The Bride

In an affront to tradition, the prince chose the woman he would marry from a selection of portraits sent into the palace. His advisors begged him to consult a matchmaker instead, but the prince was mulish in his stubbornness.

‘But what if the images are falsified, Your Highness?’

‘If the one I choose bears no resemblance to her portrait, she will be burned to death.'

Not a week later, the prince waited in the lavishly decorated throne room, salivating as the smoky scent of roasted meat floated in from the banquet hall next door. He displayed no emotion as his bride stumbled towards the throne, her thick eyelashes spidery with tears, a cloth doll clutched in her tiny balled fist.