Although the uninvited fairy's curse broke every spinning wheel in the kingdom
and all the people had no thread for shuttle,
loom and quilt, the king declared he'd rather they all embrace savage nudity
- court, peasants, all - than for one sharp spindle to
encroach upon his royal daughter's hand. She, in her untouched loveliness,
like an unfurled Rose, grew passionate in
temper, mischievous in heart. Though her skin was porcelain,
she was not made of china, and vigorous
health and well-fed spirits suffused her regal frame. Yet how she
scared her nursemaids by pretending to
expire, with shrieks and sighs and welcomings to the arms of Master Death!
They dared not even cross her but
allowed her to wander wherever fancy's promptings led her slippered feet,
all the while keeping watch should that fatal sting appear.
For sixteen years she terrorised the house, overturning their rustic
superstitions, their hidden corners and secret
alcoves. When, at last, enticed by an ancient crone, her finger bled with knowledge,
the castle was relieved ... somewhat. Her
youth, they say, lay sleeping for a hundred thorny years, but in truth
she had been awakened long ago by Death's somnolent kiss.
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