Mary thought it would be a wonderful thing to be happy.
Happy was a feeling that she read in storybooks, a feeling that she felt when she read story books, the feeling that the sweet princess and good prince would experience when they were together at the end.
She sat with her head tucked in her arms next to the window, watching the dark green of the leaves sway in the summer breeze. Mary knew what made her happy, she decided. Sitting at the same table for days and weeks and months and years and years gave her plenty of time to think about what made her happy.
She liked storybooks with the adventures and the happy smiles that painted the pages at the end. She liked the warm curve of ceramic in her hand after a cup of chamomile. She liked the green yellow hues of summer dappling the table in the afternoons. She liked the feel of the breeze caressing her skin, pulling her forward.
She liked to pretend that she would meet a prince ("You really came? But it's been so long!") and practicing her curtsies and falling over because she didn't really walk around much. She liked to sometimes find a new book hidden in the corners of the chairs and curling in a big comfy chair and reading the day away. She liked to air out the laundry, since it made her feel mature and older.
She liked the warmth of her mother's lap, some days more than others, and would fix up the cushions to replicate it, but it never could. She'd always liked the little wildflowers that sprouted at the cracks, and wished she could plant some of her own. She had liked the feel of grass under her toes when she had stepped outside, that one day.
She would like to meet someone new.
Mary paused at this thought, her fingers faltering at the curve of the next page.
Would that make her happy?
Spots of sunlight danced on the creamy page, and the breeze seemed to almost pull her from her chair. She looked down, from the curls of ivy and green leaves, at the doorstep.
Would she be happy?
And then the curtains billowed with a sudden gust and she saw purple sneakers and the hood of a white sweater. She looked down, and he looked up at her and her white hair and her pink eyes.
Red eyes.
Her heart beat faster, it leapt, it flew, it thumped in and out of her ribcage. She ducked her head back in.
Was this feeling being 'happy?'
She stood and her heart tugged her around—hide, run, answer—and there was a knock at the door, though she was certain he had seen her. Run run run run, her heart went, and her feet thumped down the stairs.
What would happen if she opened the door? Would she be happy?
Knock knock, the door went, thump thump, went her heart, and she ran, bare feet and messed-up hair and all. Open the castle doors.
The door swung open.