Once each month, all the Lords of the land convene at some fancy chalet and discuss the plights of their privileged lives. This assembly always concludes with the formation of a small committee of the highest-ranking nobles, who later seek an audience with the King to relay to him all the present plagues crippling the aristocracy, and demand a solution tailored to their premeditated conditions. Cartman loves to complain afterwards how nothing ever comes from these meetings, because his peers are incompetent and their King is corrupt, but Kenny knows he only hates them because he's never picked for the nobles' liaison. Nonetheless, Cartman attends, with Butters in tow, and relishes his coveted time amongst the elite. On these days, from the late morn until the early dusk, the Manor is free of Cartman's disgusting and deplorable existence, offering the servants a rare degree of independence, and giving Kenny a much-needed break.
Metal pierces wool, slender silver puncturing the thick material, before it penetrates soft cotton beneath. A strand of pale gold threads together two layers, stitching lavender bodice with ivory skirt, united by the uneven seam of an amateur. Kenny pinches the fabric and plies the needle, bites his lip and fears its prick. For a long while, he couldn't go a stitch without poking himself, his fingers constantly riddled with stab wounds, some gushing deep red. Practice has improved his technique, Kenny more adept at avoiding unwelcome pokes, but he's still convinced the silver thirsts for his blood, often defying his hand's guidance in pursuit of a taste. Though he no longer crowns each finger with a thimble, he keeps his collection on the dresser, accessible in case of an ambush.
The tip slowly emerges, dangerously close to his index finger, and he pauses, adjusts his grip. Most consider handicrafts a feminine habit, reserved for those simple and fair. But those people treat women like shit, don't understand the skill needed for crochet, the finesse involved in embroidery, the expertise required to sew. Some years ago, on a day like this, the manor deserted and cleaning finished, when Kenny found Bebe and Wendy sitting on the staircase, cross-stitching on handheld canvases. The girls were shocked by his interest, his tone genuine rather than patronising, eyes wide with fascination, not glazed with boredom. After a bit of didactic explanation, they asked Kenny what he did for fun, their innocent question met with abrupt silence, no reply. Kenny's gaze lowered as the girls exchanged glances, silently conferring with one another, before looking back at him. Wendy held up a canvas, Bebe the needle, and the two invited Kenny to join, and gave Kenny the only real hobby he's ever had.
Hand out of harm's way, Kenny nudges the needle along, until its eye peeks out amongst purple. The material reminds him of the lavenders Karen loves, the fragrant flowers she gathered from shrubs around their childhood home. The wool has the same fuzziness as those whorls, clusters of buds all blossoming and bursting. After the frustration brought on by his rat-friends' refusal to wear the tiny clothes he made them, Kenny decided to make something for Karen, a present to show her brother still cared for her. His plan has its problems—Kenny's guessed her proportions, a good part of him doubting the dress will fit, and hasn't thought of shipping, wary of the underground methods available—but keeps him busy, keeps his mind occupied, keeps a small ray of hope alive in his heart.
Kenny pulls the thread through, a long comet trailed by a shining tail, soaring until the gold tugs taut. A proud smile grows on his face as he sits back on his stool. For someone clumsy as Kenny, any stitch without injury is a hard-fought victory. In his revelling, however, he forgets how small his room is, leaning into the ceiling's steep slant. With a loud thunk, his head bangs against a wooden beam, dull ache resonating through his sorry skull. He groans, his moment's celebration spoiled, lolling his head to the side. His eyes wander from the dress, glide over his meagre furnishings—the chest crammed in the corner, the wash basin shoved to the wall, the bed tucked under the low slope—until his gaze falls on the solitary window. Out of all forty-three rooms, Kenny's is the worst in all regards save for one: the view.
From this high up, the walls encircling the manor lawn look tiny, like stacks of pebbles. Trees surround the stone, thick forest expanding outwards, segregating the house from the estate's humble farmlands, their tracts beyond his scope. A paved road bends and curves, a stream connecting the entire kingdom, with tributaries of dirt and cobble creating shortcuts and detours. The mountains slice the sky, rock and snow rivalling air and cloud, their mighty peaks crowning the horizon. In the far distance, carved along a cliff-side, Kenny sees the castle, green slate capping white towers, the lavish home of the monarchs.
The royal residence, Kenny reckons, has a lot more rooms than Cartman Manor, and a lot more servants, too. How many do they have just for single tasks, like moping the floors, or washing the windows, or polishing the silverware? Do the King and Queen revise the chore lists midway through the day, extend the day's work into the night? Do the Princes deliberately make messes, throw fits then demand their aftermath swept away? Are they kind to their help, thankful for and appreciative of them? They must be, he concludes, because a castle like that must be an awful lot to manage.
Squeak! Squeak! Kenny blinks, looks down at the floorboards, at the three rats loafing in the midday light. Clyde lays in a clump near the chest, tail carelessly swishing back and forth, sometimes in shade and sometimes in sunshine. Tweek leans over Craig, grooming his black-and-white fur, cleaning his back with nibbles and licks. Craig sits nonchalant, his eyes fixed on Kenny, a judgemental stare. His nose twitches, and Kenny translates, "That seam looks like shit."
"Pff," Kenny rolls his eyes; whatever the species, human or rat, everyone's a goddamn critic. He glances back at his latest stitch, frown forming as he notices its crookedness, a sloppy serpentine weave. Yes, he used to be worse, so terrible his needlework fell apart before he finished. He's advanced to mediocre, to functional but messy, awkward despite his experience. He furrows his brow, mumbles under his breath, "Love to see you do better."
Clyde lets out a few chirps, a rodent's laugh, and rolls lazily, "Three 'f us pro'ly could."
"You gonna sing a song too?" Kenny jabs the needle into the wool, a bitter extension of his slipshod stitch. Sewing may frustrate him sometimes, but there's something truly therapeutic about repeatedly stabbing something. Maybe that's why these crafts are popular amongst women.
Tweek and Craig trade places, continuing their mutual grooming. Tweek fidgets some, until Craig nips at the nape of his neck, then settles. His teeth grind together, then he looks to Kenny, peeps out, "That's dumb."
"You're dumb," Kenny sneers in a childish tone. Do grown men often lose arguments to household vermin, or does that only happen to him? When he drives the needle through, the point emerges, but not where he expects, sinks into his finger with a sharp prick. He draws back quickly, hisses through clenched teeth, "Shit."
He first scans the dress, praying nothing dripped onto the fabric, his hard work untainted by his heavy hand. He lets the blood pool and dribble, a droplet forming and plummeting, splattering on his apron. Red seeps in, a new stain on an old cloth, as Kenny sighs in relief, seeing only violets and golds and ivories. He brings his finger to his lips, applies pressure with his tongue, and sucks the wound. A metallic taste coats his tongue, iron born from silver, the needle's spite. He suffers enough at his master's hands, does he really deserve more abuse?
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!
Someone raps on the door, in quick succession, with a woodpecker's cadence. His body stiffens, ears perk, conditioned to freeze at any disruption, regard with reluctance and caution. During a normal day's work, Butters interrupts him at least once or twice, taps timid despite his relative authority. And, no matter what, Kenny stops what he's doing, feigns tempered complaisance, and listens to Butters deliver the only message he carries: Lord Eric wishes to see you, or, more accurately, Lord Dickhead came up with more chores. Through his nose, a steady and slow breath, as Kenny reminds himself that neither tyrant nor lackey are here.
"Kenny!" Bebe's breezy lilt ushers a wave of reassurance, her voice softening him, eradicating the tension. Although his blood sister resides in another manor far away, he has two surrogate sisters in Bebe and Wendy. A grin sneaks on his face, and Bebe pounds the door thrice more, "Hey, open up!"
Out the corner of his eye, he sees the rats scurry across the floor, dart to a crack in the wall. Lonely Kenny might not mind them, but most people find a rat's presence offensive, shouldering the reputation of petty thief and plague carrier. Wendy and Bebe are kind to Kenny, but Clyde, Tweek, and Craig know the courtesy doesn't extend to them. So, the three of them take their leave, all filing into the nook and retreating from sight. In the evening, they'll return, keep Kenny company again.
He takes his finger from his mouth, dries it with a quick wipe on his frock. Carefully, he loops the thread around the needlepoint, cinches a knot at the base of his stitch, twice to be safe. Seam secured, Kenny tucks the needle in the wool, and gets up from his seat. Kenny once described his room as cramped, however, since introducing the dress-stand, claustrophobic suits it better. One side-step, one turn, another step, and he opens the door, shuffling around its swing.
Big round eyes stare up at him, a blue tinted green, like rainwater in a birdbath's pool. Blonde hair drapes over her shoulders, curled rivulets curtaining her cheeks, always a pale shade of pink. Rose petal lips forms a wide grin, showing off her pearly teeth. She rises to her tip toes, the top stair whining beneath her, "Y'know, if you keep trying to skip lunch, Wendy's gonna get super self-conscious about her cooking."
Lunch, his stomach pangs, angry and vindictive. How dare he forget lunch, and on his free day no less! Cartman already keeps their meals brief, allotting Bebe, Wendy, and Kenny just enough time to scarf down their food before chiding them for laziness. Though they squeeze conversation between hungry bites and eager sips, they don't need to worry with Cartman off elsewhere. They can relax, eat and chat, savour the simplicities of life they seldom enjoy otherwise.
Kenny laughs, ignores his gut's vengeful contractions, "Wendy? Self-conscious? Really?"
"Happens to everyone, Ken," Bebe rolls her eyes, bobs her head to the side. For emphasis, Kenny assumes, until she peers over his shoulder, eyes brimming with curiosity. He can't recall when he mentioned his silly dream to her, some casual mention or passing remark, but Bebe took it to heart, made it her mission to help Kenny see it through. She asked him what fabrics he wanted, their colours and their lengths, and supplied him from the wardrobe's stock. While she asks every day, she rarely sees the progress in person. Of course, Kenny considers that a good thing. He leans against the frame, easily blocking her view. A smirk pulls at his lips, and a frown appears on hers, "How's it coming?"
"Along," Kenny shrugs, eyes following hers. Bebe tries poking her head around his other side, but Kenny darts in front of her, uses the door for further obstruction. She furrows her brow, glaring at him from under long lashes.
"See? Even you're self-conscious," A huff mingles with her laugh, unable to hide her disappointment. The board moans as she lowers herself down, gingerly descends one step. The narrow and rickety stairwell matches his tiny and ramshackle room, steep as the ceiling and dingy as the walls. The shaft catches every draft in the house, collects the cold and stores it with Kenny, mistaking his quarters for the larder. Bebe lightly rubs her arms, chill bleeding through her sleeves, "C'mon, you could use something warm in ya."
A loud gurgle from his stomach, Kenny beaten to a reply before he can part his lips. Bebe smirks, then turns around, starting her trek down the hazardous flight. Kenny snorts, shuts the door behind him, and follows her, listening to the stairs writhe beneath their weight. Maybe one day, Cartman will make one of his rare visits to Kenny's doorstep, only for the staircase to collapse under his weight, send him tumbling down. With Kenny's luck, though, the stairs would support Cartman's heavy poundage, only to crumble beneath Kenny's light frame. He'd fall, receive a reprimand, and have nowhere to sleep until he repaired the steps himself.
Bebe and Kenny reach the stairwell's end, the two popping out into a side corridor. Like a discarded toy, Cartman dumped Kenny somewhere out of his way, an obscure spot where he can dwell far from sight, forgetting about him unless he needs him. For his first couple months, Kenny often got lost searching for his room, manor layout still unfamiliar, hours spent wandering through the spacious chambers in search of the unassuming passage. He made up his own landmarks, devised a mental map, directions based on what caught his eye. As the two traverse towards the main staircase, Kenny glances at his monuments: a portrait of a doll in the corridor, a granite fireplace in the lounge, a cabinet with a tea set in the private drawing room, a statue of a frog in the main hallway, then follow the carpet.
The flight between the third and second storeys dwells behind a panelled wall, hidden save for one platform landing, framed by an archway. Beyond that is the foyer's balcony, along with the staircase carved from pale cottonwood. In the chandelier's glow, the wood looks like silver, but remains soft to the touch. Kenny's hand brushes along the smooth railing, its slope a gentle incline, then a twisting curve, shaped like a cat's tail raised with a contently curled tip. Sometimes, whilst dusting or mopping, he imagines sliding down the winding bannister, wonders whether he'd feel a rush of exhilaration or fear. Thoughts are all that can entertain him, because Kenny can't be punished for what goes on in his head, only face consequences for his actions.
"Are you the mistress of the house?"
"No, there's only the lord and he's out right now."
Kenny's eyes flit to the entry, spying Wendy at the front door, holding it open. He squints, hoping for a better look. He can only see Wendy's back, sleek ebony flowing to her waist, reflecting glints of sunlight. She faces a stranger, a stout man with an air of importance, dressed in some sort of fancy uniform. A satchel hangs from one shoulder, stuffed with scroll cases, their caps bearing a detailed crest, one Kenny doesn't recognise, but feels like he should.
"Well, that's not a problem at all," The man reaches into his sack, pulls out the first case he grabs, and hands it to Wendy, "See, this is extended for all members of the household, help included."
"Really?" Just from her tone, Kenny pictures her expression, her hazel eyes narrowing with healthy scepticism, scrutinising their visitor with a hard stare. Wendy can go from disarming to fierce in the span of a breath, making her the most intimidating person Kenny has ever met, "What is it?"
"You'll find out when you open it," The stranger pauses, snared in Wendy's gaze. She unnerves him, his lips pressing into a tight, thin line. He simpers weakly, "Just know the opportunity is open to anyone, so you best attend."
Wendy slowly takes the scroll, then gives the man a nod. He tips his hat, then bounds off for the next house. She shuts the door, turns around, spotting Kenny and Bebe. Her eyes change, murky green to earth umber, small smile teasing at her lips, "And here I thought I'd have all the soup to myself."
"Tough luck," Bebe says, dismissive edge to her voice. She ignores the last stair, excitedly hopping onto the tile, and rushing to Wendy, her steps mimicking a skipping stone. She reaches for the scroll, but Wendy dodges her, shoots her a stiff glower. Bebe pouts, her plans thwarted again, "Care to share?"
"There was a knock at the door, and I answered it," Wendy fixates on Bebe, observing her every move as Kenny approaches her side. Her attention focused on Bebe, Kenny stealthily snatches the scroll, in one quick motion. Wendy whips around, reaching as Kenny raises it high above his head, safely out of her reach. Bebe laughs, Kenny grins, and Wendy frowns, "Some guy from the castlewas waiting."
"The castle!?"
Kenny glances at the crest. He only knows the royal seal from cleaning up after Butters' sloppy paperwork, the extra-important looking documents all marked by their stamp. He lowers the case, inspecting the symbols on the coat, foolishly falling into Bebe's range. She plucks it from his hands, starts unscrewing the cap. Rather than fight her and risk a scratch, Kenny simply watches, mumbles under his breath, "The hell do they want?"
Bebe takes out the scroll, eagerly unfurls the parchment, and Wendy and Kenny crowd around her. Pristine calligraphy adorns the sheet, script neat and elegant, ink alternating between black, green, and gold. Printed across the top in bold letters, he reads Royal Decree, then, scrawled just below, Invitation to All. He skims the other paragraphs, gleaning what he can from the flowery text: In celebration of the Crowned Prince's return… King and Queen cordially announce… Royal Ball held at the castle… Everyone welcomed to attend… At the end of the night…
"'At the end of the night, Crowned Prince Kyle,'" Wendy reads aloud, "'Shall choose a bride from those in attendance. Class and social standing have no impact on the decision, therefore we encourage any and every eligible maiden to come.'"
"Are they serious?" Disbelief rings in Bebe's voice, nearly dropping the scroll, "Any eligible maiden?"
"They must be desperate," Wendy muses, eyes flickering back and forth as she rereads the paragraph. She shakes her head, "Really, really desperate."
"Hold on," Kenny has never given royal affairs much thought, or frankly any thought at any point in his life. He only knows what the fairy-tales and bedtime stories taught him, "Aren't princes supposed to marry, like, princesses?"
"Yeah, they do," Bebe says flatly. She doesn't elaborate, brain still processing, stunted by shock.
"Most of the time they're arranged by the parents beforehand for some strategic benefit," Wendy fills in. Even without formal schooling, Wendy's understanding far exceeds that of their supposedly educated lord.
"Oh," A lot less romantic than the stories he grew up with. Then again, children's tales aren't the most reliable source of information, "Any reason his wasn't?"
"King and Queen opposed using their sons as political gambits," Wendy leans away, gaze shifting to Kenny, "Said they'd let their sons pick for themselves."
"So, they marry who they want," Not precisely a storybook plot, but clear and digestible as one, "But they gotta marry someone."
"Yeah, and they want him to pick anyone," Bebe scrunches up the scroll, wildly glancing between Kenny and Wendy. Her eyes sparkle with pure jubilee, a glowing smile dominating her face, "He'll marry anyone in the entire kingdom!"
Anyone—be she baroness or barmaid, tailor or cook, of noble birth or of common beginning—with the Crowned Prince's favour, anyone can be a princess. Bebe can be. Wendy can be. Karen can be. It sounds like fantasy, a fiction invented for a lullaby, but the invitation is real, the decree is law. By the end of the ball, Crowned Prince Kyle will choose a bride, and make anyone a princess.
"Calm down," Wendy says, hope softening her timbre, and reason dampening her tone, "We might not be able to go at all."
Cartman, why would Cartman let his servants attend a ball, infiltrate the elite, possibly surpass his rank? Decree or no, nothing explicitly states attendance mandatory, stipulates all eligible appear in the castle court. If the girls' only freedom is marriage, why escort them to a potential liberation? He won't, he'll deny them the option, the happiness, go alone to the party and brag about it every chance he gets, if only to remind them what might have been. Kenny's stomach lurches, sickened by the cruelty bound to come.
Bebe and Wendy both look at Kenny, blends of doubt and wistful thinking replaced with alarm. Lunch, now they almost forgot, too wrapped up in the ifs and maybes, wasting time while Kenny wastes away! Bebe rolls up the scroll quickly, shoves it back in its case, and shakes her head free of frivolous daydreams. Wendy locks eyes with Kenny, "You're getting a double serving."
An order not a request, almost a threat. But her firmness is out of love, a stern strain of compassion, because Wendy's soul is still intact. Her and Bebe both deserve better, their hearts too big, their spirits too bright. They deserve to go to the ball, to dance in lovely dresses, to meet the Crowned Prince. They deserve to escape from this place, to be princesses, to live happily-ever-after. As they head to the kitchen, to the bubbling pot of winter squash soup, Kenny thinks about the ball, about going, about stupid dreams he thought long dead.
What if, for some reason, Cartman indulges them, grants them a single night's glory? Could Kenny see his siblings again, reunite with his sister and brother? Could he talk with the palace servants, ask how they maintain all the chambers and halls? Could he meet the Crowned Prince, ask if he could do anything to help Wendy and Bebe leave? Come to think of it, Kenny barely knows anything about the royal family, but he knows that Cartman hates them, Crowned Prince Kyle especially. If Cartman hates him, then he must be a good person. If he can make anyone a princess, then he absolutely is.