You’ve yet to muster the strength to open both eyes properly, leaving Ada to be met with the sight of her princess squinting through the mirror’s reflection.

She stands behind you, back straighter than yours has ever been despite your etiquette lessons, and brushes your hair one section at a time.

Ada isn’t one for soft and sweet, makes it known that vigor tastes better on her tongue than languor does.

Yet, with breakfast in twenty, she doesn’t express urgency. She continues to brush and brush, listening to her highness yawn and whine and sniffle.