age," she’d mutter, "that he needs a woman in his life. A guiding hand, a firm voice, a source of reason." So, she sent off missives to her friends, begging for the hand of their daughters, their cousins, or any old dowager—any woman who would marry a rich prince with a dastardly reputation.
You've likely guessed, however, that none were willing to send their beautiful daughters to the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale. Ugly aunts, decrepit grandmothers, and wily second cousins were offered, but even the Queen of Copperkettle Vale could not agree to an engagement to the likes of the Old Crone of Wicked Willow Highlands, no matter the size of dowry or outrageous promises of the crone's insatiable, exhausting debauchery. And she was not even the poorest match; the list grew worse with each new name added. "My boy might be ugly," the Queen said, a vein pulsing on her powdered brow. "He might be facetious and have a glint in his eye that would curl the chest hair on an ogre, but he is hardly a match for Baroness Heifersqueel. And, lo! The cost to keep her fed. As if one fat child is not enough!"
Still, she grew ever more desperate and eventually invited each woman to the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale. She dined them and pampered them; dressed them in pretty clothes and caked them in makeup. But it was all for naught.
"Mother, I've no time for simple women. There's a village to tax, a boar to catch, or a painting to snatch. Women can wait," the Prince of Copperkettle Vale said. And each aunt, cousin, daughter, or grandmother was sent home in turn—rejected and resigned.
And so, the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale continued to despair. The king grew no younger, and one day he would pass on and the Kingdom would fall under the rule of his slovenly son. Would even the firm hand of a strict wife be enough to save them from the prince's folly?
Whatever would they do?
One of the princesses who did not answer the Queen's call was the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak, just three kingdoms down from Copperkettle Vale. As you might fathom, being a princess, she is at the heart of this story—for what is a prince without a damsel in distress?
This princess, of course, was lovely as any in the land, pretty as a sun-kissed field on an early summer morning. Hair black and shiny as the wing of a raven. Eyes golden like honey. Skin the colour of coffee with but a hint of cream.
For the sake of this story, one must know that the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak had a particular penchant for the flowering bud of Grass of Parnassus. Of course, no ordinary flower, be it daisy or zinnia, would catch her eye, not one grown in a flowerbed or found along the banks of a river. No, Parnassus grew only on the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom.
"Dainty as a princess and beautiful as me!" was all she would say when her retainers and maids, men-at-arms, and dungeon-keepers asked her why she so loved the solitary white flower. As anyone who's met one knows, a princess likes what she likes and is quick to anger when her tastes are questioned. Try as they might, they could never change her mind.
Roses were rejected like rotten rutabagas. Daffodils were destroyed with dreadful delight. Pansies were piled on pyres and lit aflame. Hibiscus were hidden in hoary handbags. Chrysanthemums were cast into cauldrons and cooked on campfires. Snowdrops were stomped. Snapdragons were scorched. Petunias were pulverized.
Parnassus was it; no other would do.
So, once a month, the day after a full moon (always!), the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak would gather together her mightiest and most handsome knights (for what proper lady would travel without her share of strong arms and easy smiles?) and embark on a journey to climb the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom. Our dear Princess was no princess, though. She would walk alongside the knights, refusing to be carried in a palanquin, ride sidesaddle on a donkey,
You've likely guessed, however, that none were willing to send their beautiful daughters to the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale. Ugly aunts, decrepit grandmothers, and wily second cousins were offered, but even the Queen of Copperkettle Vale could not agree to an engagement to the likes of the Old Crone of Wicked Willow Highlands, no matter the size of dowry or outrageous promises of the crone's insatiable, exhausting debauchery. And she was not even the poorest match; the list grew worse with each new name added. "My boy might be ugly," the Queen said, a vein pulsing on her powdered brow. "He might be facetious and have a glint in his eye that would curl the chest hair on an ogre, but he is hardly a match for Baroness Heifersqueel. And, lo! The cost to keep her fed. As if one fat child is not enough!"
Still, she grew ever more desperate and eventually invited each woman to the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale. She dined them and pampered them; dressed them in pretty clothes and caked them in makeup. But it was all for naught.
"Mother, I've no time for simple women. There's a village to tax, a boar to catch, or a painting to snatch. Women can wait," the Prince of Copperkettle Vale said. And each aunt, cousin, daughter, or grandmother was sent home in turn—rejected and resigned.
And so, the Kingdom of Copperkettle Vale continued to despair. The king grew no younger, and one day he would pass on and the Kingdom would fall under the rule of his slovenly son. Would even the firm hand of a strict wife be enough to save them from the prince's folly?
Whatever would they do?
One of the princesses who did not answer the Queen's call was the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak, just three kingdoms down from Copperkettle Vale. As you might fathom, being a princess, she is at the heart of this story—for what is a prince without a damsel in distress?
This princess, of course, was lovely as any in the land, pretty as a sun-kissed field on an early summer morning. Hair black and shiny as the wing of a raven. Eyes golden like honey. Skin the colour of coffee with but a hint of cream.
For the sake of this story, one must know that the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak had a particular penchant for the flowering bud of Grass of Parnassus. Of course, no ordinary flower, be it daisy or zinnia, would catch her eye, not one grown in a flowerbed or found along the banks of a river. No, Parnassus grew only on the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom.
"Dainty as a princess and beautiful as me!" was all she would say when her retainers and maids, men-at-arms, and dungeon-keepers asked her why she so loved the solitary white flower. As anyone who's met one knows, a princess likes what she likes and is quick to anger when her tastes are questioned. Try as they might, they could never change her mind.
Roses were rejected like rotten rutabagas. Daffodils were destroyed with dreadful delight. Pansies were piled on pyres and lit aflame. Hibiscus were hidden in hoary handbags. Chrysanthemums were cast into cauldrons and cooked on campfires. Snowdrops were stomped. Snapdragons were scorched. Petunias were pulverized.
Parnassus was it; no other would do.
So, once a month, the day after a full moon (always!), the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak would gather together her mightiest and most handsome knights (for what proper lady would travel without her share of strong arms and easy smiles?) and embark on a journey to climb the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom. Our dear Princess was no princess, though. She would walk alongside the knights, refusing to be carried in a palanquin, ride sidesaddle on a donkey,
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