You would think that nothing ever made her smile in the endless emptiness of her existence, always centered around the needs and wants of strangers with greedy eyes and empty hearts. Another dress, another song, another twirl. But she found her bit of luck eventually, a small crack in the wall of the back gardens. Not big enough to escape, just big enough to get a peak at a loud busy market, bursting with people that were sometimes shouting, sometimes selling, sometimes buying. Most often they were just looking at what was on display or who was passing by. There were always long looks for wealthy garments and shiny shoes and young pretty faces with flushed cheeks. But never for old ladies in ragged clothes with thin hair, dirty teeth, and bad backs. They were coming and going as if already half ghosts.
She had always been an early riser, but she began pretending she needed more time to rest in the morning. After sometime nobody even noticed if she showed up well after lunchtime. And then she started piling up books about the wonderful art of theater. Such useful training for entertaining guests, everyone assumed. Ways of walking, gestures, accents, costumes, makeup and hair. Enough information to bring any character to life, even an old woman who is hardly ever noticed. The hard part was finding a few pockets of dirty wool and some old clothes, no easy feat when you live in a spotless castle filled with fine things. But she finally had her wish, and when she looked at herself in the large gold-rimmed mirror, she made the biggest smile with her blackened teeth and ash-smeared face.
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