It was a shitty day—the day they killed me in place of the queen. “Off with her head! Off with her head!” was all they could shout. So original!

Never mind I didn’t look a thing like the queen: she has brown hair, halfway down her back, I have (or, rather, had) blond. She has this little nose that turns up just so at the end—very cute—while I had this narrow schnoz, thin as a blade. Too bad I couldn’t use it as a weapon. They put a thick veil over my face, said it was to protect the queen’s dignity as she strode to the chopping block.

Call me treasonous, but anyone walking to her well-deserved death hasn’t got a right to any dignity. Things she pulled, you ask me, she’s lucky they didn’t garrote her right there in the ambassador’s receiving chamber. But no, it had to be a public execution.

Why me, instead of her, you ask.

I’ll tell you.