I Quit My Perfect New York Life And Accidentally Became A Queen In France

My older sister lived on a steady diet of Sex and the City and Gossip Girl. I’d peek out from under my blanket to watch with her, pretending to be asleep. She wanted to be Samantha. I always saw myself as a Charlotte. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.

A few years ago, I moved to Manhattan and started working 80 hours a week at a top consulting firm. The kind of job your parents brag about at dinner parties because it sounds impressive, even if they have no clue what you actually do. But it was part of my plan. I’m a planner. Princeton. Economics, because of course. And French to help me stand out on paper and because, well… what guy doesn’t love a girl who’s good with French? After three years on the grind, I’d get promoted, marry the handsome finance guy who loves my French, my personality, and my perfectly maintained Pilates body, and we’d move into a brownstone on the Upper West Side. Weekends in the Hamptons. Summers in Switzerland. Eventually, two kids. A boy and a girl.

The only thing is, three years was two years ago. 

But hey. Life can turn on a dime. My moment’s coming. I can feel it.

Except today. Today I feel off. No 6am run. I linger in the shower. Serum. Mascara. Pony tail. I have to look serious enough to be taken seriously, and sexy enough to not be invisible. Pills for anxiety. Probiotics for gut health. Time to go.

It’s not a bad commute. I throw on my Carels, pop in my headphones, and take the 6 uptown. I see the same people every morning and it strikes me that I’ve never exchanged a word with any of them. We’ve ridden this train together for three years and don’t know a single name. Is that a New York thing or a Gen Z thing? I can’t tell anymore. Sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong generation. Cliché, but real.

There’s a guy trying to sell CDs. He might be homeless. He might be a marketing major. Who knows. The regulars look unfazed. I pull out my phone and scroll Instagram. “Dakota Johnson says she needs 14 hours of sleep a night to function.” If only. Whoever invented the 9-to-5 should get death by firing squad. Just kidding. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

I open Hinge before the emails start to flood in. The guy who took me to Nathan’s messages again. As if. Who takes a girl to a hot dog stand on a first date? Wait — did Bridget’s ex just swipe right on me? What is wrong with the men in this city?

I close the app and sigh just in time to see 51st Street blur past the window. The doors close. Shoot. I can’t believe I missed it. Today of all days. Lauren’s going to kill me.

I sprint up the stairs and glance toward Blue Bottle. Sorry, Lauren. Unless you want me to murder someone, I need my coffee. My barista’s there. “Hey Gwen! Usual?” She hands me a New Orleans cold brew with sugar-free vanilla like we’re in a Nancy Meyers film. Thank God.

I grab it and book it to the office. Our office is on the 67th floor. All glass, money and golden elevators. Sounds glamorous, and kind of is, if you ignore the psychological warfare. 

I take a sip as I text with my other hand just as the man in front of me lets the door slam in my face. Chivalry is dead and buried, and I’m pretty sure my lip is bleeding.

The elevator opens. Lauren’s already annoyed. “Did you get mugged or something?” She rolls her eyes. Oh. Right. My face. Great.

Lauren’s in her early 50s, corporate queen-bitch chic. Divorced. Rumor has it her ex got a payout and the French bulldog. She’s terrifying and brilliant and only smiles for clients. I wonder… is this where I’m headed?

“I went on literally the worst date ever yesterday,” Samantha says as I slide into my chair. She’s 34, jet black hair. The kind of Millennial who grew up on Tuck Everlasting and once made out with a DJ at 1Oak. You know the type. I envy her. She partied before front-facing cameras were a thing. I swear she goes on a date every night. “So, what was it this time?” I ask.

“He took me to Lucien’s which is honestly kind of expected but the first thing he asks is ‘what do you bring to the table?’ Like what the fuck? And I’m like, do you listen to Andrew Tate? And he’s like yeah. So I’m like, great… another manosphere freak.”

I laugh. I’ve never even been asked out to a proper dinner. Samantha insists it’s because I’m “so beautiful I’m not approachable.” My mom says the same thing. I file it under hot girl cope and keep it moving.

“So, what do you bring to the table?” I ask her, half-teasing. Samantha spins around, theatrically pondering it. “I can literally tell someone’s sun rising just by looking at them.”

I force a smile. Then she pauses. Blinks. And notices me for the first time. “Gwen! You’re bleeding everywhere!”

Shit.

I run to the bathroom. I can feel the stares. Corporate floors always have the energy of high school cafeterias. I look at my reflection. Lip split. Is anyone here even real? And if Samantha can’t find love, what chance do I have? Plenty of guys want to sleep with me. I’ve been told that I have, and I quote, "voluptuous lips and amazing tits." Shakespeare could never. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the genetics. I stay fit, eat like a Victorian orphan, and in return, I get just enough attention to be let down every single time. Dinner? Forget it. It’s always drinks. And after two, I get weak. If you know what I mean. 

Clear Blue, Gray Skies

I’m supposed to meet Brock for drinks later. We have great sex. Terrible everything else. Lately, he’s been dodging any plan that involves me putting on a nice dress. But I’m also avoiding him. Tiny little potentially massive issue… I’m contending with my period being 10 days late and the possibility of Brock junior growing inside of me. 

I take my lunch break at a nearby CVS deliberating between Clear Blue and First Response. A couple approaches and I avoid eye contact. They’re anxious, too, but theirs is the kind laced with hope. I steal a glance at the dainty ring on her left hand. “Let’s just get the most expensive one,” her husband says. Not a bad idea, sir. I grab the same test and head for the self check-out. I’m not about to have non-verbal dialogue with the cashier. The couple is ahead of me, his arm around her as they speak quietly. People say when you meet the man of your dreams, you immediately want to have his babies. I don’t know if that’s true. All I know is I’m not ready to be a mom. 

I hurry back to the office. If I am pregnant, I refuse to find out in the shitty restroom of a convenience store like some irresponsible teenager in a Sundance film that critics call heart-warming and brave. 

I stare at the screen of the Clear Blue stick in my hand. After an eternity, “Not Pregnant” mercifully appears. I almost cry, then I remember to breathe. I compose myself and exit the stall. Before I can reach the sink, a searing pain rips through my pelvis. Suddenly I’m gasping on the marble floor. No, no, no. What’s happening? 

“Well, the good news is that you’re definitely not pregnant.” I was at the gynecologist on a Tuesday at 11am for what was supposed to be an hour appointment. I was 2 hours in and terribly late for work. “Okay. That’s good. So what’s the bad news?” I wasn’t expecting the next words that came out of her mouth. 

A Would-Be Father

At Madison Square Park, Brock is seated beside me on the bench but I can't get the words out. “You’re starting to freak me out, Gwen.” His eyes are hidden by his Persols. His voice is desperate. He’s thirty seconds into a hushed lecture about how stupid it was for me to get off birth control before I sideline his assumptions. “I’m not pregnant, Brock.” You would have thought he just won the powerball. “Come on, smile!” He grabs me and hugs me. “You should be thrilled. Now we don’t have to deal with getting an abortion.” We? He slowly pulls back, finally realizing I’m not reciprocating. “It’s actually the opposite… I can’t get pregnant. I’m infertile.” 

The second I said those words, I felt something break inside me. My eyes start to water. “Hey, at least it’s not cancer. You know?” There’s no way he actually just said that. “I just mean that you’re not, you know, dying! You’re young, you’re hot, enjoy this time while you have it! I’m sure you can freeze your eggs until they figure that shit out with AI. Also, optimistic take... Now you don’t have to worry about accidents.” 

Crying in public sucks. I wipe my face as my phone dings obnoxiously and stand to leave. “Aw come on,” He reaches for me. “I'm just trying to be positive. Let me make it up to you. Let's go out tonight. You can wear a nice dress. We’ll eat good food. Have some drinks. Get a room at the Aman. I’ll make you forget you were ever sad."  

He doesn’t know it now, but this is the last time he’ll ever see me. “Goodbye, Brock.” 

Back at the office, I hurry down the hallway toward the conference room, bump a passing colleague, stumble over my apology. Through the glass wall I can see the table. Empty. I missed it.

Her assistant tells me Lauren is waiting. I should be building a defense during the thirty steps to her door. The French clients are my responsibility. Clients like them are the reason I'm here, as I’m so often reminded. But instead of chambering my verbal ammunition, I’m staring into space as I rethink my life.

Somewhere in the background, Lauren is chewing me out. Disappearing in the middle of a client day?

I try to explain, but she’s not interested. It’s not enough that I’ve never missed a deadline or day of work in two years. She wants to punish me. But you can only get hit so many times in a day before everything starts to go numb.

And then it happens. Suddenly. Without warning. Somewhere between her feigned sympathy and telling me she can’t give me “special treatment,” clarity strikes.

"I think I need to quit."

Silence. A blink. "Excuse me?"

“I... I'm quitting. Sorry. Um, thank you for... Thanks." I stand, smooth my skirt, and walk out.

I don’t remember the next few hours. My body moves. My life peels off like a sticker that was never pressed down properly. That night I do what any self-respecting young woman does in this city: I put on the ugliest clothes I own and go to a bar.

Cassy’s the kind of friend you need in a place like New York: Reliable, empathetic, and not mean despite being depressingly jaded. I’m three Cosmos deep with no plans to stop. Eventually, the liquor decides and forces its way out onto the street. I haven’t puked since college. It’s worse than I remember. 

“It hurts” is all I can mumble on the taxi ride home, my head resting on Cassie’s shoulder. I’m tired. My body’s tired. My brain’s tired. My soul’s tired. What’s left of it, anyway. 

Saturday, Smut, and The Old Man

The morning is gray, wet, and mean. The kind of rain that hovers instead of falls. My apartment feels like a coffin, and my phone a portal to nowhere I want to be. So I go to the one place where people don’t expect you to talk: a bookstore.

Not the curated kind with rose lattes and branded bookmarks. This one smells like cardboard and attic wood. The floors squeak and the stacks lean on each other for support. Exactly what I need.

The girl at the counter has pink hair and rings on every finger. She looks like she’d been dumped recently and decided to turn it into a personal brand.

“Romance?” she asks, eyes lighting up. “Say less.”

She starts building a stack. Credence — “super taboo, you’ll be horrified and turned on.” Praise — “Daddy dom, but wholesome.” Ice Planet Barbarians — “gateway drug, blue alien, accidental mating, iconic.” She looks so proud, like she’s handing me a care package for the end of the world.

I thank her, find a chair, and crack open the first one. Ten pages. Switch. Another ten. Switch. I don’t know if it was the writing or my mood, but they felt like chewing bubblegum in the middle of a panic attack. Sweet, but wrong.

I abandon the stack and wander deeper. No signage. The air changes here.

Then I see it... Tristan and Isolde. Leatherbound, faded gold lettering. The cover shows two lovers on the deck of a ship, his hand at her back as she faces the sea. I pull it down and sink into a green velvet chair by the rain-streaked window. The world drops away as the pages consume me.

Medieval heartbreak hits different. Love is so big, so catastrophic, it threatens kingdoms. A knight and a princess. A love potion. A doomed affair. It's strange and sharp and beautiful.

I forget about Brock. I forget I don't have a job. I forget about the time.

When I finally blink, the light has changed. My legs are stiff. My mouth is dry. And my face is wet.

“Miss?”

I look up.

He’s maybe in his eighties, in a wool coat and perfectly pressed slacks. He looks like the Oxford Dictionary's definition of a gentleman. He holds out a white handkerchief like it's second nature.

“A good book will do that,” he says, gently.

I take it. Clean, starched, warm from his pocket.

“What are you reading?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

The Scarlet Pimpernel, for his wife, he says. She’s in a care home now. Dementia. He reads to her every Sunday.

I swallow hard. “Does she remember you?”

“Some days. Others, she just listens. She smiles at the parts she used to love.”

We sit there in the silence that only exists between two strangers who understand pain.

“How did you meet?” Something in me knew he had a better story than half the books in this place.

“In the South of France. She spilled wine on me. I was wearing white so of course she was mortified. I told her I’d forgive her if she let me write her a letter. One a week. For a year. And I did.”

“Did she write back?”

“Every time,” he said. “She made me want to become the man she believed I already was.”

I literally can't imagine. “Men like you don't exist anymore.” I surrender the book back to its resting place. 

“You know,” he shakes his head, “I look around and wonder when men stopped fighting for things worth loving.”

“Tell me about it,” I sigh. 

“Well, don’t get me started on the women," he says dryly as he struggles to stand. I rise to help him. “Please? I’d really like to hear it,” I plead. 

“You don’t look like you need a lecture. Not today.” He doesn't wink, but I feel like he saw right through me. “There’s still beauty in the world. You just have to go where it hasn’t been bulldozed yet.” Then he tips his hat and walks out, cane tapping softly against the floor. 

I walk in the rain until it's dark. My apartment feels lonelier than usual.  I order Chinese and drink the old bottle of wine that's been sitting in my fridge for a month. Something's gotta change. Starting with my phone. I delete Hinge. That feels good. LinkedIn is next. Ha, easy. Come on, Gwen, you can do better than that. I hover over Instagram with a pause. A brief tremble. Gone. 

A slight panic. Then silence. The nagging voice in my head goes quiet. I fall back on my bed and breathe. Only one thought remains. 

The South of France

It’s kind of awesome to just disappear. You soon realize no one really thinks about you that much. The world continues to go round. That thought would have made me feel sad and insignificant a short while ago. But now it feels freeing. 

The first time I felt something shift was halfway across the world in front of a shop window.

I didn’t know what day it was. I just remember looking painfully American in my leggings, a wrinkled T-shirt, and chunky sneakers.

And then I saw it.

The dress was displayed in the center window. Cream with soft blue embroidery at the hem, fitted at the waist with delicate sleeves. It wasn't the kind I had ever worn. Why would I? My closet back home was full of structured lines and lots and lots of black.

The first time I felt something shift was halfway across the world in front of a shop window.

The shopkeeper came to the door. When I answered in French, she lit up in surprise. She was going on about my face (good), my clothes (bad), determined to keep me hostage until I tried on the dress. 

The shop was small with a narrow fitting room. The fabric felt light on my skin. I had forgotten what dresses feel like, and I was scared to face my reflection. It had been a minute since I had felt pretty. Magic mirror on the wall, please be kind.

The shopkeeper gasped. Compliments in french just sound better. Who was this girl in the beautiful dress? I liked her. Was this power I was feeling? Vulnerability? Both? Maybe the tradwives are onto something. Next up, replacing these “terrible shoes.” 

When I stepped out in my new look, the air felt different. Were those Cherubs singing? I slipped on my sunglasses. A man passed me on the sidewalk, then turned back for another look. I didn’t stop. But I smiled. 

The Girl on the Train 

The train is rattling through the countryside, rolling by in soft shades of gold and green. I'm sitting alone by a window reading Tristan and Isolde. Freshly showered, wearing the dress, but this time with the cutest pair of ballet flats. Is this what main character energy feels like? I could get used to this.

I look up to take it all in for the tenth time, and that’s when I see her. An adorable little face with big eyes and messy curls, peeking out from a seat a few rows ahead of me. The second our eyes met, she ducks. I hear whispers in French. Her tiny voice and the soft, deep voice of a man beside her. Her face slowly appears again, and I smile. She steps out into the aisle and walks toward me, timidly but with determination. “Est-ce que tu vas être la princesse?”

Her French is slow and careful. I blink. “La princesse?” She points to my dress. “À Puy du Fou. C’est toi, non?” Before I can answer, her dad steps up beside her. Mid-thirties, relaxed posture, handsome in that classic Aristocratic way. It could be his linen suit, but it very well could be his jawline. “I’m sorry,” he says, gently. “The dress… She thinks you’re a princess from Puy du Fou.” Am I blushing? Control yourself, Gwen.

“Aww, that’s very sweet. What’s Puy du Fou?” It takes me a moment to realize she doesn't think I'm an actual princess. She thinks I'm an actress. At a theme park. A medieval theme park. Does this look like a costume?! Suddenly I feel self conscious. “Please, no.” He assures me. “The dress is very lovely,” he says in French, almost shyly. I smile. He smiles. No. Stop. He’s probably married. This is his child. You’re here to find yourself, remember? Not fall for the handsome man on the train with the cute little girl. “The park… people come from all over. Second only to Disneyland Paris. Except there are no rides.” 

“So like, a fair?” The train starts to slow down as we approach a station. “Not quite,” he chuckles. “You have to see for yourself. It’s Collet’s favorite place on earth.” Before I can say anything he says goodbye and leads Collet away. I watch them get off the train from my window, then look back at the book in my hands. I swear it spoke to me. Get off the train.

The Portal to Another Dimension

I couldn't believe my eyes. I had been to Medieval Times years ago in California. Puy du Fou isn't that. It's another world, stretching for miles, spanning hundreds of acres of villages, castles, and people from another time; every site and sound and smell pulling me deeper into a Pinterest-beautiful fantasy.

Trumpets fill the air and I'm swept along with the crowds into an arena of stone, dust, and fluttering flags. The pounding of hooves and suddenly a performance springs to life. There's fire and music and clashing of steel.

Suddenly, I realized how long it's been since I've eaten.

I venture into the village streets until I'm holding freshly baked sourdough straight from a wood-burning hearth. You can't get fat in Europe, I tell myself as I scarf down the most delicious bread, butter, and cheese I've ever tasted.

Why do I get the feeling I'm being watched?

Someone's giggling. OMG. Don't make eye contact. Suddenly, they're beside me. Two young women in rustic dresses, one in soft green, the other in deep red with raven black hair. Both psychotically pretty.

The girl in red takes my hand. “Hello! I’m Sabine. You come with us, now. They want to see you!” 

"Sorry, what?" My mouth's full, and I'm halfway through a swallow when she pulls me along.

I'm rushing after their colored skirts as they duck into narrow passages between the stone walls covered in vines. "Where are we going?" I shout, totally lost in the labyrinth. "Hurry! We're late!" Sabine shouts back.

This part of the village is quiet. No crowds. Just people going about as if it's a day in the life of the 13th century. I'm the only who isn't in character. I catch my breath as the girls slip through a pair of heavy oak doors. It looks like an old playhouse.

The Audition

The door creaks softly behind me as it shuts. I'm in a rustic theater with a stage. Nothing modern in sight. A couple dozen people are scattered about, reading from dog-eared scripts while others warm up their voices. I spot Sabine on the other side, giggling with her friend.

I try to make my way over unnoticed but a large woman in modern clothes steps in front of me. “Tu es ici pour auditionner pour Gwenevere?”

Gwenevere? No one’s called me that in years. “I’m sorry, how do you know my name?" 

“You’re here to audition, no? You speak French?” 

“No… I mean yes, I speak French…” 

Moments later, I'm standing on the stage in a shaft of sunlight coming from a window high above. Heart pounding, hands clammy. Total panic mode. What am I doing? 

“Please, begin,” the voice says. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not an actress. I’m... I was... a management consultant.”

"What is that?” The gruff voice demands from a chair below. “That sounds fake.” That makes me laugh. It's been a minute since I've laughed. Now it's weird, and everyone's watching me.

“It does, doesn’t it?” I admit. “I guess you could say I act for a living then.” 

“An actress who does not prepare! Please, a scene!”  But I had none. 

PSSST! I turn. Sabine is watching me from the wing. “Recite a poem! Anything from memory.” She smiles with encouragement.

Then I remember. The book. The passage. I had read it over and over on the train. I swallow hard and close my eyes. 

“We have been cast out,
banished to the edges of the world.
And yet here, in this wild place,
I have never known such peace.

No court to watch us,
no law to bind us,
no voices but yours and mine.

The world will come for us soon enough.
It will dress in armor,
and march with all its rules and reasons.

But here, now,
we belong to no one but ourselves.

And I swear to you,
as long as I draw breath,
I will guard this —
this space where you are mine,
and I am yours,
and nothing else exists.” 

Clapping brings me back to the room. I open my eyes and remember where I am. My heart's beating. My job, my life, the jerk who shall not be named… It all came flooding back.

The sunlight hits me hard outside. A blacksmith clanks iron across the way. My hands are shaking.

Am I excited or anxious? I can't tell, so I start walking, my mind racing like a hamster wheel. I slip behind a stone chapel into a flower garden. Flowers always make me feel calm. I take a deep breath and sink onto a stone bench.

“See?” says a little voice.

I turn.

Colette, the little girl from the train, is standing nearby among the roses staring at me.

“I knew you were from here.”

She skips over and sits beside me like we’ve agreed on it, beaming like she’s been proven right by the universe.

Before I can answer, Sabine finds me. “There you are! You need to come, you’re wanted in the king’s chamber.” I blinked. “I’m what?” 

Face to Face with the Creator 

I'm walking down the halls of a literal castle. Colette's little hand clutching mine. Sabine stops up ahead at a tall wooden door, carved with an old crest: a lion, rose, and flame. She knocks once and opens, waving me through.

I cross the burgundy rug toward the massive oak desk beneath a mullioned window, its surface covered in papers, wax seals, and a single candle still burning in the daylight.

A grandfatherly man sits behind it in gray wool suit. No crown, that's surprising.

“I saw you in the crowds.” He finishes writing something with a fountain pen. “On one of my earlier strolls. I like to observe who comes through here, you see. You. You were captivating. 'The girl with the golden hair,' I said to myself. A little bird told me I would find our queen today. She was right.”

I didn’t understand.

“Our main production. Gwenevere and Lancelot, is the biggest of the season. Love. Betrayal. Death. She’s a complicated one, you know,” he went on. “People always think she’s the damsel, or the adulteress, or the crown. But she was the heart of it. The thing that couldn’t be contained. The thing that broke everything open. A legendary beauty.”

He picks up a cloth-bound script and hands it to me.

The title reads: Gwenevere. 

“At the end of the day, love’s really all that’s left, isn’t it? That’s all this is. I built it for my beloved. She loved to read. She wanted to live in a world that still made room for beauty and sorrow and myth.” He smiled, remembering. “She never did see the final result. But I finished it. I finished it. Now, over two million people visit Puy du Fou each year. Two thousand cast members living and working… creating magic.”

“You created all this for her?” I ask. Before I can say more, the door flies open and in runs Collette, curls bouncing. “Grand-père!” she runs to embrace him. “I told you,” she says, running up to me like we’ve known each other for years. “You are a princess.”

“No, ma chérie,” says the old man. “She is a queen. If she’ll accept the crown. Go on then, fetch me the sword…” He gestures to Colette, who runs excitedly to a case near the wall. She removes a beautiful sword–nearly as tall as her–and carefully brings it to her grandfather. 

The old man takes the sword and with a sense of ceremony, stands tall before me. 

“As the keeper of this realm, I, Philippe Louis de Puy du Fou, offer you, fair maiden, the role of Gwenevere. Should you accept, this castle will become your home. This land will become your world. You shall be paid a just and noble wage. You shall be fed. You shall be clothed. And you will devote yourself to the story and this stage. For we are not here to entertain only — we are here to grant passage. To lift our visitors from the noise and the clamor of the present, and deliver them to a place where beauty still reigns, where courage still matters, and where love can still change the fate of kingdoms. This is the oath of our court. What say you?” 

The old me would have laughed at this ceremonial display. But I suddenly found myself nodding, helplessly captivated.  

Leave the World Behind

I watch the wind ripple across the hills from high up on the castle rampart. The village and park glowing with firelight below. I’d kill for a cigarette right now. 

“Are you disappointed?” I turn to see him, Colette’s hot young dad from the train. “No It’s a small world after all?” He smiles playfully and joins me. 

“You were right. You have to see it for yourself. Part of me thinks I’m really still back on the train, that I’ll soon wake up if someone pinches me.” He gives my arm a light pinch. “Clever,” I admit. 

Adrian is his name. When we shake hands they linger a moment longer than expected. His eyes are a stormy gray. He's sturdy but soft spoken. How is this real? A week ago I was in New York riding the subway. Now I’m on top of a castle in Europe next to French Jude Law. 

But who am I kidding? I’m not an actress. “I’m just an American girl having a third-life crisis,” I confess. “I left my whole world behind a week ago, and I have no idea what I’m going to do once I leave this place… this unreal, beautiful place that is unfairly appealing to all my childhood fantasies. I don’t want to let your father down, but I know he can find someone better.” 

Adrian takes out a cigarette and lights up. “Only a woman who doesn’t believe in fate could ever deny it so plainly when it is staring them in the face.” He says it so matter of factly, as if he's acknowledging the existence of God. 

The Women’s Wing

I'm walking through what feels like a medieval college dorm. Gorgeous girls in half-laced gowns move about in the flickering candlelight. Sabine leads me, greeting everyone as we pass.

“We live well here,” she says over her shoulder. “You’ll love it, you will see. Beauty care every week — facials, massages, hair treatments. All the makeup and perfume you could want. And of course, the wardrobe is generous.”

She pushes open an ornate door to reveal a cross between a salon and a medieval bathhouse. "Rosewater and orange blossom," she says as if she can read my mind. Steam rises from the sunken baths. Women lounge everywhere like nymphs — soaking in the water, perched on stools getting their hair braided, painting each other’s nails while gossiping in low voices.

“This is our beauty room,” Sabine says. “You’ll spend a lot of time here. We all do. Baths before every banquet, hair done before every performance.”

She leads me down another corridor. “And this,” she says, opening another door, “is yours.”

A canopied bed. Hanging tapestries. Vases full of fresh flowers. A little writing desk tucked under a stained-glass window overlooking the hills. A fur rug lies before a fireplace.

Shut up.

Sabine steps behind me and drapes something over my arm. A white nightgown, soft as clouds.

“Here,” she says, eyes glinting. “Put this on. We’re taking you somewhere special.”

The Initiation

A knock at the door. I open it to find Sabine and two other girls barefoot in matching nightgowns, each holding a lantern. “Ready?”

“For what?" I ask, "am I about to be sacrificed?" They laugh mischievously.

Moments later we're in the courtyard where four horses stand under the moonlight, steam curling from their nostrils. The girls mount with practiced ease. Sabine leans down, takes my hand, and pulls me up behind her.

We ride swiftly across the grassy meadow, the wind cold on my face, my bare feet brushing the horse’s flanks. Every turn makes me giddy and I squeal uncontrollably.

The hills give way to silver light, and suddenly there's a lake below us, still and gleaming in the dark.

Before the horses have even stopped moving, the girls are on the ground, dropping their nightgowns in the grass and running barefoot into the water with a splash. Their laughter carries across the hills.

I hesitate for all of two seconds before stripping down to my birthday suit and jumping in.

The water is cold and dark, I can't help but shriek. As my breathing calms and I begin floating on my back in the moonlight, they begin to swim around me like swans in a circle.

“Soon, you will be our queen!” Shouts Sabine in her joyful tone. “Our Queen!” The rest shout.

“But for now, we are sisters.”

“Sisters!”

There's an indescribable beauty these women possess. It isn't skin deep. It's not the kind I ever really found back home. Not in New York, anyway. Was this the elusive female joy?

“You are one of us, now,” says Sabine. “Let’s go… it’s time to feast.” 

At the castle, we slide off the horses, our nightgowns sticking to our skin, hair dripping down our backs. A stable hand gathers the reins.

“Merci, Jacques!” Sabine says, kissing his cheek.

“One of these days you’re going to get me in trouble!” He loves it.

Sabine curtsies, eyes flashing. We run up the stairs, leaving a trail of pond water behind us.

Back in the women’s wing, we're in the baths within seconds. Countless candles light the space, casting a golden glow. The heat stings at first, then it relaxes me. One of the girls sings softly as she bathes. 

“Everyone’s talking about your little chance meeting on the train with Adrien,” another says, sliding into the bath beside me.

“Are they?” I play it off calmly. 

“His wife died four years ago. She was beautiful. Blonde. Like you, Gwen.”

Widowed. Of course. “Oh,” I say quietly. “That’s sad.”

Another smirks over the rim of her wine goblet. “Sad, yes. But you should know... around here, it’s every girl’s dream to fall in love with him. Short of marrying actual royalty, he’s the closest thing to a prince. Some day all of this will be his.” 

A chambermaid enters with a stack of fresh towels and tells us the banquet has started.

Moments later I'm standing in front of a gilded mirror as the girls lace the corset of a milkmaid dress. Scooped neckline, short puffed sleeves, a flowy skirt that brushed my ankles. The bodice cinches my waist and lifts my bust.

They fuss with my hair, letting it fall loose in waves and tie a thin ribbon around my neck. A touch of blush. A glossy lip. They stepped back to revel in their work.

Sabine looks over my shoulder from behind me. “Magnifique.” She studies my face. “Allow yourself to be feminine, oui? Leave the jacket and trousers in America.” 

 A Feast For A Queen

I step into a sea of people all wearing "medieval casual." Fireplaces roar and chandeliers overhead illuminate rows of dining tables overflowing with food and wine. I need wine. I feel like everyone's staring.

A band is going hard with instruments I don't recognize, but people are into it.

“She’s here!” someone yells. The redhead from the audition, cute with freckles and a sharp grin, grabs my hand and pulls me to a table. “You made it. Here, have some wine.” A goblet is thrust into my hand.

Plates of duck, roast chicken, figs, and brie pass back and forth. I barely manage a bite before Sabine grabs me and begins a blur of introductions.

“Ok, that’s Marc… payroll and contracts. The reason half of us still have jobs.” Marc raises his glass. “Don’t piss me off.”

“Juliette… head of costumes. Be nice to her and she’ll always make sure you look like a goddess.”  Juliette smiles warmly, giving my outfit a once over.

“Étienne… music director, tyrant, genius. Once reorchestrated an entire battle sequence overnight because the tempo was wrong.” Étienne doesn't look up from his plate. “The tempo was wrong.”

“Victor… pyrotechnics and effects. Be careful with him!” 

She points across the way. "Antoine, stage combat director..."

There's no way I'll remember them all.

“EVERYONE!” A booming voice echoes through the hall. "Meet the newest member of our family, her majesty… Queen Gwenevere!” 

I can feel my face go white as all eyes turn to me and the hall roars with claps and shouts.

"Sabine? I think I'll take that wine now." She laughs as she takes my arm and leads me to the table.

The music turns louder and faster. Mugs slam the tables in rhythm. Suddenly, I'm being pulled up onto the table before I can protest.

The other girls are up beside me. The last time I was on top of a table, I wasn't dancing like this.

Fiddles screaming, drums pounding, feet stomping, wine sloshing. My hair falls loose, my dress slipping at the shoulder. I spin and shout to words I don't know.

“Gwen!” Sabine shouts. I stop, dizzy, and turn in her direction. “Someone wants to meet you.” 

Through the crowd, a guy is walking toward us.

He stops at the edge of the table, looking up at me. Tall, blonde, jaw like a blade. 

Sabine’s mouth brushes my ear. “He’s playing Lancelot. Lucky you.”

He holds out his hand. “Bonsoir. I’m Benoît.”

I take it. He helps me off the table. I separate from his body.

“And you?”

I smile with newfound confidence… “I’m Gwenevere.”