The Porcelain Princess
Chapter five
Lightning lit up Princess Teresa’s room, accompanied by thunder that would have woken her from her sleep—if she hadn’t already been up with the fiery pain that squeezed the air from her lungs.
Rain pounded against the window panes, and she wished, for a moment, that she could fling open the windows, that the cool water might soothe the sensation of fire searing her skin. But she knew it wouldn’t.
Eighteen years was not enough to get used to the sensation of burning from the inside out. Maybe it hadn’t been that long . . . just as long as she could remember, and that was bad enough.
She held her breath, for every movement of her skin against the cool silk sheets left a blaze over her, but her lips moved in silent prayer to God.
Lord Jesus . . . I need . . .
She didn’t know what she needed anymore. She’d prayed for healing. For a lessening of her pain. For a discovery of its origin and a medicine that could subdue it. But though none of those had yet come to pass, she still prayed, if only to feel that God was there and that He heard her pleas.
Just help me make it through this moment. Through tonight.
Another flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder louder than the church bells. This one brought a gust of wind that swung her windows open inward. Now the rain came in earnest, pinging against the marble tile.
Though she had just thought of standing under the water to soothe her frayed nerves, she wondered now whether she could wait it out. Wait for the storm to pass, and in the morning, if tomorrow was a good day, clean it up herself.
She could wait, but with the torrential rain not lessening by the second, the puddle would grow. And then it would be a bigger mess to clean in the morning. And she would clean it, even if her lady-in-waiting, Cerise, fought her for the mop.
Slowly, she moved, taking a deep breath to gather her strength. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and carefully let her feet lower to the tile. Pain flared from her soles where they touched the ground.
Counting the seconds, she waited until the pain abated to a dull throb.
She stood, and with each careful step, she could feel the coolness of the floor as it really was.
She stopped when her toes dipped into the puddle by her window.
Silvery moonlight broke through the storm clouds, illuminating the rain streaming into her room like falling stars that extinguished when they hit the ground.
Her nightgown billowed around her ankles, stirred by the wind. She stepped into the rain, her fingers reaching for the curtains on either side of the window to steady her balance. Ice pricked her skin where the rain pelted her, and the fiery sensations soothed as water doused her body.
She dared a smile. She didn’t know how long this sensation would last, this reprieve from the flare-up, but she was glad for the rain in this moment, even if she was cold and soaked and starting to shiver.
With a few movements, she closed the window, latching it shut. The rain pelted the glass again, threatening to break in once more, but she smiled at her handiwork.
She almost wanted to go knock on Yair’s door to let him know she did it herself, what with the pride that swelled in her chest. But even though she knew her brother was awake—he would be reviewing details of her party with Mamá or political dealings with the Empire with Papá—she didn’t want to see the pitying expression on her brother’s face.
Not after the last time she’d come to her family in the early hours of the night, four years ago now.
“You’re awake?” Yair had said, his attention snapping up from the documents in his lap.
Mamá’s fingers clenched around the pages of her book. “Is everything all right?”
Teresa had smiled, then winced when the movement pained her.
“Sí,” she said. “I brought you the flower for Papá’s tea.
” She raised the red flor de jamaica, or hibiscus flower, a special favorite of Mamá’s that she often brewed for tea for Papá’s heart.
Earlier that afternoon, Teresa had heard Papá complain of dizziness, so as soon as she got the chance, she’d snuck out to get the flower herself.
Maybe she could make Papá feel better, even if she couldn’t make her own pain lessen.
Instead of the smile Teresa had hoped for, Mamá’s face paled. “On your own? Are you hurt?” She stood.
Teresa shrugged off her concern, raising the flower between them so Mamá might look at it instead of examining her. “Just a scratch from the hedges, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as—”
“Where’s Cerise?” Mamá demanded, her voice rising. She went to the door, calling for Teresa’s lady in waiting. “Cerise!”
“Mamá, don’t be mad!” Teresa begged. “She didn’t know—no sabía! I—” But Mamá was gone down the hall, off to chastise a sleeping Cerise.
A deafening silence fell over the room, and Teresa didn’t know where to look.
She couldn’t bear to look at her brother. To see the pity in his gaze, as he’d carried ever since he’d tried to show her how to climb a tree. It had been exhilarating—before the dreadful moment that she’d fallen. What would have been a minor sprain for Yair had immobilized her for the next week.
Instead, she turned her gaze on Papá. His brown eyes—the color of the earth that Mamá and the plants so loved—were warm, like the sun-baked soil in the summer when she dug her toes into the loamy earth.
“Come,” he said, beckoning her with a nod of his chin. When she didn’t move, he repeated, “Ven. Let me tell you a secret.”
Teresa had all but bolted across the room, ignoring the worried look that passed over her brother’s face at her sudden movements, his muscles tensing as if he was prepared to catch her in a fall, but she was caught up in her father’s arms in a big hug.
“You did a good thing, mija,” he said, chest rumbling with his deep voice. “Your mother can’t see it right now, daughter, but you are strong.”
“But not like you, Papá,” she said. She’d seen him practice drills with the soldiers, how he was both fast and strong, able to disarm every guard if he so wished.
With a gun, he was quick on the draw, as if able to sense the opponent’s movement before they even thought it.
She wasn’t strong. Not like that. She hadn’t been able to play with Yair when she was younger, and even her dancing was slow—on her worst days, she had to control each step as if her limbs were about to go out from under her.
“No,” he said softly, “not like me.”
But why was he smiling? Was he making fun of her? She frowned and looked at the floor, but his rough fingers found her chin, lifting her gaze to his.
“You are porcelain,” he said, “but not fragile. Beautiful in outward appearance and strong throughout. And wherever you are weak, mija, be happy. God’s strength is made perfect in our weaknesses. And I have many.” He kissed her head, his rough beard brushing her forehead, and she smiled.
The porcelain princess. She’d quite liked that.
At least, back then.
It seemed few knew the true strength of porcelain, and if she ever gave away a bad day with a wince or a slow movement, Mamá and Yair were quick to rearrange her schedule.
She’d missed out on traveling to allied kingdoms, to her embarrassment when she learned that Mamá had written hurried excuses on her behalf—which no doubt made them think her a terrible liar.
And yet her sickness, whatever it was, was hidden, a highly guarded secret.
Mamá was convinced that no one would marry a princess with a disease like this, and her voice pounded in Teresa’s skull with all the future that had been ripped from her before she even realized she’d wanted it—she wouldn’t be able to stay in court all day, or travel about the kingdom, and there was no guarantee that she would ever be able to have or raise a family.
So, for the last year or so, Teresa had resolved to let her family believe she was healed.
On her worst days, she remained in her room under the guise of studying other languages or history of other kingdoms. On better days, she would venture out to walk the gardens with Mamá or even travel with her brother to nearby cities on trade business—if only to steal glimpses of the world beyond, even if it was only what could be stowed within the wooden frame of shipping crates.
No matter what, she was careful to hide any grimace of pain with a smile.
She masked any stumble by clinging to her father’s arm on their short strolls.
She wasn’t sure how well she’d played the part, but it seemed that her family was quick to overlook the cracks in her ceramic facade in their relief to see her well.
So as much as she wished she could share her small victory in closing the window against the buffeting wind, she would keep it silent, between her and God. Maybe that would be enough for now.
With a sigh, she went back to bed. At last, exhaustion overcame the fire, and her pain was washed away with the cool embrace of sleep.