kingsley windsor / d7 / (fin) cb

They shouldn’t call him spoiled.

Sure, the lavishly-decorated silk robes and the faux fur coats cost a penny or two, and so did the rings that twinkled like stars near the smooth base of his fingertips, and sure, he lived in the wealthier side of the district, in a house with tall, french windows that let in the sweet air from the orchards and had the loveliest archways sculpted by the best artisans, but he was far from spoiled as someone can be.

His birth was a humble tale—he was born to a mother and a father, both working in trade, on one moonlit night. He could paint such a vivid picture of it in his head: the moonlight playing across the marbled floors of his mansion, the nurses crowding around his mother’s bed, the hot fresh bath prepared for his young, silken, luxurious skin in a clay tub. What a delight!

He grew behind the pretty fuchsia wallpapers and into high society, spending every night dancing with beauties that rivalled his own but, mournfully, could never outdo him. Well-versed in table manners and always having a decorum of grace, he was expected to take on the family business, to make it prosper and grow.

What was the business?

Kingsley did not know.

But, he was certain that, whatever it was, he would conquer it. He’d only seen glimpses of his father and mother whispering at the corners of their elaborate parties, sharing clandestine talks with the men and women they worked with who always unnerved him in the briefest of ways. Whatever, he would always muse and avert his eyes to his champagne glass, when I get the business I will only work with friendly faces.

Kingsley Windsor was far, far from spoiled—
he was simply pleased with the life he led.