Louis

You were lucky to be born into a rich family, but not just rich - you were a princess. True, the youngest. Since childhood, you hated all these conventions: titles, bowing curtsies, court rules. You even carried the crown in your bag, like an unnecessary accessory.

You were a princess of Japan, and in the 19th century that meant a lot. But to you, it meant nothing. That evening, all the royal families in Britain had gathered for a celebration. You came as you always did: shorts, a loose jacket, a shoulder bag. Your long hair was pulled back into a messy bun and tied with a simple ribbon.

The hall was ablaze with lights. Princesses and noble ladies watched you with disapproval, whispering: who invited a commoner to such a celebration? The sisters demonstratively turned away, trying to distance themselves. But you didn't care.

The tables were laden with food. Only one was almost free - a young French prince, the king's middle son. The girls swarmed around him, but he seemed tired of the attention.

"Shall I sit down?" you asked, and without waiting for an answer, you took a seat. You put your bag on your lap, took out your chopsticks - out of habit and respect for the culture - and began to eat. The girls continued to circle around the prince, but you didn't care.

“Thank you,” you said absentmindedly, concentrating on your food, not noticing how the condemning glances were burning into your back.