“What do you have to say for yourself?”

I stared at the young woman with indifference—she didn’t like that, mouth curling into a snarl. In reply, I smiled—rather smugly at that. “What else is there to say? I can only fault myself for thinking too highly of you. If not, the boorish way you went about things would have never ruined the perfect future I envisioned.”

Oh dear, she looked like she could barely restrain herself. What a shame it would be if she moved close enough for me to gouge her eyes out.

“Perfect future? You wished to drug the Prince and murder the King, and you call that the perfect future?”

I laughed, covering my mouth with my manacles. “What a way with words you have, no wonder the Prince fell for you and was willing to tear this country apart to have you.”

Her eyes widened. Oh, did I strike a nerve?

“I’m going to be a beloved Queen,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

“Darling, you aren’t just low-born, you look low-born. You think the nobility will let our country be humiliated because the Prince asked nicely?” I laughed—at myself. I really had overestimated her by far. “We should part on good terms for your grave shall surely be dug besides mine in whatever dung heap we will rest eternal.”

My words skipped past her ears, going straight to her hands. She stepped forward to strangle me and, the moment finally coming, I reached up, looping the manacles round her neck. The panic struck her immediately, her hands reaching to grab mine, but I didn’t give her the chance to stop me and pulled across, the chain tightening into a noose.

She scrabbled at the chain, eyes bulging, and I leaned in so she could hear my whisper.

“Let me save my brethren this splash of blood, for I love my country more than an upstart like you could ever comprehend.”

She tried to wriggle and turn, her desperate gaze seeking out help—and every person present simply turned away.

Even the Prince.

When the light finally left her eyes, I let my tears fall. “Perhaps, if we meet again, there will be no Prince to poison us.”

I let go of her and, before she hit the ground, my end had come. Truly, we were fated to be together forever, just not in the way either of us could have expected.

At least, that was what my dying thought was. But that dying thought wasn’t my last. In death’s darkness, I moved endlessly, tirelessly, searching for anything. It felt like an eternity later that I found a distant light.

What light did I find? A doctor’s torch shining through a dilated cervix.

Well.

It took me a couple of years to get used to my new body, at which point I found out that my general reputation was that of… a well-behaved, but grumpy-looking, baby. I suppose my frustrations must have shown.

Furthermore, although I could talk, no one seemed to be able to understand me. Which made some sense because I couldn’t understand them either. I had come to learn many basic words, like those for father and mother and food and potty, but it would’ve been easier if they bothered to learn my language instead of calling it babbling.

That worried my parents for a while, apparently thinking me a slow learner.

Of course, I showed them how intelligent I was when it came to those toys they bought me. Match the shapes to the holes—easy. Counting—easy. Numbers? I put that off for later, not important to learn more of their words. Jigsaw? I had fiddled with one in my geography lessons, but only a few times and that was well over a decade ago! And was a jigsaw really appropriate for a baby?

Then there was this, this… box. It had strange protrusions and my parents had shown me, if I touched them, then the box would burst open. Being a baby, it was only natural to cry at such a fright. They tried to coax me into doing it myself, but I stubbornly refused, not interested in scaring myself for their amusement. And those colourful bricks—how dull. Why would they make me practise being some peasant worker building houses?

So my childhood carried on

It was rather difficult learning a second language. Frustrating, even. I always had so much I wanted to say, but couldn’t, especially once I could understand more of what other people said.

My parents also tried to make me look after other babies, but they were so loud and aggressive—like wild beasts. I always refused, ignoring those pests. Not to mention they loved staring at the noisy picture box, either the painting one or the book one. Dreadful things. All those bright colours, sharp sounds—gave me a horrible headache.

About the only fun part of having a second childhood was the dolls house. For my first childhood, I had a rather splendid one, ornate and beautifully detailed, accompanied by the most precious dolls, made by experts.

My second dolls house wasn’t quite as good in most ways. It was smaller, and the dolls were clearly made by unskilled labourers, and it all used poor materials—I did not like whatever plastic was. However, it had lights I could turn on and off, which was rather magical.

Regardless of quality, my parents endlessly tried to get me to play, so it kept them quiet and happy if I played with my dolls and I could “babble” as much as I wanted. Even when I was older, they didn’t make a fuss of me babbling if I was entertaining myself.

“What do you mean pregnant? I only gave you a good buggering!” I said, shaking the boy doll as I spoke—as if he was the one speaking.

Shaking the girl doll, I said, “Well, in that position, some of your seed must have dribbled out and—”

“Clara!”

I froze up, then remembered I hadn’t done anything wrong today. That was something I learned early: as long as I went to sleep before they noticed, my parents wouldn’t scold me. Something about me not knowing what I was being punished for. Well, I wasn’t go to tell them otherwise.

“Clara Louise!”

Standing up, I dropped the dolls, then scurried to the kitchen, pinching my skirt. I didn’t really need to, the skirts so much shorter here, but it was an old habit and my mother found it most adorable.

An old saying: If your child is naughty, then they ought to be adorable.

“Yes, mother?” I said before catching myself. Shaking off my “babble”, I said in their language, “Yeah, mummy?”

My mother looked at me with a thin smile, one she often showed when she wanted to scold me but couldn’t yet. As for why: I turned and saw another child around my age, and presumably her parent. It was sometimes hard to tell whether adults here were men or women and, after making a few mistakes, I gave up. It wasn’t like people minded me using “they” or “parent”. Usually.

Anyway, the girl. I looked at her, then stared at her, then narrowed my eyes. She hid behind her parent, still the same coward as she had been.

“Clara?”

I turned to my mother. “Yeah, mummy?”

“Osca will be at school with you, so you should try to be friends, okay?”

Pouting, I said, “I don’t want to.”

Apparently, her smile could get thinner. “Why don’t you show her your doll house? I just need to talk to her mum for a minute.”

I huffed, but I did owe her for the room and board, so I turned around and trudged back to the lounge. In the doorway, I looked back and narrowed my eyes. “Come on, Oscara.”

Sure enough, she stiffened at me using her full name, but had the good decency to listen to her betters and come along. Her new parents had done at least that right. With her in tow, I returned to my dolls house and picked up the girl, not intending to actually play.

She sat down next to me, on the verge of tears. Indeed, something made sense now—my parents had spoken about our neighbour who had been born about the same time as me. Not only that, but apparently we had met when babies and she had cried incessantly for the dozen times they tried to make us play together before giving up on us being “friends”. I couldn’t remember all that, probably when I was still adjusting to my new body.

Speaking in our language, I said, “So I am not alone in being reincarnated.”

She gave me an awkward look, but at least didn’t start crying. Instead of our language, she replied in the language here: “You remember that, um, those words?”

“Of course. I use our language every day even if my parents are too dim to learn it.”

Her brow furrowed and she took her time replying. “Sorry, I, um, I don’t use it, so it’s hard to understand.”

I scowled and she flinched—flinched! “Why are you scared of me?”

That question simple enough, she seemed to understand it. “At the end… you, you killed me.”

“Killed?” I said, parroting the word in the language here. “What does that mean?”

Her nose wrinkled, then she mimed out strangling herself.

Oh.

I huffed, turning away. “And? Did you not arrange my untimely death?”

The silence dragging on, I eventually turned back and saw her staring at her lap, fidgeting. I clicked my tongue, then poked her knee—she jumped! I swear, she actually launched herself into the air.

“If wedding vows only last until death, how tremendous a grudge must you think I hold?”

She didn’t understand a word I said.

Another huff, then I reached out and—she flinched again!—I grabbed her hands. “No prince. Friends, okay?”

Her watery eyes stared at me, at first afraid, then maybe curious, her mouth opening a little. I wanted to push her for an answer, but all I needed now was for her to burst into tears. Goodness knew what words my mother would have had for me.

Eventually, her mouth closed and she gave a small nod. So I smiled.

She flinched again! At my smile!

Exasperated, I asked, “Am I so scary?”

“Yes,” she said—no hesitation.

Well, I suppose I had sort of murdered her as my last act on that earth. Thinking it through, I smiled and, this time, I wouldn’t have minded her flinching. “Good, then you will think twice before betraying me.”

There was a pause, then she laughed! I tried to intimidate her and she laughed in my face! And the return of my scowl didn’t stop her, if anything her giggles growing louder.

“Pray tell, what is so amusing?” I asked, voice cold and low… but still a child’s voice.

She stopped laughing, her lips pressed tight to keep the humour in. After a few breaths going in and out her nostrils, she said, “You haven’t changed.”

“Of course not. Why would I? I was perfect.”

Apparently, that was even funnier than my threats.

From then on, we were best friends—according to everyone else, at least. My mother was probably the most surprised by this turn of events considering how, whenever Oscara came to visit, my mother checked on us every few minutes. Whether to see her precious daughter playing with a friend or worried I would perhaps attempt to murder Oscara, I couldn’t tell.

Still, it was nice having someone around who understood me. She’d forgotten a lot of our language, but I could simplify for her and, over time, she picked up more words. A shame she refused to speak it, though. Something about not wanting to worry her parents. The way I saw it, parents worried over everything anyway.

Not only that, but she had adjusted to this world remarkably well.

“Oh, I don’t bother with reading. Have you seen the books here? They are full of pictures and simple words, no sense of story. I think it’s the noisy picture box—that is, the television. It ruins their imagination, doing all the hard work for them.”

Oscara found that very funny. Before I could ask why, she scuttled off to her bag—she always brought a bag with her—and returned with a book. However, it looked bigger than the books my parents had tried to have me read.

“Those are learning books,” she said. “Once you can read them, you can ask your parents for, um, older books. See? This one is about a girl called Cinderella. She lives with her evil step-mother and step-sisters, but eventually goes to the ball and meets a prince, and then—”

I snatched the book, throwing it across the room. She sort of froze, mouth open, brow furrowed. Feeling a pang of guilt, I tried not to look at her, but it didn’t go away, so I explained it to her. “No princes.”

As if a spell, those words melted her confused expression into a gentle smile. “Even in stories?”

“Even in stories.” She kept looking at me with the small smile until I asked, “What?”

She shook her head. “No princes.”

“As long as you understand now,” I said.

The next few years were incredibly annoying for me. Do you have any idea how dull it was to go through an education for young children? What was worse was that, half the time, they told me off for getting the right answer, but doing it the wrong way. They didn’t like it when I insisted they were doing it wrong either. I was a duke’s daughter, not some commoner. Simple addition and small multiplications were child’s play for me.

However, what in God’s name is long division? There really was no need to divide by any number bigger than twelve anyway. At that point, it was easier to guess and multiply, but oh no, that wasn’t the right method.

And history, it was all about nonsense. Ancient Rome and Ancient Egyptians, definitely things someone had made up and now, for some reason, everyone went with it. After all, it wasn’t like they had family journals going back all the way, so how could they know?

Oh and don’t get me started on science. Dinosaurs? They really expect us to believe that? And microscopes are clearly just tiny televisions, not a chance there are those tiny things wriggling all over everything.

Oscara always listened to me complain with a smile. Unfortunately, the other girls always got upset and called me a liar or, much worse, told a teacher.

Teachers do not like being told their subject is fictitious.

Still, I somehow scraped together enough lies to avoid my parents being called in for meetings—I had made that mistake only once. My mother, strict as she was, had nothing on my father who made me sit and do a whole page of maths exercises.

Getting older, we started at another school. Oscara was still my “best friend”, but I had some other friends, girls who recognised my dignity and poise. As for her, she was a loner if I didn’t drag her out the library, always reading stories.

Of course, none with princes—I checked.

Puberty wasn’t fun the first time and I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with it again. Well, at least it wouldn’t be as embarrassing this time. But it did make me worry that Oscara would start regressing into her old self. It would have been just dreadful if she decided to chase boys. As for me, I obviously had no interest. They were but children in my eyes.

Anyway, my worry regarding her proved unfounded. One day, I found her coiled up in the library, immersed in another book. Not recognising it, I plucked it from her grasp and flicked through for any mention of a prince. Finding none, I went to give it back, only to see her looking at me with a… strange smile.

“Pray tell, what is so funny?” I asked in our language.

In the language here, she said, “Why don’t you read the back?”

I rolled my eyes, but obliged. The title read: “A FORBIDDEN LOVE,” and, reading the blurb, it was apparently the story of an illicit affair between a duke’s daughter and… a low-born maid.

“What kind of, of deviancy are you reading about?” I said, suddenly unwilling to give the book back.

However, she took matters into her own hand and snatched it from me. “Actually, it’s common here for women to marry each other, the same for men.”

“M-marry?” I asked, trying to whisper and struggling.

“Yes, legally marry.”

I took a step back, then another, then turned and strode out as fast as I could without being shouted at by the librarian for running.

Puberty, it seemed, would be more exciting than I initially thought.