VI.
After Edmund falls asleep, Michelle finally finds quiet as the carriage rattles on. The shifting countryside is the perfect backdrop to the turbulent thoughts which dance in her mind in a tumble of whispers that becomes deafening. Every hoofbeat from the horses sounds like thunder, or maybe it is Michelle’s own hammering heart.
Each turn of the wheels brings her closer and closer to the fate that she has dreaded her whole life, the fate she tricked herself into believing would never find her.
The day hurdles by, to Michelle’s chagrin, and before she knows it the carriage pulls to the side of the road in front of a distant manor. It is almost certainly the place that they were scheduled to visit, but before they can get too close Michelle’s travel partner takes action. Ned steps out to tell the others that they will not, in fact, be staying the night at the estate, and Michelle can hear the sounds of a new team of horses being brought to replace their current ones.
Relief washes over the lone occupant of the carriage as it sets in: they are not stopping. If they stop, Michelle will be left in a room by herself, and sleep will not find her. She will find herself captured by her thoughts again, trapped until the dawn with the reminder that there is no escaping this.
They need to stay moving. She needs to stay moving.
It is somewhere between the relief and the realization that Michelle drifts off to sleep. The gentle lurching of the carriage and the clopping of hooves keeps her in a deep state of rest, possibly coupled with the fact that she has not slept for a full day.
She is not sure for how long she sleeps, but when Michelle wakes it is to the sun streaming through the window of the carriage. Her circlet is askew over her brow. Michelle can feel several curls falling loose from the knot her mother worked so hard to keep neat, and she knows for a fact that her hair is a mess of crumpled ringlets from where her temple rested against the window in sleep.
Michelle immediately glances across the carriage to find an amused Edmund looking upon her, an eyebrow raised. Her eyes narrow, still slightly stiff from sleep, as she shoots him a look and begins to adjust the circlet. He raises his hands defensively and returns to staring out the window, quiet.
Michelle appreciates the quiet as the journey continues. An hour after she wakes, a guard comes to the carriage with food. It is not Bradley, for which Michelle is grateful, and he brings two bundles of deep red cloth, which he hands to Ned. After this, he bows and walks away.
Ned reaches to hand Michelle a bundle as the carriage starts up again, and she takes it in silence. Michelle has grown used to the feeling of an empty stomach, and so she does not allow the uncomfortable prickling in her abdomen to make her movements hasty or desperate. She is accustomed to the sensation by now.
“I am sorry if it is not to your liking,” Ned comments as he opens his bundle, revealing a healthy helping of cheese, fresh fruit, and a small assortment of dried meat. “We would have had a fuller meal if we’d stopped.”
“It is more than enough,” Michelle replies simply. She manages to keep herself composed as she eats, though the food is more plentiful and of better quality than she has had in a long time. Edmund does not watch her as they eat, and Michelle appreciates it. She knows he is no fool; he came to her home, after all, and has without a doubt heard the murmurs of the guards.
She will not lower her head or be ashamed of her home; that was never in question. But it helps that she is not in the company of one who expects her to do so.
They continue to ride for the rest of the day and a good deal of the night. Michelle falls asleep again, as does Ned, and they stop twice to rest and water the horses and relieve themselves. The countryside here is different from the land Michelle is used to. The grass is green, the fields are golden, and the small settlements that they pass are quiet and neat. The larger cities are farther away since they do not wish to ride through too many of them, but even from afar they are colorful and well fortified. It is a very different sight from empty, disease-ridden fields in Enya, and it overpowers Michelle with a sense of abundance.
Her chest aches as she looks over rolling hills while she waits for Ned to return to the carriage from the forest. The clear, full moon makes the lush grass appear silver; the livestock here must eat well. Do her people not deserve such abundance and infrastructure?
That is why she is doing this, Michelle reminds herself. It is a sacrifice. She can either be a pawn and a trophy, or she can fight for prosperity for her own people. Maybe, if she can just hold on, she can secure good things for her land.
The sound of Ned's return pulls her from her thoughts. He steps into the carriage, and as soon as the door closes they continue on. Michelle is not tired. Somehow, she can feel that the time for thought and for quiet is nearing its end.
“I am glad that sleep found you.” Michelle glances up at the sound of his voice as he settles back down in the seat, and her immediate urge to thank him surprises Michelle.
Resisting the persistent nudging of the thought, Michelle instead fixes him with an even stare. “How much longer?”
Edmund does not seem surprised by her response to his words. Instead, he immediately begins to answer her, glancing at his window and opening the blue velvet curtains he had closed. “We are on the last leg of the journey. There is an hour left at most.”
Michelle nods, and it is not until she has already turned back to her own glass pane that he speaks again. “He’s a good man, you know. The king.”
“A good man does not purchase a bride from the rubble of a fallen kingdom.”
Even though she is not looking at him, Michelle can hear Ned tense from across the carriage. After spending so much time in his presence, she can practically see his wince in her mind.
Ned seems to realize that no amount of persuasion will change her mind, so instead, he falls silent. Michelle can hear his mind whirring as she watches the moonlit countryside pass by. After a few moments, he finally decides upon what he can say to her. “I will be here. If you need me.”
Now, it is Michelle’s turn to stiffen. She catches her breath, though she does so softly enough that he cannot hear her. When was the last time that someone offered her reassurance or companionship? Her mother never did so, not verbally… It would have undermined her father. The queen had chosen a path of quieter resistance than that.
Perhaps that is why Ned’s words feel so foreign as they run through her mind… Or maybe it is simply that Michelle has never had any offers of friendship.
She at least manages to keep her voice composed, though it is slightly quieter than it was before. “Do you not have other duties to return to?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she stares at his reflection in the glass.
Michelle is surprised by the tentative, slightly hopeful smile that she can see spreading across his reflection’s face. “My wife, Elizabeth,” he replies, nodding slightly. “But my duties are to be where the king is. I shall be there as long as you wish me to be.”
For a moment, Michelle is quiet. Her fingers skim the cold glass as she contemplates his offer. He is from an enemy kingdom… But he is not the enemy, not the one who is using her as a bartering chip. And if she is going to make her home in a kingdom of her enemies, it would be wise to seek out a friend.
Especially one whose eyes are as earnest as his as they meet hers in the glass.
Michelle turns to face him, keeping her face an unreadable mask as she does so. “I suppose I shall tolerate it… If only to keep you from the clutches of that other guard.”
“Oh, Sir Davis?” Edmund questions, a grin crossing his face. Michelle finds a strange sort of satisfaction filling her as she realizes that he agrees with her on this particular front, though she fights to hide it. “He is quite a dangerous foe. I thank you.”
“You are eternally in my debt, Sir Leeds,” Michelle agrees. She is not sure when the last time was that she jested with someone, but it feels good. Natural. She needs it now, and she wonders if he knows that.
The man grins, settling back more comfortably in his seat. “I will forever search for a way to repay you, Your--” The sharp look she throws in his direction seems to serve as a reminder, and he catches himself with a quick nod. “Sorry.”
“Michelle.”
She is not sure what prompts her to offer him her name, but she knows she has made the right decision when he nods simply in response. She can tell that he is pleased, but he makes no effort to push her further. When was the last time anyone in her life demonstrated such respect for her?
Michelle turns back to the window rather than choosing to examine the thought. Their ride continues on in silence. Gray begins to tinge the edge of the horizon, indicating that dawn is nearing. Soon, the sky will be an explosion of color over the massive line of trees she can see in the distance.
Ned is right; it does look somewhat like the wood surrounding her home. However, there are some subtle differences. The trees are taller than they are around her home, and fewer of them are gnarled oaks or fiery maples. Instead, the majority are evergreens and birches with parchment-like trunks. They stretch on for a long way, even over the slightly rolling and rocky hills that Michelle can see. Though she cannot yet see the ocean, there is a slight tang to the wind that implies it is nearby.
As they reach the edge of the forest and begin to ride on the trail through it, Michelle sees a wall on either side of the path. It seems to surround the road and continue beyond it, closing in the trunks of many of the large trees as a way to keep out intruders. None of the guards she recognizes line it, but every so often there is a rustling beyond the wall that makes Michelle suspect rangers.
Ned glances her way a few times, seeming to wait for her to ask something. She does not for a good deal of time, at least until the trees begin to thin a bit. Through them, she catches a glimpse of rocky cliffs that drop off into fiery waters--- the ocean, with the peaks of waves topped with an explosive, orange sunrise. The waves lunge and churn almost like things alive, and for a moment Michelle is so transfixed by them that she almost completely misses the building that sits atop the distant cliffs.
It is large; larger than her home. The estate is of light stone, and it appears like a palace to Michelle as it looms high among the trees. The face of the building is neat and regal, with shining windows and pristine balconies of beautifully carved stone. A massive set of steps lead up to two open doors, and in the distance, Michelle can make out two figures, small as ants, perched on the steps.
Rather than focusing on them or her racing heart, she chooses to speak. “Is that the estate?” Her voice is tight and breathless, and adrenaline courses through her body as she tries not to think about who might be waiting for her there.
Ned glances her way, initially with warm amusement shining in his eyes. However, after he catches a glimpse of her face, he sobers slightly. His face becomes more serious as he responds, “The very same.”
Michelle clenches her fists in her lap as the carriage makes a turn. The estate grows bigger, and there is a temptation to make herself smaller in response. However, Michelle realizes what she is doing and draws her shrinking shoulders behind her. She squares them and lifts her chin, carefully unclenching her fists.
“Gloriam maiorum: To the glory of our ancestors.”
The thought rings through her head almost as a reflex, put in place by her father. The carriage begins to slow as it pulls into the yard of the estate, and Michelle abruptly lets the curtains fall closed. The vehicle slows to a halt, and she can hear the guards moving to open the door and reveal her to those who await her, the ones who she has not seen yet.
No.
She is not doing this for her ancestors. Michelle is not giving away her freedom for those who are already dead and gone. Her hand is not something she will offer away for the sake of molding corpses or for the mistakes of men who lived in just the same way as her father does now.
She is doing it for the people who have suffered in silence beneath those ancestors for centuries, and she is doing it to bring them the relief they deserve. They are the ones whose cries and troubles enable her to let out a breath and release her clenched fingers. They are the ones who make her stare level and piercing and her expression dignified, and they are the ones who calm her as the door to the carriage opens.
Ned casts her a wordless glance, one she returns for a fleeting look with a quiet nod. His sympathy is not something she wishes to explore at the moment. He swallows and returns the nod, respect in his eyes as he moves to leave the carriage first.
Quiet voices speak for a moment, and Michelle cannot hear them clearly over the roaring in her ears. However, she recognizes the rise and fall of the tone to indicate a brief greeting, a question, a response, and a dismissal.
Before she can change her mind, Michelle rises from her seat in the carriage and steps out, this time accepting the aid of a footman she does not recognize in order to avoid looking at the men who await her. She is helped to the smooth, cobbled path before the steps, where her boots are grateful to meet the firm ground.
She is sure that her father would be scandalized to see her now.
The beautiful, green riding gown is wrinkled in many places from the days in the carriage, and its skirts appear disheveled around her as they swish to a lumpy rest. Her curls have long since decided to abandon Michelle’s mother’s graceful knot. Though several of them remain loosely held together, many more have drifted free in wisps about her face and shoulders. The fiery orange light seems to set them ablaze as they drift at the edge of their vision, played with by the wind.
Despite all of this, Michelle’s chin is high as she turns to face the two awaiting her. Her eyes are sharp and piercing as steel as they fall upon the men, unyielding. She knows that she does not look like whatever conquered princess they expected: someone demure and lovely and blushing for the king. She will not appear before them as a king’s daughter, but as a future queen.
The warm brown eyes that meet her own hold nothing but awe.
The confidence provided by the adrenaline is interrupted as Michelle’s gaze finds an earnest, reverent one staring back. Her heart resumes beating with all the force of a war drum. Michelle drags her eyes away from his, finally taking in the men before her for the first time.
Both are garbed like nobility before her, though in different ways. One wears clothing of a deep crimson and gold, and the embroidery on his fine doublet and undershirt is almost a geometric pattern. He stands tall and proud, a man nearing maybe half a century of age. His hair and beard are deep blacks. He is clearly a man who has seen much-- a warrior, based on his stance. However, he has smile lines, and there is a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
The other is much younger, and it is his gaze that almost seems wonderstruck. He appears no older than she is, though he is clothed just as finely as the man at his side, if not more so. His clothing is more solemn in its color. His shirt is of navy, and the rest of his garments are a deep, dark ochre, all the way down to the gleaming tips of his boots. The clothing has some tasteful embroidery in silver thread, and there is a red poppy in his lapel, but this is as much ornamentation as the man needs-- other than a crown of gold perched upon his brow. None of this draws Michelle’s attention for long, however.
Other aspects of his appearance are more interesting; namely, his mess of thick, brown curls that seem to have abandoned his attempt to smooth them down. His face is young and open, and it is clean-shaven to reveal a sharp, bold jawline. But the most defining feature of this man is the way that his deep, dark eyes seem to make every attempt to melt her with their wonderful-filled warmth.
Michelle tears her gaze away from his for the second time, turning instead to face the older of the two men. She bends her knee slightly in a curtsy, though it is brief and not nearly as low as decorum might mandate.
Her eyes meet the older man’s as she scans his face. This is the king she is to marry, then… He is old enough to be her father. Michelle’s stomach churns, and for a moment she wonders if she is going to be sick. Anger follows close behind, but of a sort that she is less inclined to handle. This anger is not righteous or powerful… It feels desperate, reactionary.
“Your Majesty.” Her greeting is quiet, and her voice sounds foreign in her own ears as she straightens from her curtsy.
In response to her actions, the man begins to chuckle, his eyes disbelieving and amused. Michelle’s eyes widen, and now the anger feels more real. The volume of his laughter grows, and the young man at his side turns to him with a mix of concern and frustration in his gaze.
“Stark-” begins the younger man, but the older-- Stark-- raises a hand to indicate that he understands as his laughter subsides.
“Yes, yes,” Stark replies, waving a hand airily in the younger man’s direction. When he turns back to Michelle, however, the gleam of mirth in his eyes still lingers. “Apologies, Princess, but no matter how much you desire my body, I am spoken for.”
“Stark.”
The younger man is a strange mixture of furious and mortified, but Michelle is done playing games. She looks from one to the other, then back to Stark with eyes that are narrowed. It all makes more sense now. Did he intend for her to come here, be paraded before him, and then be sent back to her people, rejected? Perhaps he planned to use her as some sort of prisoner or to humiliate her before his people as a symbol of his victory.
“You jest with me.” Her words are cold and dark, and her eyes dig into Stark like daggers.
“No, no.” The younger man struggles to control the situation, but Michelle does not pause in her glaring to look his way. Stark’s continued humor in the face of her anger only inflames it even more. Michelle has given up much for the sake of her people; she will not allow him to mock her sacrifice.
“I apologize, Your Highness, for any confusion,” the young, crowned man explains hurriedly. His apology and the sincerity in his tone finally cause Michelle to look his way, her eyes meeting his once more. His cheeks are slightly reddened, as are the points of his ears. She ignores the fluttering this provokes in her chest as the man continues. “This- this is Prince Anthony Stark, the prince consort to Her Majesty Virginia of Olyrian.”
Stark-- the prince-- nods to accept the identification. “It is always strange to hear anyone call her by her full name,” he remarks, referring to the queen. Michelle finds herself relaxing slightly, though she is still struggling to understand the situation she has found herself in. Prince consort? She has heard of queen consorts-- she is about to become one. But she has never considered the inverse.
Maybe it is her imagination, but Stark’s next quip almost seems designed to give her time to recover herself. “At your service, Your Highness… Well, in all ways but that one.”
Michelle finds herself resisting the childish urge to pull a face. However, a strange sense of gratitude fills her, though she is still rather tense. He gives her someone to defend against, something to focus on rather than the matter at hand.
“I apologize for him.” The younger man’s voice causes Michelle to look his way again, eyes narrowing. He meets her gaze evenly, almost like he was anticipating its intensity. Those warm eyes do not waver, as though he is trying to show that she has his undivided attention.
“Do not,” she replies, her voice clear and unreadable. She does not want his apologies.
For a moment, the two stand facing one another. The awe in his eyes still lingers, and Michelle intentionally focuses on anything but the brown, soulful irises.
After a moment of quiet, he extends a hand to her in greeting. “Your Highness… I am King Peter of Terygen.”
King.
He is so young. She has grown to think of kings as older and wizened, as men who deal power with all the care they might give to a deck of cards. But this man does not resemble any sort of king she has met before. Young, caring, sincere… These are adjectives that have never described the heads that hold the Jones crown.
Brown eyes flicker to her hand at her side, then back to her face. “It is an honor.”
Michelle offers him a stiff nod, but no more. The king pauses for a moment, then carefully lowers his hand, pursing his lips uncomfortably and then quickly masking it. “I trust your journey was comfortable.”
“You need not concern yourself with my comfort.” Though her tone holds no outright anger, it is tense and her response is immediate.
King Peter’s eyes widen slightly, and he appears to search for words for a moment. “I-- Of course.” The words are breathless, and despite their meaning of understanding, Michelle can tell that she has caught him off-guard.
“I will allow you two to familiarize yourselves in private.” Stark’s voice draws her from her prolonged stare with the king, and Michelle watches as the prince nods to Peter in a farewell. If she is not mistaken, Stark’s momentary eye contact with the king is meant to reassure him.
Has anyone ever attempted to help Michelle in such a way?
Not the time for such thoughts.
Stark turns, offers her a slight bow at the waist and the first truly sincere smile he has shown before her. Then he stands and turns, walking back through two doors that are so intricately carved that they almost remind Michelle of spiders’ webbing.
Once the sound of Stark’s boots has faded, Michelle finds herself lowering her hackles. He was, after all, the one who initially mocked the situation that has radically altered the trajectory of her life… The king before her has been less offensive. Somehow, that is worse. It is awfully hard to see any traces of her father’s brutal ruling hand in the cautious brown eyes and carefully arranged expression that rather reminds her of a concerned hound pup.
“Princess,” King Peter murmurs, folding his hands behind his back, “I apologize if I have done anything to offend you.”
Michelle is quiet for a moment. Her face is a mask of stone, but the adrenaline is beginning to fade and returning her mind to the machine that she needs it to be. Strategy is what matters now; she will not simper and bat her eyes for him, but they at the very least need to be civil for the sake of her subjects.
She will not lie to him. Her father’s constant lies instilled long ago an urge in a young Michelle to speak the truth, even through difficulty. “Your apology is accepted on behalf of my kingdom.” And it is.
“But what about on behalf of the Princess Michelle?”
He is observant, and he listens to what she says. The king’s eyes are earnest as he takes a step forward, the refinement of his folded hands forgotten as they fall forward to dangle loosely at his side. He pushes her no further, but she cannot pretend she did not hear the question. His stare is too intense for that.
His intense gaze is not sharp like her craggy, rocky stare; it is a steady, strong flow like the pounding of the waves on the shore.
Michelle will not be swept away with the tide. “I have traveled through the night, Your Majesty.” The words are definite and calculated, meant to ensure he does not expect any response.
Something in the man before her collapses, and a sympathetic pang shoots through her chest before she can stop it. She caused that… The stare once filled with hope is now more guarded, though it does retain a glimmer.
He knows that he will not succeed, she can tell. However, he still braves one more question though he knows its answer. “Please, call me-- call me Peter.”
She makes no move to speak. Such a title as ‘king’ is easy to inherit; one must only be born to the right family. The one he wishes her to use must be earned.
The king knows this, Michelle is certain of it. His eyes shift away, falling upon the carriage. “I shall have you shown to your rooms. Karen, if you could assist the Princess, I would be quite grateful.” His next response addresses both her and another-- more specifically, a steward who is waiting a distance away, just inside the estate’s massive doors. He allows his voice to carry to reach this second audience.
From just within the estate, a woman emerges with a reply of, “Of course, Your Majesty.”
She turns to Michelle, and though the expression on her face is reserved, Michelle cannot help thinking that it is rather pleasant. The woman is tall and reedy, all angles and precision. Her long, dark hair is combed back into a tight bun, and she does not wear a gown. Instead, she is garbed in robes of deep red with a cape of blue, and the royal crest is found on her sternum where the cape dips down.
“Right this way.” Karen turns and begins to walk, and Michelle follows. She cannot refrain from allowing her eyes to pass over the king one last time.
His gaze follows her, but not in the way she has learned to associate with her father or the attentions of some of his younger advisors. Their stares always left her feeling exhausted, almost as though they were dissecting her with every rise and fall of their eyelids.
Under his eyes, Michelle somehow feels as though he has seen more than just her wrinkled gown and disheveled ringlets, and that he respects that which he has found.
“If you require anything at all, there is a bell in your rooms which can be used to call me,” Karen informs Michelle as they turn the corner of the main hallway, finally removing King Peter from Michelle’s sight. A thick, finely woven rug muffles their footsteps as Karen and Michelle continue down the hallway, a sensation that is foreign to Michelle. At her home, the cold floor always rose to meet her feet and nip at them with chill through her worn shoes. “I am more than happy to help you with anything.”
“I thank you,” Michelle replies quietly, bringing her eyes along the walls of the hallway they are walking down. They are clean and neat, with many windows allowing in natural light. Several tapestries are hung along them, depicting seaside scenes and enchanted forests and ancient battles. She finds herself thinking after the scraps of tapestries that she has collected and left in her trunk. Part of her is captured by a strange urge to hold the scraps up to these tapestries and see if she can guess what they were meant to depict.
Michelle takes the thought captive and thrusts it from her mind. She will not indulge in curiosities about this place; it is not for her. It is a place of strategy and nothing more: the place, as of now, where she can effect the most change for her people.
“What is your role here?” Michelle queries, eyes returning to Karen as they begin a climb up a sunny stairwell. Sun pours in through high windows that overlook the ocean, and Michelle has to tear her eyes away to avoid being captivated by the sight.
“Of course, Your Highness,” Karen agrees as they emerge from the stairwell into a long hall on the second floor. This one is still decorated, but in a more domestic manner. Vases are placed on shelves and in alcoves on the walls, and portraits hang every so often along them. Michelle avoids looking upon a well-done rendition of King Peter, but her eyes find the portrait of another woman. Her long, dark hair falls in straight waves and braids down her back, and through a pair of golden spectacles, her dark eyes twinkle with kindness. The king’s mother, perhaps?
“I am a member of King Peter’s personal staff,” Karen informs Michelle as they take another turn to a corridor lined with windows that face the forest along the coast. “I manage nearly all practical matters for the King, and I keep a record of all of his correspondence and appointments. I am his most trusted confidant.”
The words might have sounded like they belonged to one with an enlarged sense of their importance in any other context, but somehow Michelle believes Karen. It has everything to do with the simple, factual tone that the steward uses, but somehow it does not make sense. If Karen is as vital to the court as she says... “Why, then, are you in my company now?”
Karen answers without taking even a moment to think on the matter. “The king asked me to make myself equally available to you.”
Equally. Michelle cannot think of a single time that her father tolerated any equality with her mother. Her mother’s words run through her head again from their final conversation.
“He will be like the King.” “I pray, for your sake, that he is not.”
Before she can further examine the thought, Karen stops before a pair of doors that are of white, painted wood. They are carved with climbing berry vines that loop and twist over the frame and paint, coming to a wreath around the handles. Karen opens these with certainty and steps into the rooms, and Michelle finds herself feeling more out-of-place than she ever has before.
The chambers are cheery, with large, open windows allowing cool, fresh air to rustle the pale blue drapings. Finely crafted furniture of simple upholstery seems to beckon to her, asking that she might rest her tired head upon them. A massive, four-poster bed occupies the center of the room, and its coverlet is of the same blue that the furniture and drapings display. There are more accommodations: a washstand and basin, a screen behind which to change, a dressing table. Michelle sees a door that likely joins to another room, but she cannot even begin to wonder what is behind it now.
This room is larger than hers, her father’s study, and her secret library would be all together.
“These are your quarters during your stay here,” Karen informs Michelle, turning to face her with a pleasant nod. “I will send assistance to help you undress and to run a bath in a moment. Do you require anything else?”
Michelle opens her mouth to answer, about to request that no one come at all. It is then, however, that her eyes fall to a dark bundle on the bed, and her head tips slightly to the side in curiosity.
Her skirts brush against her legs as Michelle steps closer, her eyes fastening upon the muted cloth colors. A tawny brown, a cream-colored off-white, deep grey… It is a bundle of clothing. As her eyes travel the long tunics, the loose breeches and trousers, and the pair of sturdy boots that rest atop them, every doubt is removed from her mind.
It is men’s clothing.
“No,” Michelle breathes, her mind drifting back to the carriage. As her fingers brush the warm, well-made cloth, her mind does the work for her: the comparison of proportions, specifically those of these clothes with those of Ned Leeds.
She does not smile, but the corner of her mouth tips up as she draws her finger along the top of one of the boots. They will almost certainly be far too large on her, no matter how tightly she pulls the laces.
She will wear them everywhere.
“No, thank you.”