Tinkydrew - Part 7
The morning light barely filters through, casting a soft, muted glow over the pink-drenched room as Aunt Margaret claps her hands, her eyes sparkling with that relentless enthusiasm. My fairy princess dress rustles with every movement, the tulle and petticoat making me feel like I’m floating in a cloud of glitter and lace. The chastity belt, hidden beneath the voluminous skirt, presses firmly against my skin insuring I can't forget it's there. Its engravings—“Tinkydrew,” “Auntie's Sissy,” “Delicate Doll,” “Princess in Training” spring to mind alongside the sensation. My bouffant curls tickle my neck, the silver tiara weighs on my brow, and the fairy wings that sway lightly on my back also providing sensations that insure I can't forget them. I’m still reeling from my reflection in the mirror, the little girl staring back at me, when Margaret sweeps toward me, her smile wide and unyielding.
“Time for breakfast, my little Tinkydrew!” she says, her voice bright and musical, as if this is the most normal morning in the world. Before I can move, she scoops me up, her arms strong and effortless, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. I gasp, my hands clutching the sparkly wand she gave me, the Mary Janes dangling from my feet. “Oh, look at you, flying with those beautiful wings!” she exclaims, holding me aloft and twirling me gently through the air. The wings flutter behind me, the gossamer fabric catching the light, and for a moment, I’m suspended, the room spinning around me. Her laughter fills the space, bright and tinkling, but it only deepens the surreal haze I’m trapped in. I’m twelve, not a child, not a fairy, but her strength and confidence make resistance feel impossible.
She carries me down the grand staircase, the satin sash of my dress trailing behind, and into a dining room that’s as extravagant as the rest of the mansion. The table is set like a scene from a children’s storybook—a tea party for a young girl, every detail meticulously crafted. A lacy white tablecloth drapes the long table, its edges fringed with pink ribbons. Delicate porcelain teacups, saucers, and plates, all adorned with tiny rosebuds, are arranged in a perfect circle. A tiered stand holds miniature pastries—tiny scones, macarons in pastel pinks and purples, and cupcakes frosted with swirls of glittery icing. I'm not sure the food is real as it looks a little too perfect. Some of it is surely art, not food. A teapot, painted with fairy wings and flowers, sits at the center. The air smells of sugar and lavender, sweet and cloying, matching the scent still clinging to my skin from last night’s bath.
But it’s the guests that make my breath catch. Surrounding the table, propped in high-backed chairs, is a cast of dolls and stuffed animals, each dressed in frilly outfits that mirror my own. A porcelain doll with golden curls and a pink tulle dress sits to my left, her glass eyes staring blankly. A teddy bear in a lavender gown with a tiny tiara leans against a cushion to my right. Across the table, a plush unicorn wears a sparkly cape, its horn glinting under the chandelier. There’s a bunny in a ruffled apron, a kitten with a velvet bow, and a doll with pigtails and fairy wings, each one meticulously posed as if ready to join the meal. Their outfits are so detailed, so perfectly matched to mine, that my stomach twists. Obviously it's intentional but so much work. To what end?
Margaret sets me down gently in a cushioned chair at the head of the table, a cutout in the backrest perfectly accommodating the fairy wings as I settle. “There we are, Princess Tinkydrew,” she says, her voice dripping with delight. “Look at your court! They’re all so pleased to have breakfast with their princess.” She gestures to the dolls and stuffed animals, her smile wide and feverish. “This is Lady Rosabelle,” she says, pointing to the porcelain doll, “Duchess of the Rose Garden. And here’s Sir Fluffington,” she adds, nodding to the teddy bear, “Knight of the Lavender Fields. Oh, and Princess Sparklehoof!”—the unicorn—“She’s been waiting all morning to meet you.”
I stare, my mouth dry, nodding as if this makes sense. The dolls’ blank eyes seem to watch me, and for the first time I feel a bit of fear. Aunt Margaret seemed more eccentric earlier. But this, this seems to be something else. “They’re… nice,” I manage, my voice small, unsure what else to say. Margaret beams, clearly pleased, and picks up the teapot, pouring orange juice into my teacup. The liquid glints in the delicate porcelain, the cup so tiny it feels like a toy. She places it in front of me, then pours more for the “guests,” filling their cups with a flourish, as if they’ll actually drink.
“Now, Tinkydrew,” she says, sitting beside me, her eyes fixed on my hands. “Let’s have our tea like proper ladies, shall we?” I decide not to point out that the 'tea' is orange juice. I reach for the teacup, my fingers shaky, but before I can lift it, she clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Oh, no, dear, not like that. A princess sips her tea with grace.” She takes my hand, her touch gentle but firm, and re-positions my fingers, curling them around the handle. “Pinky out,” she instructs, lifting my pinky and extending it delicately. “There, much better. Try again.”
My face burns, but I obey, lifting the cup with my pinky extended, feeling ridiculous. The orange juice is sweet, tangy, and very good but the act of drinking it this way—under her watchful gaze, surrounded by dolls in frilly dresses—makes my stomach uneasy. I set the cup down, careful to keep my movements slow, feminine, as she watches. “Good girl,” she says, her voice warm but with that edge of excitement, and I flinch at the word “girl.” I want to correct her, to say I’m Andrew, not a girl, not Tinkydrew, but I'm not sure I dare contradict, overwhelmed by the weight of what she has arranged. She passes me a tiny breakfast scone, its surface dusted with sugar crystals, and I take a bite, trying to mimic her delicate movements.
“Small bites, Tinkydrew,” she says, her tone chiding but kind. “A princess doesn’t gobble her food.” I nod, chewing slowly, my eyes darting to the dolls, their outfits, the details of the room. Lady Rosabelle’s glass eyes seem to judge me, and I wonder if Margaret imagines them talking, laughing, praising their princess. Margaret keeps up a steady stream of chatter, giving each doll and stuffed animal a backstory—Sir Fluffington’s heroic deeds, Princess Sparklehoof’s magical adventures, the bunny (Miss Petalwhiskers) who rules the Meadow Court. It’s like she’s weaving a fairy tale, and I’m the centerpiece, her fairy princess Tinkydrew.
When I reach for a macaron, french toast I think, my hand slips, and I forget to extend my pinky. Margaret’s hand darts out, catching mine. “Pinky out, dear,” she says, her voice harsher now, though her smile doesn’t waver. “We mustn’t forget our manners in front of the court.” I nod, my cheeks burning, and try again, lifting the macaron with exaggerated care, my pinky sticking out awkwardly. She nods approvingly, her eyes glinting. “That’s my good princess.”
The breakfast drags on, each moment a performance I don’t know the script for. I realize I am hungry, but every sip, every bite, is corrected—my posture, the angle of my wrist, the way I hold my napkin (folded daintily in my lap, of course) and always smaller bites, delicate sips. The fairy wings shift behind me, the petticoat rustles, and the chastity belt’s metal presses hard against the chair. I nod along to Margaret’s stories, my mind numb, agreeing with her as if this all makes sense. The dolls and stuffed animals stare, their silence louder than her chatter, and I feel like I’m becoming one of them—another doll in her collection.
When I finish the last of my breakfast, a drop clings to my lip, and Margaret is quick to notice. “Oh, Tinkydrew, we can’t have that,” she says, her voice soft but insistent. She picks up a lacy napkin, leaning close, and delicately wipes my face, her movements slow and precise, like she’s polishing a prized possession. Her touch is gentle, but it lingers too long, her fingers brushing my cheeks, my chin, my lips. “There we are,” she says, smiling. “A clean princess is a happy princess.”
She’s not done. From the table, she retrieves the makeup kit she used earlier, opening it with a flourish. “Let’s touch you up, shall we?” she says, her tone bright but unyielding. I want to protest, to say I don’t need more makeup, I don't need any makeup really, but her hands are already moving, dabbing a fresh layer of foundation to smooth my skin, brushing on more pink blush to keep my cheeks rosy. She reapplies the shimmery lavender eye-shadow, her brush strokes careful, and adds another coat of mascara, making my lashes even longer, more doll-like. The glossy pink lipstick comes last, the sweet taste flooding my senses as she paints it on, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
“Perfect,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “My beautiful Tinkydrew, shining for her court.” She gestures to the dolls and stuffed animals, as if they’re nodding in approval. My reflection in a nearby silver tray catches my eye—my face is flawless but more like a porcelain doll than a human face. I can also see my curls still vibrant and bouncing, the tiara glinting. The choker’s “Tinkydrew” pendant gleams at my throat, and I feel the weight, its engravings branding me.
I nod, my voice gone, overwhelmed by the tea party, the dolls, her relentless care. The breakfast is over, but I know this is just the beginning. For the first time I shake out of my reverie. Up until now, I've just let myself be dragged along. But now, after seeing this, I'm convinced there's something not quite right. I should do something. I just have no idea what.
Topic: Tinkydrew (Read 1259 times)
