It wouldn’t be a very good introduction, I’m afraid, so I told her she could play outside.”
Irene stared at the queen, wide-eyed. What must that be like? Helen wanted to play outside, so Helen got to play outside. It was a freedom Irene had never known.
The queen laughed. “I can see that surprises you. Would you like to play with Helen and the others later?”
Irene did want to play, but she was starting to resent Helen. It wasn’t fair that Helen had so many friends to play with. It wasn’t fair that Helen got to play outside and she didn’t. And if Irene did go out to play, what if Helen didn’t like her? Compared to Helen’s friends, Irene would probably seem too old and boring. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Real princesses stayed indoors and made polite conversation, she told herself. They didn’t run around screaming and throwing snow at their friends. She would stay inside. “No, thank you,” she said quietly, and turned to face the room again.
That night, there was dancing. Irene performed the Eddisian dances she knew and watched the ones she didn’t. Helen danced them all, her face flushed, head tossed back in laughter. Her dancing was not precise, but she didn’t seem to notice her mistakes. Her cloth dolls, which she wore tucked into her belt, seemed to dance with her, their limbs flailing in time with the music.
Most of the little Eddisian children carried at least one doll around with them everywhere they went. Helen had three of them, and they were beautiful, and Irene was immediately jealous. They had miniature versions of the colorful knitted sweaters Eddisians wore in cold weather, along with brightly patterned skirts or trousers, little cloth shoes, and hair made of sheep’s wool.
Irene had had dolls when she was very young, but she had not been allowed to keep them past the age of six. She was too grown-up now, and dolls were no longer appropriate. Her first night alone without her favorite doll, she had cried herself to sleep, curled into a ball under her blankets.
At the far end of the high table, she could see the queen of Eddis whispering something in Helen’s ear. Helen was staring right at Irene, who stared back, challenging her.
The queen gave Helen a push, and she walked down the table toward Irene. “I’m Helen. Would you like to dance?” she asked, in a good imitation of politeness, Irene thought.
“Yes, thank you,” said Irene, well-versed in the proper responses. When one was asked to dance, one did not decline. She stood and followed Helen to the center of the room, where several large circles of people were forming. Helen motioned for Irene to join a circle of mostly children.
As they went through the steps of the dance—one Irene didn’t know but picked up quickly—she continued to follow the rules of etiquette by trying to engage Helen in conversation. “I like your dolls,” she said to the younger girl.
Helen grinned. “My aunties made them for me. Why don’t you have any?”
“I used to,” said Irene shortly. She didn’t feel like explaining further. “Their sweaters are so bright.”
“Are they?” asked Helen as the circle compressed, all the dancers moving inward. They raised their arms upward to the beat of the music. Irene couldn’t raise her left hand all the way, since that was the one holding Helen’s hand, and Helen was much shorter than she was.
“Oh,” said Irene. The circle walked back out. “They look bright to me. I guess they look normal to you.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, and several minutes passed in silence.
When the dance was over, both girls returned to the high table. Irene strained to hear what Helen was saying to the queen. “...doesn’t have any!” she managed to make out over the music and conversation that filled the room.
“Well, why don’t you…” she heard the queen reply before the rest of her words were drowned out by a shout of laughter from another table.
Helen walked over to Irene again. "Do you want to have one of my dolls?" She held one out at arm's length.
For a fraction of a second, Irene nearly said yes. The soft little doll with its bright red sweater stared at her, head lolling. Helen stared at Irene too, eyebrows raised expectantly.
But no, she couldn’t. It would be taken away as soon as her mother discovered it. And why was Helen offering it to her anyway? They weren’t friends. Was this some kind of trick?
“No, thank you,” said Irene, with as much haughtiness as she could muster. “Princesses don’t play with dolls.”
Helen scowled. “Fine.” She tucked the doll back in her belt and stalked off.
———
“Do you remember that time you offered me a doll?” Irene asked abruptly. She was reclining on her bed on the ship that would take them home from the war camp, one hand resting absently on her belly. Helen sat slumped in the chair across from her. They had both been quiet for some time.
“Hm, I think so,” said Helen as she stirred her coffee, chin in hand. “You told me princesses don’t play with dolls.” She smiled into her mug.
Irene cringed. She remembered, word for word. “I’m sorry for that. I really wanted it, you know,” she said to the wooden ceiling of her cabin.
“Why didn’t you take it?”
Irene turned her head to look at the other queen. “I wasn’t allowed,” she said. “My dolls had all been taken away from me the year before. I wouldn’t have been allowed to keep it.”
“Hm,” said Helen again, gazing at Irene. “I’ll make one for you. It’s an Eddisian tradition for at least one of the baby’s aunts to make it a doll.”
Irene smiled softly. “I’d like that.”
“With a red sweater, like the one you wouldn’t let me give you,” Helen grinned.
“Perfect,” agreed Irene. “And I’d be honored if you’d let me make one for you.” She paused, then added, “Of course, if you’d rather have someone else do it, I don’t have any of the patterns, or—”
“I’ll show you how,” cut in Helen. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Irene.”
———
Three cribs sat side by side in a small room of the palace. Two dolls with bright red sweaters lay in the cribs of the Attolian twins. A doll with a blue sweater was tucked under the arm of the third baby. All three were asleep, for now. Helen and Irene sat, exhausted, on a plush couch at the side of the room. They had ushered the nurses out of the room to have a moment alone with each other and the children, as they did whenever they could both spare the time.
“I hope they grow up to be friends,” murmured Irene.
“Of course they will,” said Helen with a smile. “How could they not?”
“Well, if they’re anything like us…” Irene trailed off, remembering all the years she’d spent hating Helen for no reason at all.
“We just got off to a bad start.”
“ I got us off to a bad start. And then I was horrible to you at your coronation.” Irene fiddled with the embroidered hem of her sleeve.
“And as I’ve told you before, that’s all in the past. Besides, your advice was helpful.”
Irene laughed. “When I essentially told you to kill anyone you didn’t trust?”
“Perhaps that wasn’t how I best rule, but it certainly taught me a lot about you ,” Helen teased.
“Maybe we’ll keep that advice to our generation. The children won’t need it, I hope.”
“I hope so too.”
They fell into silence then, gazing at the cribs. Helen laid her head on Irene’s shoulder, and Irene thought how glad she was that the strange little girl who would rather throw snowballs than sip tea had become her friend.