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“Beginning at nightfall, no one is to go outside, for any reason. Castle guards are making their way through the village at this very moment to supply food and water to anyone who needs. Stay inside, stay warm, and we will make it through this storm to see each other again.” Phillip addressed the kingdom subjects. Aurora flushed. Phillip was especially handsome when he was in a commanding role, though her favorite part of today had been when he’d sent the guards away to give out the food and water. He was so strong when giving orders, so firm and certain of what he wanted! A tantalizing contrast to the rebellious boy who usually joked with her, whisked her away from those unending royal duties to climb trees and splash in the streams of the forest.
Presently, however, he was poking at the flesh near her ribs with his elbow. Aurora blinked, and fastened her gracious smile on again.
“...Oh—yes! No one is to go outside,” she echoed quickly, her breath tumbling out into the frigid air. Goodness, I sound like one of those strange birds that visiting viscount brought as a gift for Father! Neither him nor Mother had known what to do with the fowl, who repeated every word they tried to say. Luckily, the town bookseller was also an avian aficionado.
“There hasn’t been a storm this bad in years!” King Hubert declared, once they were all back indoors. Hubert, Phillip, Mother, Father, and then there was her. She? Aurora couldn’t recall the proper grammar. Those lessons were long and relentless. They always ended with her feeling English was foreign as wherever that viscount hailed from.
Everything was foreign now.
“These storms from the north can be awful things indeed,” said Father, while Aurora shook the cold flakes from her coat. It was a dark pink, with ruffles falling down the sides. Before she could set off in the direction of her chambers to put it away, Phillip was there, taking it and folding it over his arm. “Let me get that for you, my darling.” Aurora smiled. What else could she do? Nevermind that she wanted to take care of her things herself, like she always had. There never used to be anyone tending to her every need. Now pair Phillip with the castle staff buzzing around her all day, louder than the bees who made springtime honey, and she hardly did anything besides study princess etiquette anymore.
“Would you like a cup of cocoa, Princess?” a woman asked from behind. Aurora jumped. “No, thank you.” And if I did, I would get it on my own.
Then they were inside the library, in front of the burning hearth, and Aurora’s aunts were in the room. She could have sworn that simple truth made it even warmer. “Aunt Flora, why don’t you just make the storm disappear?”
The women—no, fairies, she was constantly forgetting they had been fairies the whole time—shook their heads.
“We can't, dear,” Aunt Flora lamented, placing the tome she was reading on a small table. Meanwhile, Aunt Merryweather sat in a large, cushioned chair.
“Not everything can be magicked away, you know.”
Aurora sighed. “I definitely do.”
When Phillip returned from getting rid of the wet coat, they sat by the fire together, on a sofa that Aurora had to admit was more comfortable than any seat in the peasant cottage. Her new bed was much better than her peasant bed, too—softer, bigger, and with a canopy, so she could hide from the world while she slept. Princess life did have its advantages.
Aurora snuggled close against him while the embers chattered, listening to his heart thrumming in her ear. Then, still feeling a slight chill, she got reluctantly to her feet. “I'll be right back,” she promised. Father was pouring mugs full of cocoa, and Mother was handing out blankets. Aurora watched them. King Stefan, afraid to touch her, for fear she might disappear again if he did. Queen Leah, needing to hold her, and not leave the embrace, like someone parched taking the longest of drinks. These were her parents—so why didn’t they feel like them? Who were these people that gave her life, these people she'd just met weeks ago? Clearly they loved her a great deal. She wanted to love them too. But they were just strangers.
“Aurora, are you quite alright?” asked Phillip’s father, tugging her from her thoughts, her guilt. Aurora swallowed. “Why yes, Hubert,” she said. The old man grinned warmly. “Remember, my dear—call me Papa.” She nodded, and he patted her on the shoulder before lumbering towards another cocoa mug.
She wished she could have told him, “and call me Rose.” Honestly, she preferred Aurora—it rolled off the tongue more regally, for certain. It had more elegance, though still it was simple enough that it didn’t sound haughty. But it also didn’t sound like her. Not yet. She felt like Rose dressed up in jewels and fine clothes, but Rose all the same.
Rose or Aurora, she needed a blanket to go back to the sofa and cuddle with Phillip. Surely he would have been glad to get it for her, but there should be no reason why she couldn't do it herself. She breathed deep and held the breath, hoping it would give her courage. Then, once she was standing near her mother…
“I..I’d like a blanket, please?”
The woman looked at her like she was an artifact, some precious historical relic which was never supposed to survive all this time. Or an exalted leader of some far-off land.
“Of course,” she answered quickly, fumbling to unfold one from the pile in her hands.
“Thank you,” Aurora said, not meaning for the phrase to come out so stiff. They stared at each other for a moment, then Aurora padded back to Phillip as fast as her stockings would slide across the stone floor.
“Give it time,” Phillip comforted later, on the sofa, stroking her hair while they nestled under the blanket, and she recounted the interaction in a whisper so her mother wouldn't hear. He was probably right. But what if he wasn't? What if she never loved her parents, and it was like this forever? Stilted, broken?
“Phillip, the guards have returned and they wish to speak with you about the next course of action,” Hubert—Papa—told his son suddenly. Well, most likely not actually suddenly, but suddenly to Aurora, because she was thinking. She was in her mind more than this library.
So much, that she didn’t even notice Father sitting down next to her after Phillip left. Up until the moment he cleared his throat. Aurora braced for a conversation riveting and natural as the one with her mother and the blanket.
“When I was a boy, there was a storm quite like this one. We all stayed indoors, the children all together playing games and keeping warm with hats and mittens. All the servant children, that is. I had no brothers or sisters, and my father was too busy being king to keep me company. Of course it just wouldn't do for the prince to play with the servants.” He looked at the fire. Aurora wondered if he was afraid to meet her gaze, like she was to meet his.
“It was the day of that storm I vowed if I ever had a child of my own, I would play games with them, pay attention to them no matter what my duties were. And then you came.” He didn't blink, seemed in his mind like she had been in hers just before. “...And then you were gone.” He turned to her then, and she couldn't escape his sad dark eyes.
“...In the cottage, we would tell stories and bake biscuits when it snowed,” she offered in reply. “Well, I baked the biscuits. Aunt Flora and Fauna and Merryweather never did understand the recipe in the cookbook.” He almost chuckled.
“I’ve always had a fondness for biscuits with—”
“My favorite was always—”
“—Nutmeg.”
They looked at each other in shock for a good while, Aurora didn't know how long.
Finally, Father said:
“I had hoped to share more snowstorms with you.”
She gave no response, only kept sitting on the sofa next to him.
When night had fallen, she watched through the keyhole of the door Mother neatly folding the last of the blankets no one had used. Taking another deep breath, she nudged the door ajar.
“I’m sorry, if I was awkward, or rude, before.”
Instantly, Mother stopped folding. After the surprise faded from her weary features, a quiet laugh left her pale lips. “You’re sorry? It’s me who should be apologizing, I only said two words.”
“I believe the proper, grammatical, royal way to say that is, ‘It’s I who should be apologizing,’” Aurora corrected jokingly, imitating the primness of her tutor whose name she couldn’t call to mind. Mother laughed again, louder this time. “You're so witty. I thought you might be, but I could always just wonder…”
Aurora thought of padding away again, but pressed her feet into the ground.
“...Are you witty too?” she asked.
“I like to think so. No one has ever told me otherwise, and I only hope being queen has nothing to do with why.” They both giggled—lightly, nervously. Nervous was alright, for now. It had no choice but to be.
“There you are!” Aurora exclaimed once she found Phillip and Aunt Merryweather in…well, she wasn't sure which room it was. But they were here, and that was what mattered.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Phillip said, pecking her on the cheek. She kissed his lips firmly, only stopping when out of the corner of her eye she saw Aunt Merryweather brandishing her wand in the air. “Aunt Merryweather…what are you doing?” she inquired, a playful smirk blooming on her face.
“Making a storm shelter.”
Now, Aurora had to let her laugh free. “I hardly think the storm will make the castle crumble!”
“But you don’t know, dear. I won't take any chances."
Phillip couldn't suppress a chuckle either. “Is she always like this?” he whispered, the hand cupped around his mouth touching her cheek. “It's just her way,” she responded happily. And Aurora realized this, this moment right now, was the closest to happiness she'd been since Phillip had woken her. She was the daughter of a witty queen, and a king with a fondness for nutmeg biscuits—not enough information to love them, but enough for today. “Phillip, I have something to ask you.” He said nothing, just looked at her attentively, ready to listen.
“Could you please not do things for me? Things like getting my coat when I come in from the cold? I've always taken care of myself, and I don't want that to change just because I have a title now. I want to still be me.”
Phillip’s eyes gleamed. “Alright. I’ll admit, I've never heard of a princess who doesn't want people to wait on her,” he grinned and tipped her chin up towards him, “but then again, I thought dragons were just stuff of legends until I met you.”
They kissed again, and Aurora felt Phillip shiver. There was no fire in this mystery room.
“Come on, let's get out of here. The storm’s not close to over; we have to keep warm.”
“I can think of a few ways to keep warm,” Aurora cooed, standing on her toes to nuzzle his neck. They burst into another laughing fit, broken only by more kisses.
And for the first time, Aurora felt more like Aurora, a princess with three aunts and a father and a mother, than the lonely peasant girl Rose.