Late evening was when Charlotte, Mira by her side, sat still in her rooms. Flickering candlelight danced on the walls as Charlotte tenderly drew her fingers through Mira's hands, showing her the simple movements that would be the building blocks of a language once a fascination, a flashpoint of interest in Charlotte's former life.
Charlotte had learned sign as a child, not because she needed to, but because one summer she had been bored and wanted to get away from the lessons and constant politics that had encumbered her early years. She'd come across a book, hidden away in the library, about different types of sign language and had been enthralled by it. Originally, it was a game—a secret language she could use to whisper silently to anyone who would hear. Now, the same signs had been used as a silent connection between her and Mira, who, though uncommunicative, had spoken volumes with her eyes and postures.
"Mira," said Charlotte gently, extending her hands in front of her, "this is 'friend.'"
She formed the sign with care, her fingers gliding through the air in a smooth, repetitive motion. Mira, her big dark eyes focused on Charlotte's every gesture, copied her hands with a small smile at the corners of her mouth. The princess's heart skipped—Mira was learning. The girl was learning to speak the unspoken.
That evening, as Charlotte slept in her bed, the stillness of the palace suddenly felt too oppressive. She could not sleep, thrashing about as the pressure of her newfound realizations weighed heavily upon her. Mira had grown beyond being a mere emblem of her days spent on the war-torn roads. She had grown into her ally, her silent collaborator in a world that did not always choose to hear those who could not speak.
And then it struck her.
What if other people like Mira, other people who had no say, could have a chance to be heard, to speak?
The idea sprouted like a wildflower in her mind. What if there were others like Mira—orphans, abandoned children, disabled children who had been discarded? What if she could create a school—a haven—for them? A place where they could not only learn, but where they could discover a family, a home, and a voice. A place where they could learn to speak with their hands if they were unable to speak with their mouths.
Charlotte's Plea – A Royal Hearing
Charlotte did not tarry the following morning. She did not invite anyone to her chambers to play a game of deception or humor. Today was not such a day. Today, she had a strategy and would go about it to present it to the King and Queen directly.
The royal court had already begun buzzing with rumors of the princess's increasing power. But today, it wasn't her charm or mischievousness that would speak for her. Today, it was the hushed desperation in her voice, the resolute determination in her heart.
When the King and Queen entered the royal study, their gaze fell upon her with interested attention. Charlotte was at the center of the room, Mira at her side, her face solemn, her stance erect in a manner that none had ever seen her stand before.
Mother, Father," Charlotte started out, her words calm but full of an unshakeable urgency. I have witnessed so much on the path I've walked. I've witnessed war's children, orphans who carry their misery across their faces. And I've witnessed Mira—a child without a voice, a family."
I have learned something from her," Charlotte went on. "And I think it is something that can transform this kingdom."
The King's eyebrow went up, curious. "And what is it that you think can transform the kingdom, my daughter?
"I want to fund a school," Charlotte said, her eyes lighting with the intensity of her vision. "A school for disabled or orphaned children—a sanctuary where they can learn, grow, and thrive. A place where they will not just be taken in, but will be heard."
The Queen's eyes softened, but the King's expression was still inscrutable, his face pleats drawn into sharp lines. "You would want to invest in such an enterprise? And what would make this school stand out from all the rest we have?"
Charlotte's smile was tiny but confident. "I'd like to work with the teachers and scholars to develop a curriculum that encompasses a sign language for the deaf and mute. Not a code, but a language—a means by which these children can speak, can express themselves. I'd like to give them a foundation to stand on, somewhere they can feel at home.
The King's silence was oppressive, but the Queen, feeling the earnestness of Charlotte's voice, leaned forward.
"A school like this, my dear. It would be unprecedented," said the Queen. "You realize the resources it would take?
Charlotte nodded resolutely. "I understand the price. But I am willing to do whatever it takes to make it work. I have seen the desperation in these children's eyes, the children who have lost everything. They don't just require education; they require a chance. And I am prepared to offer it to them.
The King paced, standing slowly as he weighed her words. The pressure of the kingdom's heritage and the political consequences of such an enterprise clung heavily in the air. He was aware that the nobles would not see. They would ask why he would permit the princess to leverage her influence so. They would question the pragmatism of her vision.
But something in Charlotte's determination moved him. She wasn't merely requesting a school; she was requesting a shift in the kingdom's perception of its most vulnerable.
At last, the King faced her, his face hardening into one of determination. "You are sure this is what you desire, Charlotte?"
"Yes, Father," she replied, her voice firm. "I am sure."