Ok. Sure. Laugh it up. Me, the illiterate tart. Yes, I can barely read. No, I don't know what iambic pentameter means. But here's the dirty little secret, sweetcheeks: half those perfumed princesses with silk bookmarks in their hair? They're just as clueless.
See, the second and third daughters of kings and highlords? Those girls go off to temples. Not just for sex training—though yes, obviously, that too—but also for all that high-minded scroll junk. Letters. Numbers. "Sacred geometry." You know, stuff to make them seem clever when they're purring poetry into some prince's ear. Because they're not meant to marry. They're meant to decorate harems. Be the witty, charming, gently perfumed ornaments of the court. High-end collectibles with tits and table manners.
Now firstborn princesses? Totally different game. They're not expected to think. Just bleed. Push out a royal heir, preferably with the right shaped chin and minimal drool. That's their only job. So why waste the ink? Why bother stuffing them with knowledge when all you want is a womb with decent cheekbones and a sense of modesty?
So yeah, I never had scrolls or tutors. Just Madam's stick, and a copy of The Illustrated Guide to Whorecraft—the one with the diagrams. And no, I'm not quoting sacred poetry in seven dialects. But I can fake a love letter in three. And yes, I once mistook a laundry list for a sonnet. Still got a kiss for it.
And let's not forget, even if I'm not temple-trained, I've got hips that can recite entire chapters of scripture, if you know how to read that language.
So who's really the dumb one? The girl who faked her way into palaces? Or the princess who still thinks "metaphor" is a kind of dessert?
And yes. Between me and Loma we could probably remember half the alphabet—and that's just the capital letters. Lowercase? Forget it. Those are for scribes and suck-ups. We got by on curves and attitude. If you ever saw the two of us try to write a ransom note, you'd swear it was done by drunken toddlers with a grudge. But hey, it got the job done. Most of the time.
Look, Loma's whole education? Please. The girl's from Tanagra—like really from Tanagra. Probably never even set foot outside that big glittery fishbowl they call a citadel. I bet she thought the lower city was a myth. And since she's the eldest daughter? Oh, they had plans for her. Political marriage, big dowry, silk-wrapped virginity, all that rot. Some noble twat with a title and a neckbeard was always gonna claim her like a fancy fruit basket.
So why bother teaching her anything? Gods forbid she start thinking. No, no. Just keep her safe, soft, and obedient. Fewer ideas in that pretty little head means fewer chances she could run off, climb the walls, or gods help us, speak her mind. And honestly? In that respect? Loma excelled. She was an absolute masterpiece of delicate, clueless nobility. A porcelain doll with tits and no map.
I have no idea what went wrong. Honestly. Some kind of conspiracy? A curse? Divine prank? Like—how in sweet hell did that girl end up tossed around the continent like a ragdoll in heat? One day she's sipping rosewater in a marble courtyard, and next she's chained to a mule cart next to me, hair full of twigs, crying about chipped toenails and lost heirlooms.
I mean… she was supposed to marry some duke's cousin and spend her life naming swans and popping out inbred diplomacy babies. Not… whatever this is. I expected me to end up like this. Me? Sure. Trash burns hot and fast. But her? She was supposed to be swaddled in silk forever, not learning how to shit in the woods and stab bandits with a tent peg.