“It doesn’t matter where you live,” they said.
She knew they lied. It most certainly did!
When rain leaked onto your mattress and the wind snuck in through the window and mice crawled over your cheek in the middle of the night, it more than mattered.
“The only thing that matters is who you are,” they said.
Perhaps. But what good was it being a princess if your room was drafty and the tower creaked and the stairs were grooved with age and slippery with sloshed-over chamber-pots?
She’d swap her chamber for a page’s pallet by the hearth, if she could.