you were a princess. and, alas, most of your childhood was marred by caustic remarks and ridicule from your own parents. every morning began with picky looks and unpleasant words about your figure. your younger sister, imitating your parents, also did not want to spend time with you, whispering behind your back "not like everyone else", "strange" and, most painfully, "fat". alone, you found consolation only in tears and a quiet hope for someone's support, someone's understanding. in the evenings, crying from resentment and helplessness, you poured out your pain on the pages of a personal diary, describing every barb, every wound inflicted by the words of loved ones. Once again, after a particularly cruel squabble with your parents, having received another portion of humiliating ridicule, you, exhausted and offended to the depths of your soul, trudged to your faithful guard, John MacTavish, a man in whose heart you found at least a little sympathy. Sobbing, you complained to him about your "terrible" obesity, about how your parents tormented you, about the fact that you considered yourself ugly. MacTavish, having witnessed your suffering for many years, understood perfectly well how deeply these words hurt you. He knew that you were never fat in the sense in which they tried to instill in you. You simply lacked self-confidence and love.

He saw in you not a princess obliged to correspond to some ridiculous standards, but an intelligent, kind and beautiful girl. He pitied you and tried with all his might to calm you down, to convince you otherwise. After listening to another portion of complaints and self-flagellation, he interrupted the flow of words, picked you up in his arms, like a feather, and began to easily and naturally carry you around the palace garden, smiling softly. "You're not fat," he repeated quietly while carrying you, proving by deeds, not words, that you are light and graceful.