“Now, Zephyrina, let’s go over this again.”
The 10-year-old tweenaged filly pinched at the hem of her dress and rolled her eyes at the governess. “Again, Mrs. Mistral?”
Tea chairs were uncomfortable. Did you know that? Zipp did. They were made of wrought iron, contorted into curls that resembled cold, rigid flowers. The little raised nubs where the tips of the petals were supposed to be pressed on Zipp’s back—somehow at all the worst pressure points.
“Yes, we shall do it again,” Mrs. Mistral, the Royal Governess, said sternly. “Zephyrina, how are you ever going to become a good princess if I can’t teach you proper tea etiquette?”
The princess groaned, shifting her butt on the hard chair. Oof. Another pressure point. “But we’ve done the exact same thing for two whole hours! ‘Would you like some tea, Ms. Storm?’ ‘Yes, please, thank you Mrs. Mistral.’ ‘Milk or sugar, Ms. Storm?’ ‘Two cubes of sugar please, thank you Mrs. Mistral.’ Why can’t I ask for more than two cubes of sugar?”
Mrs. Mistral said, “It’s not ladylike to ask for so much sugar.”
“But it tastes better that way. Tea is so bitter. Ughbleghughhh.”
Zipp sat across from Mrs. Mistral, the governess who had served the royal family devotedly for over 30 years. Mrs. Mistral had been Queen Haven’s governess too. She was a tired mare, with one wrinkle for every time she’s admonished a filly for incorrect fork placement or stirring the tea in the wrong direction.
They sat outside in the terraced tea garden, The air was motionless, without wind. Guards stood at the gates, like peri-fossilized ponies slowly solidifying into statues. The walls were overgrown with flowers and grafted citrus trees, perfectly manicured by their legion of gardeners.
“Now, watch carefully again.” Ms. Mistral did not move. She executed. The teapot raised, hoof against the lid, tilting the teapot for 4 seconds, releveling the teapot.
All Zipp could was sit and watch.
As she executed, she spoke. “See, Zephyrina. A good princess has poise. She has dignity. She is demure.”
The teapot rested on the saucer. Clink.
Zipp burped. She was getting so hungry the acid was starting to come up.
“Zephyrina! Really!”
Zipp wanted so bad to just get up from her stupid tea chair and just bite straight through one of the fruits growing on the trees; skin and all.
And from the furtive glances that she saw the governess make at the orange tree, she knew she wasn’t the only one who was hungry.
“Now, Zephyrina, your turn.”
“I thought I got it right the last time.”
“Your pouring of the tea was much too abrupt and careless, with too much splashing. You must be gentle with your pours.”
Zipp gave Mrs. Mistral an incredulous look, and leaned back in her wrought iron chair so hard that it tilted back a few inches. “I got the tea into the cup, didn’t I? Ugh. Why don’t you just let Pipp do the tea ceremonies or whatever you call it? She actually enjoys this kind of thing.” Pipp was only 7 when she passed Tea Etiquette 101 with flying colors. If that was even worthy to be called a subject.
“You are the Crown Princess, Zipp. You will receive the most state guests. You will have to have tea with them. And you must represent the State well with the way you have tea. Your mother would understand.”
Zipp was staring at the vines on the wall, sort of listening with one ear. Two of the oranges looked particularly ripe. If she could just quickly dash over and grab those two.
The tiers of cucumber sandwiches and macarons lay untouched. They hadn’t got to that part of the lesson yet. And if they didn’t get to that point today, all the food would be thrown down the rubbish chute and remade for the next time. Zipp watched as the tired old mare sitting across from her as she counted the untrimmed strands of fur on her fetlocks. The tea was the first. Then the hors d oeuvres. Then the proper salutations and introductions. Then the appropriate small talk.
But Mrs. Mistral kept glancing at the orange tree, rebelliously poking out of the restraint tying it to the trellis on the wall.
In that sense, Zipp felt a kindred spirit with Mrs. Mistral.
Without saying a word, Zipp poured them both tea. Zipp dropped four cubes of sugar into her own cup.
Zipp got up from her chair and picked the ripest orange off one of the trees. She placed the fruit on a saucer and pushed it across the table to Mrs. Mistral.
“What is this?”
“It’s for you, Mrs. Mistral,” Zipp said. “You look hungry.”
Zipp, sadly, did not pass the lesson.
“See, Mrs. Mistral! If I connect these sticks together, and pull the string like that…see!? It spins really fast and it flies into the air!”
The governess gasped, but not for the right reason. “Zephyrina! What have you done with the watercolor brushes!?”
Zephyrina turned 11 last month, and had grown increasingly unfocused during her lessons with the governess. Ever since Zipp began more advanced education under her tutor—a retired professor from the Cloudsdale College of Science—all the more she rebelled against the subjects she hated. One of the paintbrush handles was sawn off to the make the shaft of the mini wind-up helicopter. Pieces of canvas were meticulously shaped into the blades, and the string used to support the easel was cut to make the winding device.
Zipp looked disappointed. “Well, you said you wanted to teach me arts and crafts, right? This is arts and crafts. Watch!”
She dashed back outside, chasing the spinning rotor as it drifted out of the window. “Did you see that!? Did you see that!?”
Mrs. Mistral grabbed her from behind. “Zephyrina. Stop that. Look at me. Do you want to act like a real princess or not!?”
“So what? I AM a princess.” She rolled her eyes. “You mean running in grass strips me of all my royal titles?”
“Grass! Oh goodness, Zephyrina, there’s mud all caked on your fur! And look at all the dust and scratches on your hooves! How will they ever be filed down!? And your dress! You’ve creased it!” The governess picked up the delicate fabric at the hem and showed it to her. “This was your mother’s, when she was a filly. It’s a family heirloom. Your mother took such good care of it when she was your age. You’re 11 years old Zephyrina, old enough to understand that, right?”
“Well, I already told you I hated it.”
“Zephyrina, watch your language! A princess does not speak with that tone to anypony!”
“Well, it’s the truth! It’s all your fault for making me wear it in the first place!”
Silence.
The governess sighed heavily and put her hooves to her face.
Zipp’s expression softened. “I…I’m sorry, teach, I didn’t mean to be…”
“No, Zephyrina. It’s all right.” She faded into a barely coherent mumble, further muffled by her hooves against her face.
“Do you think I care what you wear? Do you think I care if you act like a princess? ‘Make my Zephyrina start acting like how a princess should.’ And then her majesty struts off with barely a thank you. Was it that long ago I was still scolding her to sit straight at the dinner table? And now she’s the one bossing me around. Ugh. I’m too old for this. I should be retired.”
Zipp sat quietly on the painting stool, listening to the old governess continue to mumble. If there was one princess-like thing Zipp was good at, it was listening to rambling—whether it be a long scolding or the fiftieth speech of the day at the diplomat meeting—and staying just awake enough to not fall asleep and embarrass the State.
“Ugh, Zephyrina,” she continued to mumble to herself. “Why have I got to make you be this way if you don’t even want it. You act more like a boy than my two sons did. And I know how to raise boys. It would be so much easier if you were a boy.”
Zipp suddenly looked up from the floor.
Do you want to act like a real princess or not?
She hurled the wooden helicopter at the floor, snapping it into many pieces. She ran off to her room and shut the door.
She sat in front of her vanity mirror, which she mainly used as a study desk cluttered with thick math books that loomed over the puny little makeup palettes. She pushed a stack of books away so that she could see her whole self in the mirror. Her butt was hurting from sitting so much on the stool.
“Am I really a boy…?” she whispered to herself.
It would be so much easier.
“NO! No!” She shouted at the mirror.
She would do anything.
She was a princess, right? Right?
And princesses acted a certain way.
Yeah. Yes. That’s what she would do. She would act a certain way. If it meant she would be a princess.
She unfolded the hem of the beautiful dress she had so carelessly ruined. She tried to iron out the deep creases with her hoof.
They did not settle.
Mrs. Mistral announced her retirement after Pipp turned 12. An informal hour-long reception was held in her honor in Royal Events Hall C4, ending with Pipp chasing after the retired governess in a trail of tears.
A year later, Zipp turned 14, which by tradition was the appropriate age for a young princess to begin carrying out royal duties. Her first public engagement was to be a speech at the dedication ceremony for the Petunia Pavilion at the Zephyr Heights Royal Botanic Gardens. Her team of aides had already marked it on her calendar for her.
Zipp grew her mane long, longer than her sister’s, and had it styled in the feminine styles dictated by the palace hairdressers. A delicate floral dress with petunias on them had been picked out for her to wear for her debut, and Zipp did not protest. And finally, there were no words spoken. Mother did not object. Zipp did not object. The public did not object. There was no more hushed gossip among the servants about Zipp trying to “change” into a male heir.
Zipp remembered one evening, she walked out in her approved hairstyle, dolled up in delicate natural makeup, wearing her official casual dinner jacket with the royal standard embroidered on the front. Pipp briefly looked up from her phone and flashed a smile to say hello.
“Good evening, Zephyrina,” Queen Haven said. “Won’t you have a seat?”
And that was the end of it. No arguments about how a princess should behave. Just dinner. In peace.
One and a half hours of styling her mane, an hour of fixing her makeup, another hour trying to zip the back of her dress…just for…peace.
Zipp had been dreading her royal debut night for a while. Two hours of stimulating conversation about flight dynamics with her tutor had devolved into two hours of sitting still on a cold, tightly padded “glow-up chair” while letting her face and hair be tickled with various implements.
“Hold still,” the beautician said. A few brushes would tickle her face, and then she would be allowed to move for a few minutes. An attendant would offer her some lavishly decorated canapes, each so finely presented that their individual prettiness seemed to cancel each other out, and together it became a plate of gaudy, tasteless overindulgence.
But she sat there. Still.
“Hold still.” More tickling. More alterations to her custom-designed dress.
Zipp wondered if this is what it felt like to sit in the throne room.
Her butt was falling asleep.
Then the knock at the door woke it up.
“Zephyrina. You look beautiful.”
And this was when she was supposed to express her gratitude, like “Thank you, Mother.” She bowed a little, her hoof slipping a few inches after stepping on one of those emerald ribbons.
Even Zipp had to admit she looked beautiful. The professional makeup artist, the designer outfit, the mane stylist all crafted the perfect look for her body proportions, her facial structure, and her coat colors. The ribbons around the hem line complemented the emerald streaks in her mane. Her eyes lifted with makeup to make her look more innocent. A logical mind like hers should appreciate the analytical thinking that went into creating her look.
“I’m happy for you, Zephyrina. You’ve really matured. That Mrs. Mistral really taught you a few things when you were younger, hmm?”
This was when she was supposed to say “I…I suppose she did,” Zephyrina said, covering her mouth as she chuckled.
They heard the overhead wire reels start to squeak.
“Well, it’s showtime, dear.” A quick peck on the cheek, then it was time to go.
How do you feel, Zephyrina?
That question was never asked.
The wires picked her up off the chair, over several catwalks in the ceiling, and she landed on the stage to a sea of applauding ponies.
Flap your wings uselessly in the empty air. Smile until the saliva on your teeth dries out.
She read off the half-sheet of paper she was given. She had not prepared at all before. It took her no more than a minute. Everypony applauded again. The newspapers printed in the dozens of millions Zephrina’s photo and a trite headline in stale ink. “Crown Princess Zephyrina makes royal debut in elegant floral gown.”
“Princess Zephyrina looked like a regal, poised young royal today, in her first official engagement dedicating the new…” and the rest faded to gibberish.
There. Like that. She was a Princess.
And she hated it.
Mom was unusually nice to Zipp that night. Or perhaps she was just putting on a show for the cameras at the follow-up banquet. As they walked away from the flashing lights, the Queen’s gait slowed, and she began to yawn.
Zipp bid her mom goodnight and trudged back to her room. Another legion of stylists was waiting at her wing of the castle, to carefully undo the lace on the back of her dress, lest she rip it apart—which she just might have, considering she had survived four hours without pulling out the hang thread that was tickling her flank.
It was just before she went to undress, standing at the entrance to her secondary bedroom—her miniature lab—she was faced with a familiar figure.
“Mrs. Mistral!?”
“Zephyrina.”
“I thought you retired.”
“You know I wouldn’t miss your royal debut, now would you?”
She looked back once to check for cameras or eavesdropping guards. “What’s the matter, Mom told you to come back and make sure my posture was at the correct angle?”
“Now Zephyrina! It’s nothing like that!”
“Then what?”
A long silence. Even in just a few years, she was noticeably more frail. Her breathing was heavy, even standing stationary on a smooth marble floor.
“How do you feel?”
Zipp frowned. “What?”
“I’m asking you a question. How do you feel?”
“I…” her learned courtesy tried to take over, but she was interrupted—much to her relief. It would have killed her having to say “it was wonderful” for the fifth hour straight to mom’s uncle, and mom’s uncle’s boss, and her sister’s cousin’s friend, and so on.
Mrs. Mistral sighed, her airway croaking. “I came to give you a little snack.”
“If it’s another ‘cuisine a la frou-frou’ I’ll be…” Zipp trailed off. At first confused. Then shocked.
She gave Zipp an orange.
“Here you are, Zephyrina. Fresh from the garden.”
Zipp peeled it and bit straight through the segments. She couldn’t comprehend the avant-garde cuisine they had served at the banquet earlier that evening. She had the mental capacity to understand what béchamel sauce was and what crème anglaise was, but somehow it slipped her mind quickly, like the words were just a jumble of characters.
This orange made sense.
Zipp broke down in tears and leaned on Mrs. Mistral.
“I can’t do this, teach. I can’t. Being a princess is too hard. I’m sick of having to look lovely all the time, go to events, laugh below a certain volume…”
Mrs. Mistral pat her on the back. “If you’re not yourself, you become dead on the inside.”
Zipp could feel a shell around her. Enveloping her body. Heavy. Stiff. With just a little crack where she could trace a thin trail of air to breathe. “What…what am I?” she barely got out.
“You’re you.”
Zipp swallowed a lump. Squeezed the last bit of fear out of her eyelids. “Well, back when you said it was easier if I were a boy…that hurt me lot.”
“You…you heard that?” Mrs. Mistral gasped—then her face sunk into a knowing smile. “Of course you did. You were always such an observant filly, inquisitive. You could make a fine detective one day, I dare say.”
“I just wanna like the things I like. Is that not enough?”
“As long as you are yourself, that’s enough.” Mrs. Mistral sighed. “Look at you, you’re…”
Zipp rolled her eyes and laughed. “Ha, you can say it. I look greaaaaat. I know. The stylists really worked their magic on me—how is this makeup still on me after I stuck my tongue out at the chocolate fountain and dunked my face into the hoof washing bowl thingy?”
“But how do you feel dear?”
“Oh I feel awful,” she said with no hesitation. “Wearing a princess dress from a fairy tale and I feel awful. Some girl I am, amirite?”
She gave Zipp a firm pat on the head. “You forgot how to be yourself. And that’s because I forgot how to be myself. I built my career at the Junior Speedsters Kindergarten, cultivating what would become some of the greatest minds in Zephyr Heights. That’s why I was given the honor of being Royal Governess. But then I found myself…doing the total opposite of what I had built my reputation out of. Look at you this evening. I got you to be exactly how a princess is 'supposed' to be. I did what Haven—your mother—asked of me as Royal Governess. But at what cost? To you? Or to me?” She let out a weary smile. “You’re old enough to understand that, right? Zipp?”
"I was old enough to understand that a loooong time ago," Zipp quipped. They shared a quiet laugh.
Zipp could easily take a deep breath. Even if the makeup was still glued on her like tattoo ink, the perfume the beautician sprayed liberally in her mane had worn off. “But what…won’t Mom hate me?”
Yet another silent weary smile from the governess—like her mark of authentic disapproval, rather than stern scolding. “I told her how you were responding to my lessons. And how in my years of childcare experience, it’s best to support a child’s healthy interests—suppression only causes depression or rebellion later in life. But she wouldn’t listen. ‘I gave you one job, blah blah blah.’ She was like that as a filly too, you know. She just cares so much about her kingdom and her duty that she’d do anything or be anything to appease tradition.”
Yes, they were as far from earshot as possible from Queen Haven’s room or any eavesdropping guards. This would be Zipp and Mrs. Mistral’s secret.
Zipp let out a mischievous giggle.
“She gave the job to me, the supposed childrearing expert, but I’m no expert if I’m not allowed to do what I think is right. I can try talking to her again. But I think if you really want to change your mother, that will have to come from you. She’ll listen to you. You look too much like your father for her not to listen.”
(Zipp wasn’t quite sure what that last line was supposed to mean, but she said, “ok”, and continued,)
“But I…I love Mom.” It felt unnatural coming out of her mouth as a self-proclaimed rebellious 14-year-old teenage girl. Even if it was true. “Maybe she annoys me sometimes, but I don't want her to be sad either. If I’m not what she wants me to be, I’ll…”
“Zeph—Zipp, I’ve raised three royal children; including your mother, you, and Pipp. Your sister loved my lessons, your mother even more. But out of all of you, believe me when I say you are the most fit to rule this nation.”
“But…I don’t understand. But I don’t want to be a princess. I’m sick of…tea parties and painting and canned speeches—”
She grabbed Zipp by the shoulders, with surprising force for a 70-year-old. “Then…tell them! Tell them what it means to be a princess. Redefine the word ‘Princess’. That’s what royals are so damn good at, am I right?”
The princess stepped away to toss the orange peels in the trash can. “Whatever. We’re cool.”
Zipp hugged Mrs. Mistral. Maybe to the untrained observer, it was Mrs. Mistral that was proud of Zipp—proud for her scripted and choreographed royal debut. But Zipp felt even more proud for her governess, some 60 years her senior. She felt proud of her, for Mrs. Mistral would at last live her truth—
For six months, then Zipp laid flowers on her grave.
(Being dead on the inside for too long takes a toll on the outside, after all.)
Zipp wasn’t sure what snapped in her, after that last time she met Mrs. Mistral. Perhaps Mrs. Mistral’s troubled soul left her body and possessed Zipp. Or perhaps it was Zipp hearing the news that Mrs. Mistral tried to reopen her Junior Speedsters Kindergarten, the school that she had to close after being held hostage as Royal Governess for three decades…only to pass away in the middle of the first semester. Or perhaps it was the gift that Mrs. Mistral had left to Zipp in her will: known to others only as a mysterious white box that Zipp kept hidden in her vanity drawer. Or perhaps it was when Zipp looked into her mother’s eyes and felt like she was the one who “killed” Mrs. Mistral.
Because if somepony forces you to not be yourself, there's no kinder way to put it. They've killed you on the inside.
A week after Mrs. Mistral's funeral, Zipp cut her mane short again, and donated all her “princess” dresses to charity. She walked past Mom’s room fast enough to escape her scolding. (She had to get away from the “killer”, after all.) Zipp was officially a day student at the Cloudsdale College of Science, but dove so deeply into her studies that some mornings the janitor would find Her Royal Highness asleep in a library “study nook”, rolled off the beanbag and wings splayed on the floor; and on the desk an orange peel with the seeds carefully nested inside, and a half-empty bottle of water.
Yes, of course the janitor had a phone camera. Yes, of course it hit the tabloids. Of course Queen Haven had some words to say when Zipp finally returned to the castle 7am on Sunday morning. Of course she scolded Zipp. On how she supposedly tarnished Mrs. Mistral’s legacy with this hooliganism.
“Imagine if she were still here, Zephyrina. What would she think?”
“I’m sure she would only want the best for me and my happiness.”
Zipp knew. She knew Mrs. Mistral knew she knew. It was their little secret, Mom didn’t have to know. So the next time, with a smirk on her face, Zipp fell asleep in the library again, but this time with two orange peels and an empty bottle of water on the desk.
Zipp was 21, and it was time for her to formally come-of-age at the annual Royal Debutante Ball. She would intermingle with cherry-picked sons and daughters of wealthy Zephyr Heights media executives, investment bankers, and real estate brokers.
Tomorrow, there would be juicy headlines. More blinding paparazzi photos of Zipp in her dress. Candid shots of her dancing with other stallions. Rumors about who the Princess had her eye on to become her future Prince. More ink, more paper, more sales. More internet traffic. That was how the royals gave back to Zephyr Heights’ economy.
The plan was all set behind the scenes. The guards were in place. The dinner chairs set. When the debutantes would enter the ballroom, in what order. When the guest of honor, Princess Zephyrina, would enter. When the guests would take their seats at the dinner table, their names written on crisp white tent cards. When they would unravel their napkins, placed upon their laps left to right—never right to left, for that would be heresy—and make polite complementary remarks on the food and ambience. And afterwards, she would dance with all the suitors at least once, out of courtesy, and anypony who she fancied she would add to her dance card to dance with again after the sherry served at intermission.
Zipp hated the debutante dress. So many layers of chiffon that it made her dizzy just looking at it. White lace trim and sequins—no, rhinestones—that blinded Zipp with its endless facets of light.
Zipp sat to get her mane done in an efficient, carefully choregraphed, assembly line. Each stylist relegated to one task. First Ms. Scissors to trim the fringe. Ms. Shampoo to wash her mane in some rose concoction that made Zipp choke. Mr. Hairspray to freeze everything—with any luck, he could freeze her artificial smile in place as well.
The beauticians froze abruptly when the door behind them suddenly clicked open. Zipp thought that some kind of angel must have arrived to save her from the torture. But then she heard the “angel’s” voice.
“Zephyrina.”
Zipp sat up straight in her chair to face the Queen. “Mom.”
“You look lovely.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“Now, how can you say that!? I had a whole legion of designers to take all your measurements, select the best colors to match your coat, the best fabric for your…”
“Which is why it should go on somepony who deserves it more than me.”
“You do deserve it, dear.”
“I don’t even want it!”
“But it looks so lovely on you. It fits you so well.”
“It’s not me, it’s just what you want to see me as.”
“You are a princess, Zephyrina. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this anymore at this age. There’s some things the world expects of you that you must accept…”
“If I’m not myself, am I not dead on the inside!?”
The volley of arguments suddenly ground to a halt.
“Leave us alone. NOW.”
The beauticians and the guard ponies quickly scurried out of the room on the Queen’s orders. The last door slammed shut. Zipp snorted at her mother, expecting the fight of her life. Even if she was much more athletic than her mother, she took a small step back in fear.
Instead, silence.
The Queen smiled ruefully. “I think…I think I understand the dilemma.”
“The dilemma?”
“Your predicament.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. You talking about me going to this charade of a ball, or looking like a clown in this dress?”
“Not the former, somewhat the latter.”
“Is that what a Queen is supposed to do? Dance around a subject until it gets dizzy and convoluted?”
“What I’m trying…” the Queen tried to find the words. “I’m trying to say…I’m sorry, Zephyrina.”
Zipp’s eyes widened.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. For the mistakes I’ve made.”
Her shock faded, turning to disgust. “Oh, so now you’re on my side all of a sudden? What, got your hoof caught in poison joke?”
“Zephyrina. Zipp. LISTEN. Don’t make this any HARDER for me.”
A stern gaze from her mother. Zipp didn’t think she could be afraid of it as an adult.
“Fine. What is it.”
“It’s just…well…what you said to me. ‘If I’m not myself, am I not dead on the inside.’”
“Yeah. What about it.”
A pause.
“That was the last thing your father said to me before he died.” Queen Haven spit it all out in one breath.
And Zipp stared back blankly with the same turquoise eyes as her father.
“I don’t want that same fate to happen to you. You understand that, don’t you?”
“And what took you such a long time to realize!?” Zipp frowned, but as tightly as she furrowed her brow…she couldn’t get any madder at her mom.
She wanted to give Mom an orange. Like she gave Mrs. Mistral.
Zipp’s mother shook her head. “You may as well ask, what took me so long to understand my own husband’s anguish? Zephyrina…” the Queen looked back once more to her daughter. “I may be a good Queen, but I was a horrible wife. I never deserved him…and…it was my fault for making him think that he was the one to blame.”
Thoughts. The royal’s only sanctuary of privacy. Even as the cameras focused on the Queen’s mournful face, the only thing they could never capture was the Queen’s thoughts.
And Zipp was okay with that. Even if they never spoke of this again, as long as she knew her hurt—as long as she knew her Mom knew. That was enough for her.
“The structure was the right thing for me. I enjoyed the etiquette. The social protocols. When Mrs. Mistral told me to sit up straight, I sat up even straighter. But you don’t enjoy those things. Just like your father didn’t. And it was foolish of me to think the way I was raised as a child was the right way to raise you.”
The Queen walks up to her daughter. “You are always my Zephyrina.”
“Zipp.”
“Zipp. You are always my child. I promise to love you and support you. Whatever you choose to wear, whatever you choose to be.”
“So…now what?”
Finally, the Queen relented—Zipp was either dense as rock or wanted to hear the exact words come out of her lips. “If you don’t want to wear the dress, you don’t have to wear the debutante dress.”
“I don’t want to wear the debutante dress.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
“Well then…what do you want to wear?”
Zipp wore the gift from Mrs. Mistral.
A necklace passed down Mrs. Mistral's family for generations. Mrs. Mistral had no real obligation to give it to Zipp, but, as she had written on the card inside the gift box, Zipp would appreciate it more than any child of hers would have.
Legend says the silver necklace was worn by Commander Hurricane of the ancient pegasi lands. In the old military chiefdom, this necklace was passed down from commander to commander, each one chosen for not only their strength and bravery, but their kindness and nurturing spirit. Their willingness to help even the lowest rank private, and treat them with the same dignity and respect as the highest general. (So it said in the card anyway.) Mrs. Mistral’s ancestor was the last great warrior, before the chiefdom was dissolved and Cloudsdale integrated with Old Equestria, many millennia ago.
Zipp stood in line backstage with the other debutantes, awaiting their entrance down the long red carpet. She glanced at other mares standing ahead of her, fumbling with their chiffon skirts in the dark, fidgeting to make sure they wouldn’t trip on their hems.
The princess wanted to chuckle.
The silver necklace was shiny. Zipp was sure once she walked under the spotlight, it would project a glorious wing-shaped light up on the ceiling.
Zipp was wearing it for the first time. This was her debut.
She heard her name called.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Zipp Storm.”
And a full twenty yards away from the spotlights and camera flashes, Zipp was already smiling.
Author's Note
Guess how long it took me to finish this story? Two years. Two freakin’ years.
Which is why Queen Haven is OOC, and some details are not canon with details about Zipp’s earlier childhood that were revealed in later seasons of Make Your Mark. Hence the AU tag.
I rated this T just to be safe but I think this could be fine E rated, what do you all think?
Please direct typos to PM.
