Week 2

 Day 8

I saw the peasant boy today. His name is Todd. He talks a lot and doesn’t seem to mind that I’m ugly.  He says that his father beats him regularly, drunk or not, and that his mother does not usually stop him. He thinks it was my influence -- that Summer people were behaving so coldly and cruelly that they could have been mistaken as Winter folk.

“Your mother knew I was there,” I asked him.

“No.” He shook his head and kicked a loose pebble out of my way. “Ever since you married the king, she says that we have to be nicer to each other.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why.”

I told him that as a child in Winter, I could have been beaten half to death in the middle of the street and nobody would have stopped to help me. I told him that I found it very odd that his mother came to his rescue.

I did not mention that in Winter, whoever tried to hurt me would be hunted down and put to a quick but mostly painful death. People in Winter are known for their cruelty for a reason -- but their indifference is a show.

Day 9

I sent a letter to my mother today, telling her how pleasant the peasants are, and extolling the virtues of my husband.  I told her that I was bored -- which is not true. I spend every minute of every day in a heightened state of terror. Even when I am alone, I am cautious to keep my face stiff and unfriendly, in case someone happens to enter my room without introduction. Which is impossible, of course, I mean, anyone doing so would immediately be beheaded….

Still, I can’t shake this feeling of being out of place, lost, unwanted, unsafe. I want to be back home. I want to have my own face back. In Winter, we must all keep control of our emotions, but the immediate penalty is a firm slap by a loved one, not a shiny sword slid through the gullet by the enemy.

I think that we, all at home, thought that we were hard-core, tough, Winter-ites, striking terror into our enemies with our piercing and eye lenses. It is the soldier that I relate to now. Friendless and alone in a hostile land with no way to express his or her fear. No one to lean on. No sisters to practice forbidden smiles on, in the midnight moonlight, when we should have been asleep for hours.

Adora reminds me of my sister Karen -- though I would be hard-pressed to explain why. Karen was so sensitive that we all feared her chances at a good marriage. Adora, in her own way, is tougher than Karen. She has no one, cares for no one. No one has ever cared for her. This is a strength borne of needing no one and of never having been needed. She is independent of everyone and everything. The unkindness that has been shown her was from sheer maliciousness, not cultural grandstanding.

But Adora has that sensitivity that Karen did. She has that ability to sense any fluctuation in the emotional atmosphere. I am more and more convince that she knew she was slated for death and -- the thought is quite alien to me, it is a struggle to comprehend -- that she may have welcomed its warm embrace.

Even I, tired and terrified, in my bedroom at night, too guarded to even light a candle, can lie on my marble bed with no blankets, and feel the warmth of family. So far away, yet as close as a thought, as a memory. Their love, though never auspicious, and fervently denied, is a blanket of hope and comfort that Adora has never had. I think that I, in many ways, have had more affection and love and life than my maid has. 

It is a disturbing thought, mostly because when I thought of becoming the queen of Summer, I always pictured the folks to learn to love me. That is their reputation -- to be loving and open and welcoming. I never really understood, though I’d spout the propaganda at any turn, why Winter was always at war with Summer.

Winter seems cold and frightful, Summer seems warm and welcoming. But blankets of snow protect baby blades of grass that would be scorched before reaching adulthood by the Summer sun.  Summer brings warmth, yes, but it is a fiery thing -- all passion and selfishness. Destructive. All of the things that Winter has always been accused of, it is Summer who is guilty of it.

All of these thoughts make me feel more alone in this place, so aware of how unwanted I am, so barely tolerated. I think that if I had endured a lifetime of this treatment, I would be as calloused as Adora’s hands, as her heart.

Day 10

My mother could never turn a soul in trouble away. Her excuse was that one could never have too many servants, and if anyone ever put that theory to the test, it was her. Any child, widow, or just any one down on their luck -- she’d put them to work. As one of the wealthiest families in town, it was often a struggle for my parents to make ends meet because they were supporting half of the town. 

Then again, when the people my mother helped got on their feet again, they always repaid them. Publicly, my mother is known as a cruel mistress, exacting and demanding and difficult down to the last detail. Privately, she is known as someone who will come up with the minutest chore if it will earn someone coin enough to keep them fed. Publicly, my mother is known as someone who crams her servants quarters so full, that the servants have to sleep in shifts. Privately, everyone knows that if she didn’t do so, there would be hundreds of people out on the street -- and it gets cold in Winter.

Karen and I were never lacking in playmates, that’s for sure. We had so many foster siblings come and go that often, Karen and I wouldn’t see each other for months. Then the economy would rise again, mostly thanks to my mother, and the house would empty, and we would find each other again. 

I remember when I was twelve and she was thirteen, my mother took in two families with children our age. One girl was sixteen and stunning, but with the airs of a princess. In the other family, one girl was eleven and still liked to climb trees and dig tunnels and beat up boys. Karen was drawn to the rich girl and I played with the poor girl every day.

When both families left, I saw Karen again, and didn’t recognize her. She stood taller, walked straighter, had much more cleavage. I tried to get her to giggle with me at midnight, and she refused. She said that I was behaving childishly and that I should grow up.

I went away feeling like I’d lost a sister, and woke up to her tickling my side.  “What,” I said, groggily, eyes bleary from dried tears. I pushed her hands away.
“I have a joke for you,” she said. Her voice was strained with forced carelessness.

“It better be good.” My voice was quiet, hope warring with disillusion.

“What did the older sister say, to get the younger sister to stop being mad at her?” Her whisper was husky.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She did a drum roll with icy hands on my warm thigh. “You tell me.”

I laughed. “You are the worst joke teller.”

“I know,” she said, still whispering. “That’s why I need you.”

Day 11

Probably the person I miss the most, is my mother. She always had a way, even on her worst day, of being both vulnerable and untouchable.  She would do anything for anyone, but she refused to ask for help. I remember, one time she turned an ankle and was laid up for a week. You never saw a crankier person accepting help from someone else. I think the only reason she let people wait on her was because she didn’t want to injure herself worse, and then be more dependent.

My maternal grandmother had a knack of pointing out my mother’s faults and weaknesses in a shaming way and my mother, though she would give the cloak off her back to help a complete stranger, could not gracefully accept help, even from those who loved her the most.

When my father was courting my mother, it was her stubbornness that attracted him to her. Her generosity was known even then, and her mother made certain the shame my mother for her nature.  See, there are people in Winter, who actually believe the hype. They believe that we are supposed to be heartless, and have forgotten, or perhaps never knew, why we behave the way we do.

I think my grandmother’s upbringing had a lot to do with that, but even knowing that my grandmother was an orphan who was rejected by her own family, rather than taken in by relatives -- it’s difficult for me to forgive her the damage that she did to my beautiful, kind mother.

The cruelty of the Winterfolk is supposed to be stuff of legend, myth -- stories sent out to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies so that they won’t fight us. Winterfolk are pacifists. We fight when there is absolutely no other recourse. And when we do fight, we try to emphasize the carnage, as warning not to mess with us further. And it works. Winter has been at peace with every nation excepting Summer for over four thousand years.

But there are the Winterfolk, who like being Winterfolk, because it means that they get to behave in depraved, vile ways in public. I see the same folk in Summer, only they hide their hatred behind smiling masks and nice manners. I think the thing about living here is that I realize that both Winter and Summer have their accumulated personae that they are supposed to live up to; Winterfolk are ferocious and unyielding, and Summer are warm and welcoming.

But behind each and every mask, is an individual with varying degrees of good and evil battling way within them. The degree of each quality is often affected by economics, familial pressures or support, and a sense of purpose that each individual either has, or does not have.

I spoke to Todd’s father today. It turns out that though he comes from a long line of gardeners, he always yearned to be a cook. I think that most people, either in Winter or Summer, would be slow in forgiving him his anger, when it is unleashed upon a small child and a woman half his size -- but I can’t help but know how he feels.

Being trapped in a friendless land….I am resigned to it, but I don’t embrace it. Sometimes, I feel the anger well up, and I feel impotent with it. I imagine ten or so years of that will turn me into the true personification of Winterfolk, rather than the image of it.

In the meantime, I have hired Todd’s father as my personal chef. I told everyone that I don’t trust the regular kitchen chef, as my food always tastes a bit off. 

I told Adora, in front of big ears, that I’ve ensorcelled Todd’s father, Stan, so that he will be loyal to me, and not poison me. I am counting on Stan’s yearning for being a chef to keep him from poisoning me. That is the true spell I have laid upon him -- the ability to be who he has always wanted to be. 

I wonder if it will make a difference in his relationship with his wife and child. Is he the kind of man who uses life’s little twists to excuse himself from behaving like a decent human being, or has his frustration simply gotten the better of him? Time will tell, and of course, in rescuing Stan from the garden, I have made another mistake. Now Stan knows, or suspects that I am not the monster I pretend to be, and therefore is in a position to expose me. Todd and his mother also suspect, and I can only hold on to the hope that the improvement in all of their lives will make them so grateful that they will keep their traps shut. Or, perhaps, I can invoke the old Winter custom of cutting out the tongues of servants -- though I don’t believe that would go over well, since these are Summer peasants. No doubt I could do this to Adora, and no one would notice, since the girl has not a spare word to share with anyone.

My latest mistake has made me feel more exposed and alone than ever. I think I initially helped Todd in order to create for myself, a friend. However, those who credit one with the blessings in their lives, often turn on the same person when things do not go the way they expect. So if Stan does not become happy and fulfilled, if he chooses to remain the malcontent that he is now, I am the person they will all blame.

One would wonder if I were in full leave of my senses, or if I simply have a wish for a slow, painful death….

Day 12

On the heels of yesterday, I woke up spoiling for a fight. Lady Virginia is a chubby gal, who married slightly beneath her to a very wealthy man. So she has the airs of a Duchess and the gold of a queen, and behaves as though she were the Goddess Above All. I try not to like her.

Lady Virginia is one of my daily companions, a governess almost, who teaches me Summer history. When I entered the visiting chambers, I found her picking on my maid. “Did she do that to you?” The Lady was asking Adora. She flicked a hand in the direction of Adora’s face.

Adora and I often add red welts to visible skin areas using make-up. After yesterdays debacle with me hiring Stan, I decided that my viciousness needed to be shown so we fixed Adora up good with some very realistic scratches on her face. Deep, but not enough to leave a scar -- what a pain that would be every day.

Adora didn’t answer, as trying to get her to speak is akin to trying to pry my fingers out of the gaping eye sockets of an enemy.

“So you see that the position you turned down with me, was a big mistake, do you?” The Lady asked, with an unconcerned air.

So now I knew what Adora was being punished for, in her service to me. I guess she had a choice of pain/death or daily rape and chose me. Not that the Count, Virginia’s husband, is into abusing his servants. It’s just that he is so vain in his reputation as a lover that he can not take any protestations seriously. Indeed, any female servant considering placement in Count Vincenzo’s house is warned and given the choice of working there. Apparently, Adora chose not to, and in doing so somehow offended the notoriously sensitive Lady Virginia.

“Yes, M’lady,” Adora said, with a humble curtsy.

“You can still change your mind,” Lady Virginia said, with a forgiving air.

I could see the slightest tense to Adora’s shoulders.

“That is entirely out of the question,” I said. The Lady turned toward me, surprised by my sudden appearance. She curtseyed as I said. “The only way this wench leaves my service is in a casket.” 

The Lady shot me an openly angry glare, in opposition to Adora’s nearly imperceptible grateful glance.

Day 13

You know that kind of day that makes you cry so hard that your head hurts and your eyes bleed? This was one of those days, only I didn’t get to cry. In Winter, we have ways of expressing these feelings -- a lot of the ways include violence against inanimate objects.

But I feel so tired and weak. I have no desire or energy to lift a weapon. If Adora or my husband walked into my room right now, I would confess everything.

I am human.

I am sad.

I miss home.

I miss Mom.

I miss Dad.

I miss Karen.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of feeling so much more than I’m allowed to.

I’m weary of being stuck in a life that doesn’t suit me, with no way , no chance of being accepted as myself.

I wish I had the courage to be weak in front of others.

I wish I could forgive myself my own weaknesses, but all I do is run them through my mind, flagellating myself with lists of my character defects.

All I want is to stop being me for a while.

All I want is to not exist.

There are few things I wouldn’t give, to be able to escape this body, this mind, even for a few hours.

Day 14

I think I’ve figured out why I’ve been so scared lately. I’m all alone here -- which is not a surprise, or anything. It’s that if I step out of line, it’s akin to sticking my head in a guillotine. The consequences are immediate and irreversible. In Winter, if I show an uncommon kindness or smile or something stupid like that, all I get is a gentle remember like a slap or a verbal spanking.

Here, I have to discipline myself and there is no margin for error. This is difficult for someone who has always been more of an emotional Winterian. 

I see someone like Adora, with her rigid discipline so tight that she could rule Winter with the power of a glacier. But her discipline is based on never having had anyone to do soft things for her, like sing her to sleep, or smack her lightly on the head when she fell down and skinned a knee and started crying. Mom would tap me on the forehead, then smile and kiss the bandage. Adora never had that. The response that she receives for her presence ranges from neutrality to utter disrespect.

There is a young knight who seems sweet on her, but Adora dismisses him as an insincere Lothario, and I believe that he does have that reputation -- but I can’t help but believe that he is truly enamored. And she’ll never believe that. I find that very sad. Even as ugly as I am considered here, I recognize male appreciation of my form when I see it.

Now that they’re accustomed to the way I look, the braver courtiers even try to make love to me.