A Fairy Tale, Told By A Princess
Flicka von Hannover
Her Serene Highness Friederike Marie Louise Victoria Caroline Amalie Alexandra Augusta—Prinzessinvon Hannover und Cumberland, Princess of Great Britain and Ireland, Duchess of Brunswick-Lüneburg, and heir to an assortment of other useless titles to extinct kingdoms and duchies but including a three-digit succession number to the British throne through George V of Hannover who had been George III of England—is staring straight at you.
Her golden blond hair curls in waves past her shoulders. Her heart-shaped face and pixieish chin are level and serious.
Her clear green eyes don’t waver from yours.
She says, “Let me tell you a story—a fairy tale, actually—but it’s not about a princess. No, it’s about a golden-haired little girl who has no shits left to give. It’s a Goldilocks story.
“So, this little girl lives in a village, and a family of bears lives outside the village.Bears.Man-eating, fanged, enormous Kodiakbearswith blood dripping from their claws and chins. There’s probably a sign on the road that reads,Danger! Get the hell out of here!and old police tape fluttering from the trees from all the times that headless corpses have been found on the property with their guts torn out.
“But what does Goldilocks do?
“Does she run and hide? Does she stay safe in the village?
“No.”
The way she’s staring straight at you is unnerving. “Goldilocks walks down the road, past the danger sign and shredded police tape, and breaks into the bears’ house. She vandalizes the place, throwing porridge at the walls and breaking the furniture, eating whatever she finds, and then she lies down and takes a nap.
“A goddamn nap.
“These are not the actions of a good citizen. These are not the actions of a person who gives a shit about what is nice, or proper, orappropriate.”
Her Serene Highness Flicka von Hannover has not blinked her wide, crystal-green eyes all this time.
She says to you, “That is a golden-haired bitch who wants to watch the world burn, who wants to see it all burn to ashes, and something better—much better—rise to take its place.”
Escape
Flicka von Hannover
This is the night my life ended,
and though I didn’t know it at the time,
the night I was reborn.
The long hotel hallway, lined with doors, stretched in front of Flicka von Hannover as she ran as hard as she could.
Her ankles wobbled in her gilded, stiletto sandals every time her feet thudded on the carpeting. Her slim, crystal-encrusted skirt was bunched around her thighs so she could stretch her long legs. Her purse dangled from her wrist and bounced against her thigh with each stride.
Just a few more doors.
—432, 434, 436—
If she could reach room 460, she had a chance.
She glanced behind her, risking a stumble as she sprinted.
Doors studded the silent hallway behind her. Shimmering sconces threw dim light over the grand hotel’s gold carpeting, and black night pressed against the windows. She could still taste the metallic tinge of blood in her mouth.
No other hotel guests were standing around in the hallways at four in the morning.
—442, 444, 446—
When she had escaped from her own suite minutes before, the Secret Service men, armed with handguns and large knives, had been chasing her. Flicka had leaped into the closing elevator, rolling on the floor and slamming her shoulder against the back wall. It had been a stroke of luck that the elevator was at the penthouse and the doors had been closing just as she had run. That little bit of luck had allowed her to make it this far.
