There she stood with a crown placed on top of those golden curls, a crown that many women before her had worn before my father had decided their fate.
A rose without any thorns is what my father calls her. But I believe differently about her. True she is a rose, a young seventeen year old rose that's just barely beginning to bloom, but there is more to her than meets the eye. Her thorns are there, but they are hidden. They come out at times, especially towards me, and then retreat when they are not needed. Everyone says that she is too young, too naïve but I believe she knows exactly what's going on and what she is doing. She's cleverer, more manipulative than she lets on.
I hate her for it. I hate her for her beauty, her lack there of innocence that everyone knows she has but yet has lost. I hate her for her youth, her demand of my father's attention, her lack of respect for this way of life. All she cares about is her dresses, dancing, the jewels she is given, and my father's constant admiration of her. I know that she will be cast off like the others, thrown away like my mother or beheaded like Anne Boleyn.
It's only a matter of time… So I'll let her wear that crown and her new dresses. I'll let her dance around with those precious jewels on. I'll even allow my father to dote on her and make love to her.
But I will make sure that she knows that nobody, not even any of the others that have gone or that will come, will even take the place of my mother as a wife or a queen.
She may be Queen for right now but sooner or later all she will be is a withered rose.
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