The embroidered gloves don’t hinder the calligraphy that sprawls from my quill. It’s a love letter, of sorts; to the ones who dress and curtsey as prettily and obediently as I do – who spent hours stacking petticoats and learned to walk swiftly with the anchor. I write melodies of praise, that sing of perfectly practiced laughter and rehearsed small talk.
Denizens of the royal court had to know etiquette, of course. Princesses, duchesses, and suitors alike learned the rules of conduct. We all must act as if the dress doesn’t itch, and the headpiece doesn’t push our necks into a permanent hunch. I write the letter to them, admiring the way the colours in their eyes were uniform.
No jealousy, of course. It was unladylike and would only sour the beautiful lettering I slave over. Each stroke is perfect. It would never be read, even briefly. After all, it was the same effort everyone did, not notable and not worthy. They all put on an applause-worthy performance; twirling and pretending in fancy dress that never fit, as if they were born in it, and not jesters tormented by stage fright.
My head is still bowed, even once the weight of the headpiece is lifted and I am alone. As fidgeting hands shove spectacles back on, my cursive turns to chicken scratch.