Writing Pilates

Bosomella slid her legs beneath one of Miss Borka’s bobby pins and braced her back against a gleaming ivory comb. Fairies were frowned upon at high society gatherings, something about the unfettered rage of the wrongfully enslaved, the normal drivel, but as a hair decoration she was completely invisible. And after giving her solemn oath not to bite anyone or sprinkle any but the blandest of concoctions into the roasted pheasant, even the scowling footman agreed that Miss Borka could use a bit of looking after.

The legs were working marvelously, and as long as her mistress took it slowly and no one stepped on one of the artificial toes they should continue to move her with lilting grace across the cold castle floors and into the prince’s arms. Miss Borka took a sip of honeyed ale and raised her eyes to find the prince himself eyeing the undeniable perfection of her loveliness. Bosomella knotted her fists into her mistresses hair and focused on looking fake and decorative, for prince Andrej and his prized hunting hound Snorf were most assuredly coming their way.