I have only one word going through my mind.
Tired.
I'm scared of how quickly my sisters are adapting to this level of torture.
These clothes are heavy, the frills are itchy, and the maids keep stuffing us into them as if it's some sacred ritual. Lying beside us are five extravagantly adorned baby strollers—fit for princesses, sure, but still cages in disguise. The velvet cushions and gilded frames can't disguise the fact that we're being paraded around like dolls.
And here I am complaining.
"Itchy. Hot. Annoying."
Of course, I'm not alone. Although Alice seems more used to it, she's just as annoyed as I am. Her irritation shows in the way she fidgets, tugging at the lace collar that keeps tickling her neck.
Our shared grumbling seems to deepen Elanor's frown, lines etching across her forehead as if we're the worst kind of troublemakers.
Her icy gaze sweeps over us, and I finally understand why Alice enjoys poking her buttons so much.
It's… kind of fun.
As if reading my thoughts, Dorothy flashes me a sneaky smile, her eyes glinting with mischief. Her fingers twitch like she's itching to do something rebellious, ofcourse she settles with just watching. For now.
I glance at Iris. She winks back, clearly amused by the chaos brewing in our little group.
Alice, on the other hand, lets out an exaggerated sigh—for the nth time.
And with the way Elanor's eye is twitching, I can tell it's going to be a long scolding.
"She's had enough," I whisper to myself, suppressing a grin.
With impeccable timing, I crawl away from the scene, making my escape before the scolding can spread to me.
Behind me, Alice isn't so lucky. Elanor's voice rises, sharp and full of disapproval, lecturing her on the virtue of patience or some other nonsense.
Phew. Glad I escaped.
When Alice's scolding finally ends, she stomps over to me, glaring as if I betrayed her. There's a glint of determination in her eyes that would be more intimidating if we weren't still babies.
"How?"
"How what?"
"How did you do that?" Her voice is incredulous, like I performed some kind of magic trick.
"Do what?" I ask innocently, knowing full well what she means. I can't help it; annoying her is more fun than I thought.
"You knew! You knew Elanor was about to blow," Alice hisses, leaning in close, her frustration palpable. Her cheeks are flushed, and her brows are drawn together in a comical expression of outrage.
"Haha! I bet Alice regrets teaching you now," Dorothy cackles from behind us, thoroughly entertained.
Alice groans. "Cordeliaaaa! Don't do this, tell meee. How did you know?"
I shrug casually, as if the answer were obvious. "I guess I'm just good at reading people."
"No way. I'm perceptive too. I even knew that…" She trails off, biting her tongue as if she accidentally said too much.
"What?" I press, curious about the secret she's hiding.
"Nothing," she says quickly, her face turning an even deeper shade of red.
"Well, suit yourself," I reply, pretending to be uninterested. "Honestly, I don't know either. I just… felt that Elanor had reached her limit."
Elanor looks quite pleased with me at that, as if my answer validates her stance as the eldest. There's a glimmer of approval in her eyes, though it's fleeting.
"Our youngest seems to have a knack for getting out of trouble," Iris observes with a light laugh, her tone tinged with amusement.
We exchange glances—and share a mischievous smile.
Hehe… I promise to give her more amusing shows now and then.
By the time our bickering dies down, the maids have finished dressing us. They strap us into the strollers and begin pushing us out of the room. The wheels squeak slightly as they roll over the marble floor, and I can't help but find the sound oddly soothing.
We're lined up like a parade of miniature royalty, and though the thought makes me laugh, a small part of me hates being treated like a showpiece.
For some reason, I start humming Row, Row, Row Your Boat. It's a silly choice, but it feels right at the moment, like a small rebellion against the seriousness of the situation.
After the second verse, the others join in. Their tiny voices blend with mine, and before long, we're all singing the children's rhyme together as if we're setting sail on some grand adventure. Our heads bob in unison, rocking from side to side with each push of the strollers.
Soon, we arrive at a grand cathedral.
Wow. Being a princess really is something else.
This place screams holy—every inch of it adorned with intricate wood carvings, colorful tapestries, and glimmering tassels that flutter with each gust of air. The stained glass windows cast colorful patterns across the floor, giving the whole place an ethereal glow. It looks like it could be a world heritage site.
"Wait... This is different," Iris mutters, her voice laced with unease.
"Right! Our blessing was supposed to take place at the central church," Dorothy adds, her brows knitting in confusion. "Why are we in the Holy Church?"
Obviously the maids don't offer any answers, they don't understand us. Yet. We all turn to Elanor, who looks like she knows but is struggling to put it into words.
Finally, after a long pause, she says, "Because Cordelia exists."
Huh? Because I exist?
I blink, trying to piece it together. It actually makes sense. The prophecy foretold the arrival of five princesses, but since there were only four of them before, their ceremony wasn't given much importance. Now, with me here, everything has changed.
Alice groans. "We were so distracted singing that song, we didn't even notice we went through the teleportation gate."
"Ohhh," the others murmur in realization.
The maids wheel us into a grand hall, and there, waiting for us, are our parents. They're seated on ornate thrones, their regal postures emphasizing their noble status. And next to them is an old man with a warm, mysterious smile that unsettles me.
I don't like him.
Okay, wait. Just stop. My parents… They're gorgeous. Not just beautiful—drop-dead gorgeous.
Father is dressed in a regal outfit that screams authority, his bearing dignified and every inch the ruler. He looks like one of those northern dukes from those fantasy novels—tall, brooding, and ridiculously handsome.
How did none of us inherit those features? It's almost unfair. Why am I so sure we didn't inherit his looks? Because we are the spitting image of our mothers.
Next to him sit the royal consorts, each as breathtaking as the other. Consort Valeria's dark gown enhances her elegance, while Consorts Heather and Camellia complement each other like twin blossoms, their outfits perfectly coordinated.
Consort Lavender exudes allure, her gaze sharp and knowing. Then there's my mother—Consort Petunia—her radiant smile making her seem like the sun personified, casting warmth over the entire room.
Father is truly blessed.
Period.