Protagonist Bound (2 page)

The icing on the cake, of course, was Lady Agnue’s. As if having the Author’s will to constantly worry about wasn’t enough, I had to live at a pretentious boarding school that reminded me every day of the lack of control I had over my life, and that reinforced my celebrity-child syndrome.

I supposed I would have to try harder to get used to it this semester. Mind you, I’d been trying to get used to it for the last six years, since I’d started attending Lady Agnue’s at the age of ten. But maybe my mom was right. Maybe one day I would wake up feeling totally content with the invisible shackles on my life.

Cue eye roll.

For now, all I knew for certain was that I was dreading where this carriage was taking us, and that my feet hurt. My mother had insisted that I wear heels, despite my protests about their discomfort and the short presentation I’d given her on the benefits of orthopedic footwear. Of course, neither of these efforts convinced my mother—the queen—that a princess should be allowed to wear combat boots on her first day of school.

“Mom, these shoes are killing me,” I complained yet again as I examined the glittering pumps.

“They are supposed to, Crisanta dear. The pain reassures us of how lovely they look,” my mom said as she patted my hair affectionately. “Trust me, Pumpkin, I speak from experience. The prettier the shoe, the more painful.”

I sighed and decided to abandon the argument and my hopes for proper blood circulation in my toes. I would never be able to convince a woman who once waltzed in glass stilettos that my three-inch heels were unbearable. I turned my attention back to the window and watched the green blur of trees that continued to whizz past us.

We were getting closer.

My staring match with the local foliage was interrupted by the abrupt stop of the carriage. Several plainly dressed kids ran across the road in front of us. When they got to the other side, they took off toward a nearby field and continued whatever game of tag and chase they’d been playing. I observed them through the vehicle’s rear window as we started to move forward once more.

It must be nice,
I imagined,
to not be assigned a role. To not have to worry about being a “main character” and just be. I wonder if
—

“Dear, put on some lip gloss. Your lips look dry,” my mom nagged, disrupting my train of thought.

“Mom,” I huffed. “I’m fine.”

“Crisanta,” she said evenly.

“What?”

“What does Lady Agnue say is princess rule number twelve?”

I groaned. “Never leave the house without applying lip gloss?”

“No, dear. That is rule fifteen. Rule twelve is never use contractions, and you know how your headmistress feels about that rule in particular. So please, tell me you will try harder to work on that this year?”

“I
can’t
make any promises.” I smirked deviously.

My mother smiled, but shook her head. She handed me a tube of wild-orchid lip gloss that I begrudgingly took and applied.

“I am helping, not hurting, sweetie,” Mom chirped.

Suddenly, our carriage made a right turn and entered a driveway. The hedges began to stretch higher and higher around us, progressively blocking the outer world the further we proceeded down the path.

Savoring my last few moments of peace, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. A mere minute later, my Zen was lost as our carriage approached the gates of the institution we’d been journeying toward for the last several days.

We’d arrived.

Guards minding the gates opened them inwards. They made it look effortless, but it took three men on each side to get the job done. The gates were massive, after all—constructed from a combination of iron and bronze, and measuring at least fifteen feet in height. They must have weighed a ton. In truth, the only thing about them that didn’t exude a sense of heftiness was the light-hearted nature of the golden leaf design, which decorated their exterior.

As we drove across the threshold, I couldn’t help but cringe in anxious anticipation.

Sensing my stress, my mom took my hand and squeezed it.

I really had to give her credit. She did hassle me a lot, but she knew how difficult this was for me. And I guess it must’ve been rough on her too––having a daughter who was so different from her and all.

The carriage came to a sudden halt and I grabbed the velvet seat cushion as if bracing for impact.

We were parked among a wave of other carriages and a sea of girls in chiffon and lace being pursued by attendants carrying their designer luggage. Our carriage doors were opened from the outside and a large, white-gloved hand offered me assistance out of the vehicle. I took the hand and was pulled into the sunshine.

The day was perfect (atmospherically at least). Blue birds were singing in anticipation of our arrival, and the sun was reflecting light off every bejeweled bobble in the crowd.

I gazed at the building before me. It was crème colored, covered with purple flowering vines that climbed its walls. On the balconies a selection of silk, violet, and mauve curtains caught on the breeze, fluttering above like giant butterfly wings. The richly shaded purple flags with our school’s golden crest emblazoned on them flew proudly overhead from tightly twisted bronze turrets.

From an architect or a tourist’s perspective, I imagined the sight might’ve been quite beautiful. But to me, it was just daunting. For I knew that each of the majestic compound’s tall ivory towers came with the price of equally tall expectations.

“Your Highness . . .”

I winced at the irritating title.

Why couldn’t our staff ever just call me Crisa? “Your Highness” was such a precocious term. The only way I remotely associated with it at this point in life was in relation to the height I’d achieved with the pumps my mother was making me wear.

“Would you like me to carry your bags to your room, or would you prefer to check them in with the school’s regular staff?”

I forced the annoyance down and plastered a pleasant smile across my face before turning around to address Jacque, one of our family’s long-time attendants. After all, it wasn’t his fault that I felt disconnected from the title. He didn’t know he had the wrong girl.

“You can take them, Jacque,” I said. “But I’ll carry the satchel myself, like always.”

Jacque nodded and went off to the trunk of the carriage. He reached inside and presented me with the bag in question. I grasped it protectively and thanked him just as my mom came over to join me.

She looked perfect today, just like she always did. Her soft peach sundress glittered, matching her strappy satin heels. Her short, strawberry-blonde hair bounced off her shoulders as she walked.

“Come on, Pumpkin,” she said. “Time to go.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

My mom brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. “
Yes
, Crisanta. Please try to remember that a princess always says ‘yes’ and not ‘yeah.’ I cannot . . .”

She cleared her throat slightly—swallowing down the unqueenly public display of emotion I could hear in her voice.

“I am not going to be with you for some time to remind you.”

I gave her a big hug. “I’ll miss you too, Mom.”

She hugged me tightly and warmly for a moment, in the worried way that only mothers could. Then she recomposed herself, sucked in her concern (the way she so often reminded me to suck in my stomach at royal functions), and sent me off.

I turned my attention back to the building ahead—the building that would be my home (or prison, depending on your outlook) until the summer returned. With a deep breath, I reluctantly proceeded through its arched entrance under a great, gold-encrusted sign that read:

We Meet Again

lowery perfume and giggles filled the air, and the combined clicking of a hundred high-heeled shoes against the marble floor resembled a sound that was best described as a fancy stampede.

Lady Agnue’s foyer swarmed with girls. Like the others, I found myself awkwardly trying to navigate my way through the crowd to get to the sign-in area to no avail. We all just kept bumping into one another like semi-formally dressed croquet balls.

“Crisa!” someone yelled from the other side of the room.

I spun around, trying to find the source of the voice.

“Crisa!”

There it was again—closer this time, but still muffled in the crowd.

“Crisa!”

I whirled around and saw my best friend squeeze past a disoriented Princess Marie Sinclaire to reach me.

“SJ!” I shouted happily.

The two of us embraced as if we hadn’t seen each other in ages. It’d only been a few months since we were last together—since Lady Agnue’s had let out for the summer. However, a few months apart from my best friend SJ Kaplan might as well have been an eternity.

“Come on!” SJ said as she linked her arm with mine and motioned toward the stairs.

“I still have to check in,” I protested.

“I signed us both in. Thank me later!” she replied with a wink.

We made our way over to the grand staircase at the far end of the chaotic room. Thankfully, the sea of girls thinned as we ascended the stairs to the sixth floor.

First-year students at Lady Agnue’s had their roommates assigned, but after that we were free to pick our own. SJ and I met when we were assigned to Suite 608 during our first year, along with Mauvrey Weatherall, another princess.

As far as roommates went, I was pretty lucky to get SJ. She was uncommonly kind, always calm and rational, and a rock-solid person to turn to when times were tough. Mauvrey, on the other hand, well . . . there were a lot of words to describe a girl like her. Unfortunately, none of those words were considered very ladylike, so I kept them to myself when in mixed company.

Mauvrey was the daughter of the world’s most famous coma patient, Sleeping Beauty. The three of us were initially matched as roommates because we were all considered “Legacies.”

In other words, our parents were both royalty and the main characters of their own stories so we, being their offspring, were expected to live up to their preset standards of greatness.

In an attempt to help us—and all other Legacies—cope with our celebrity-child woes, (a.k.a. the “our parents were awesome, so now the world expects us to be awesome” woes), we were bunked together our first year at Lady Agnue’s. As a result, some girls like SJ and myself formed strong bonds and became the best of friends. Others, like Mauvrey and me, became the opposite. Needless to say the girl couldn’t change roommates fast enough the following September when we returned for our second term.

But, you know, that’s enough on Mauvrey for now.

Especially since there’ll definitely be more on her later.

It’s inevitable.

SJ and I arrived at the familiar door of Suite 608. She pulled out an unnecessarily ornate silver key from her purse and slid it into the lock.

“Home again,” she practically sang as she opened the door.

The room was exactly as I remembered; after five years of living here I even had the smell memorized. Mandarins and freshly washed sheets were the room’s natural scent. But, a few years ago SJ had added a third element to the aroma when she’d insisted that we keep lavender incense in our suite so as to try and help me with my unusual sleeping problems.