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She's a dear stranger to me, my daughter, this girl with the short brown hair and the thief who looks at her like the rest of the world is irrelevant, as though nothing could ever be more important. She showed up out of the blue, and we all thought, for one perfect, perfect moment, that our lives could twine back together, braid themselves together, like all the years she was lost never happened, as though she grew up here, with me and her father, like she should have.
And, sometimes, it DOES feel like that. I know her so well-- I see myself when I was younger, and her father, when he was younger, in her face, her eyes, her smile. The way she's so gentle with animals, the way she talks with perfect strangers. But she's an alien creature, a little girl who grew up too fast in some ways, a child who is just learning to walk, who already knows how to fly.
There are so many things she hasn't told me, parts of her life that hide, half-revealed, in cryptic messages, things half-said, code between her and her thief. For the first few weeks, she is clumsy, so very, very clumsy, in the strangest of ways. She moves oddly, sometimes, her hands reaching for things that aren't there; sometimes, I think she really could fly, before. It frustrates her, this clumsiness. There's something missing, something I can't see, something she and her thief have never fully explained. I watch him too, and I watch his expressions change, over time, as she is clumsy, as she trips over things that aren't there, and stops herself, with great effort, from climbing to the tops of things. She acts as though she should be immune to gravity, maybe, and he watches her with guilt, and sadness, and then, increasingly, a certain thoughtfulness. I raise an eyebrow at him, and the smile he gives me in response is familiar, playful, the smile of a thief, through and through. If he can make this better-- I don't know how he could, or what he thinks he can do, or even what the problem is, but if he can-- I'll forgive him all over again for everything.
His solution, produced the next morning, just after breakfast, is a long, long coil of our ship-maker's strongest, lightest rope.
He looked so proud of himself, of this rope, smiling as he presented it to my daughter with his most flashy bow, his smile lighting up the room. For the first time, I truly understood what my daughter must see in him. She looked at him, as I did, not understanding, until he handed one end to her and snapped the long end, like one would use a whip. Her eyes lit up, and she grabbed him, hugging him so, so tightly, for just a moment. And then she stared at the ends of the rope for another long moment, frowning, just a little, as though she wasn't sure-- and she tied one end around her waist as though she'd been tying rope to things all her life, and laughed, and suddenly she WAS flying, swinging up into the rafters, dancing, and with her rope, suddenly, she was sure-footed and fearless.
I understood, finally, what they'd tried to tell me about her hair.
People quickly got used to the oddity of a princess always accompanied by yards and yards of rope, a princess who would climb buildings and trees as easily as people climbed stairs, who used this rope like others might use a very, very long limb.
Her thief would inspect the rope each night, carefully, faithfully, and the expression on her face, when he first found a section that had worn thin, was so shocked, so betrayed... I wondered, as I often did, just how much I really understood about the hair she used this rope to replace. Knowing it had been impossibly long, and glowed, and healed... none of those things explained away her astonishment at the idea that rope could break, that her 'hair' could betray her in this most simple of ways.
As he left, to get replacement rope, she sat, staring at the worn section, touching, ever-so-lightly, the fraying strands. As if it were a hurt friend, an injured creature she could heal with a song and a tear.
I went to her, carefully, intentionally making noise as I walked, so she'd hear me, and when she turned her eyes to me they were full of tears.
(If I'm there, she'll turn to me, she'll talk to me, but she doesn't seek me out. Why should she? I'm as dear a stranger to her as she is to me, and she's been betrayed by a mother already. She turns to her thief, and she laughs, and she catches my eye and... stops, for a moment, as though she's not sure if she should be laughing. I smile, because what else can I do? but that look breaks my heart. What more was done to her, to my baby, than they will ever tell me? She smiles back, and maybe, maybe, someday soon, everything will be how it should have been.)
Her thief shows her how to inspect her rope, how to twist new rope, and she spends the day in town, teaching children to fly.
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She explores the castle, barefoot and nearly invisible; she ghosts through empty hallways, trails fingers over the smooth edges of long-used furniture. She finds unused rooms, sometimes, and locks herself away, away from the chaos and noise of people, our people. My people. She loves them, loves being outside in the sun with them, but she grew up in silence and she must miss it. She moves through the halls like a timid cat, maybe, exploring new territory. Quiet, not exactly hiding, nor stalking. Just.. moving slowly, silently, watching her surroundings with what could be fear. She locks the world away, hiding from everyone but her thief and her chameleon, and she paints, and cleans, and when she emerges she is happy, vibrant, alive-- and the rooms she leaves behind are, too. I think, maybe, she's working her way through the entire castle. I haven't quite dared to ask her why. But I make sure she has paints, make sure her thief has paints, to bring her, and the food he wouldn't ask me for. I bring it to him, myself, from the kitchens; I have since I caught him sneaking it away from the cooks, the first time she locked herself away. He smiles, an awkward, lopsided grin, and thanks me, every time.