Page 1 of Winter Princess
Chapter 1
If I told people that my mother was the Queen of Winter, they’d probably lock me up. And if I told them that I can do magic, they’d run away screaming. Or laugh, which is more likely.
It’s not like I grew up in a palace or something. On the contrary, I grew up in a lacklustre semi-detached on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland.
Nowadays, most people have never even heard of Beira, the Winter Queen. I’m not quite sure if I should feel offended about that on my mother’s behalf. In the olden days, everyone knew her. She was known as the Mother of Gods and Goddesses, the Veiled One, the Cailleach, and, not very flatteringly, the old hag with one eye. You can probably guess which version my mother prefers.
Despite the legends, she certainly doesn’t look like an old hag. Sure, she is old – and I mean,reallyold, even I don’t know her age – but she is as beautiful as you can imagine.
Unfortunately, I didn't get those genes from her. I'm ordinary looking, nothing special. Dark hair, brown eyes and a few extra pounds around my hips that make me curse my jeans in the morning. I guess it makes it easier to blend in though. It's hard enough to hide my magic, so it's good that I don't have to hide unnatural beauty as well. Thinking positive, that’s me.
My mum and dad are the only ones who know about my origins. They're not my real parents, of course, but they are a lot more paternal than my birth mother ever was. I've seen her exactly four times in my life. Five, if you count the moment I was born.
I get two letters each year; one for my birthday, one for winter solstice. She doesn’t celebrate Christmas – Jesus and all that came long after she started her rule. I have 43 letters in my top drawer, every single one of them crumpled and stained from being read hundreds of times. Today, the forty-fourth arrived, in time for my twenty-second birthday tomorrow.
I've not opened it yet, but I've been holding it in my hands for the past hour, deciding whether it's better to open it quickly and be disappointed again, or wait for a bit longer, in the comfort of not being rejected - yet. Every time I get a letter, I write a reply, long and detailed, telling her about my life. Maybe it's because I want to make her feel guilty for having given me away. Now that I'm older, I understand her reasons, and I almost forgive her for it. Almost. If only she would allow me to visit her. In every letter, I ask. But I never get a reply. It hurts.
She doesn't want you. You're not worthy of being a goddess's daughter.
But now, I'm turning twenty-two. In Pagan tradition, I am coming of age. Tomorrow is the day my magic will specialise.
At the moment, I can do basic stuff - light candles, levitate small things like books and cutlery (very handy when laying the table), open doors with my mind. Oh, and read emotions - not thoughts, although in most people I can deduce their thoughts from what they're feeling. I make a pretty good lie detector. It made me a pain for my teachers back at school, when I would call them out on made-up answers to pupils' difficult questions. Yes, I wasn't popular among teachers and my fellow students alike. Being able to see every fake or planted rumour for a lie takes the fun out of high school.
I'm not sure what will happen to my magic tomorrow. Usually, it changes, increasing one particular power and getting rid of all the others. That's why fire mages can't control water and so on. I've been thinking about it a lot: what power could I live without? Which one is my favourite? What kind of mage would I like to be?
But then, I'm not an ordinary mage. After all, my mother is a goddess. Which makes me a demi-goddess. Although I prefer to keep that one quiet.
There aren't many of us. To be honest, I don't know any other living demi-gods. All I have to go on are old tales and legends. None of which are particularly reliable. In most of the stories, demi-gods have a major power, but in contrast to ordinary mages, they also retain some minor powers. I really hope that's the case for me as well. I wouldn't want to go without my telekinesis. I haven't opened my curtains by hand in years.
I turn the letter in my hands. Already there are greasy spots on it. I should really get it over with. I'm used to her standard "PS. I'm afraid you won't be able to visit me this year" sentence at the end of the letter. The rest of it will be the same old: Happy birthday, let me know if you need any money, say hello to your adoptive parents. If I’m lucky, she might write a few sentences about her life – her life as a queen that is, not her personal life. I know next to nothing about my mother. The last time I saw her was five years ago, and even then, she only stayed for a day.
I sigh. There's no way around it. I slide my finger into the lash of the envelope and rip it open. The letter is folded several times and I open it apprehensively. The paper is thick and feels expensive. Guess as a queen you can afford nice stationary.
I scan the letter, skimming it for the all important words.
And there they are.
"Some of my most trusted guards will come and collect you on the evening of the 25th October. Please prepare to stay for a few weeks."
Wow. I almost want to scream in surprise and happiness.
Then I read through it again. No further information. Besides a quick 'happy birthday' at the beginning of the letter, this is all. Typical. A few weeks... I'll need to clear that with my university. I'm doing a PhD, so I don't have classes I'd have to cancel, but I have assignments to mark for some of my professors. And after the autumn break I'll have seminars to teach - and now I've got exactly one day to sort it all out. Thanks, mother. You couldn't have told me before, could you.
I carefully put the letter back into the envelope and put it in my pocket. Even though it's short and X, I don't want to lose it. It'll join its brothers and sisters in my drawer soon. First, I have to talk to my parents.
I climb down from my treehouse - yes, I'm almost 22 and I still spend time in the treehouse my dad built me when I was five - and knock on my parents' front door. We live in the same house, but the upper floor has been converted into a small flat for me. It's cheaper than renting my own place and I have privacy when I want it. Which is pretty much all the time.
My parents have always given me as much freedom as I wanted. Maybe that's because they're not my real parents, although they never made me feel like I wasn't their daughter. They would have likely done the same to their own children. As long as I followed their main rules and got good grades, I was pretty much free to do what I wanted. Which usually ended up me practicing magic in the fields a few minutes' walk from the house (after I almost set fire to the living room once this quickly became one of the unbreakable rules).
"Come in," my mum yells and I join her in the kitchen. She's making cupcakes - chocolate dough with chocolate filling and chocolate icing. Guess what my favourite food is.
I give her a kiss on the cheek. "They smell delicious." I try to steal one but she slaps my hand away.
"No cupcakes until we're all sitting down together."
"Mum, it's my birthday tomorrow."
"Exactly. Tomorrow. Now shoosh, get your father while I put the kettle on."
