Just Ella by Margaret Peterson Haddix

see the prince, since he was entertaining a foreign delegation that had come to see the tournament.
    But at least I had the tournament to look forward to.
    Saturday dawned bright and fair. I could tell, even through the castle’s tiny windows, that it was the kind of June day you spend winters dreaming about—warm and balmy, with gentle breezes carrying the first scent of summer flowers.
    At eight o’clock, my maid showed up to dress me. Someone had decreed that I should wear some new-fangled fashion—or torture device, as I saw it—and the maid laced me tightly into what felt like a box on my torso. I’d worn corsets before, of course, but never like this steel-and-wood contraption. When she finished, I could barely breathe.
    â€œCouldn’t you . . . loosen . . . it . . . a little?” I managed to gasp.
    The maid, one of the most hoity-toity I’d encountered, gave me a look of withering scorn.
    â€œBut, Princess. You used to be so slender.”
    I looked down to where my bosom was threatening to burst over the top of my too-tight dress. I had filled outsome in the past weeks of sitting around doing nothing more strenuous than needlepoint, and eating food that was healthy and plentiful, even if it wasn’t exactly to my taste. I’d thought it was good not to look so under-nourished anymore.
    â€œJust take this thing off me, okay?” I asked.
    The maid’s face set in an expression of downright defiance.
    â€œI can’t. Queen’s orders.”
    â€œI can’t believe the queen cares that much what I wear,” I protested.
    â€œShe might not. But the prince does. He asked his mother to have you wear something that shows you off.” Her voice was particularly mocking on the last three words. “And this is the latest fashion, just in. As the prince’s betrothed, you should wear it first.”
    I felt light-headed. The prince and the queen weren’t around to debate with, and in that dress, I could hardly dash out of the room demanding to see them. Should I fight with the maid? I couldn’t take the dress off by myself. I decided to make the best of it. I took a shaky half breath that barely brought air into my lungs, and favored the maid with what I hoped was a dignified smile.
    But I could hear Jed’s words echoing in my head: “You took charge of your own destiny.” What a joke. I couldn’t even take charge of my own clothes.
    It was a full hour before they summoned me. The ladies-in-waiting came down the hall, in dresses every bit as ridiculous as mine.
    â€œPrincess!” Simprianna purred. “Thank you—” She had to stop to take a shallow breath. “Thank you for bringing this wonderful fashion to our kingdom. These new corsets do”—another breath—“wonders for our figures.”
    She spun around and it was true, her waist looked no wider than a gold coin. It was amazing if you liked that kind of thing.
    â€œI had nothing to do with it,” I snapped. “And I have every intention of ending the fashion as soon as I can.”
    Madame Bisset appeared just in time to give me a reproving look.
    â€œPrincess! Ladies! We shan’t keep the court waiting!”
    She led us down the grand staircase, through the vast ballroom and out onto the castle lawns. The fresh air felt like a blessing against my face, and my sour mood began to ebb a bit.
    In front of us, dozens of riders were lined up before the reviewing stand. They kept their hands down and their heads bowed, and even the horses stood perfectly still. They looked like a tableau or a tapestry, their lines and colors already preserved forever. But you could tell they all longed for movement and action; horses and riders alike wanted the formalities over so they could do what they loved.
    The crier called out, “Princess Cynthiana Eleanora, Prince Charming’s betrothed, and her royal attendants.”
    I heard polite