Book 3: Chapter 19 – Declaration [Part 2]
Book 3: Chapter 19 - Declaration [Part 2]
“Rumours? Cruel?” Seraphina laughed, a sound like glass tapped with a fingernail. “Where were you when members of your precious Guild assaulted me? When you learned of these rumors, did you seek to censure those who spread lies about me? And, if I were cruel, Prince Velens, I would ask whether your newfound love for all that is common extends to the kitchens. Perhaps you might take a scullery maid to the next ball, of course, for that is, it seems, the royal fashion. I am sure such a girl could keep the spit turning all night and everything well-basted.”
The noblewoman covered her mouth as she laughed, enjoying how the Prince’s eyes almost popped out.
The green-eyed girl sneered. “Why, I might even offer my maid Miriam to you. She seems to attract the eyes of many a philanderer like yourself. I can imagine Milly being very good at making short work of stubborn stains and lingering guilt. But then again, she might be a bit too much even for your exotic tastes.”
“Don’t,” he said softly. “Do not make a spectacle of yourself, Seraphina.”
“Me?” She arched a brow. “I am not the one making spectacles, Your Majesty. Have you no idea what simply having her on your arms will do? Your actions threaten the stability of the Kingdom.”
Este stepped even closer to him—just so; the distance was measured, a painter’s thumb-width from impropriety. “Please, both of you,” she said, eyes shining with a false tremble as she shot Seraphina a knowing look. “I only want peace. If I have caused a rift, I will withdraw.”
“You will do no such thing,” Velens said, exactly as he had in the game. “I will not permit you to be bullied and denigrated in such a way. You yourself were with a commoner at the First Year’s Ball, were you not?”
Seraphina’s vision flared red at the edges. Bullied. She had done no such thing. “I only sought to mimic your royal example, Your Majesty,” she answered, voice thick with venom. “And yet,” Seraphina went on, voice a silken noose, “you take issue with my company. Hughes is a better man than you, Velens. A better man by far. But you sneer, do you not? You, Velens, are the bully… and, if you will pardon my words, the hypocrite.”
Velens’s mouth thinned. “Hughes clings to you, Seraphina—trailing you like a shadow, expecting you to shield him. Can you not see he is using your name and station? He’s an opportunist, intent on climbing, and you… You blindly indulge him. If we are speaking of impropriety, look to your own habits.”
The words landed a bit too close to home before she realized that Velens was simply projecting his own situation. Still, heat flashed over her cheeks. “I do not need your unwanted counsel on such matters, Your Majesty.”
“Nor I yours,” he returned sharply.
“Please,” Este whispered again, not to soothe but to shine—how the sunlight caught in her lashes. “Mira… My Lady Seraphina, I admire your devotion to the Crown Prince. Truly. Perhaps… perhaps you could find it in your heart to be kind? The Crown Prince means nothing improper. It is only that my duties require guidance from the highest station, for the betterment of the realm. I know it's late, but I truly hope that we can be friends. When the Goddess’s work is done, I shall…”
The silver-haired girl lied as easily as she breathed. She positively reeked of deceit.
“You shall,” Seraphina cut in, “learn that to earn the ire of those above you is no small thing.”
She turned to Velens fully, ignoring the twist in her stomach, ignoring how the garden had gone very quiet save for the sigh of leaves. “Hear me, Velens de Barbierri. Whether or not our engagement is yet stamped upon parchment, you and I both know the promise that was made. If you persist in humiliating me—and by extension House de Sariens—by dangling a common-born girl from your arm for the delight of the gossips, then I will do what you refuse to do.”
Velens’s eyes narrowed. “And what is that?”
“End this,” she said, her voice calm—clearer than she actually felt. “I hereby dissolve our engagement. I will inform my parents at once; they will, in turn, inform your father, the King. It is not I who am unworthy of you; it is you who are unworthy of me. I deserve better than this. This constant humiliation. If you want her, you can have her.”
Sometimes, if you truly loved something, you had to learn to let it go. She winced at the internal cliché.
Silence rang. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath. A great weight had been lifted. However, it looked like Seraphina would have to take the throne of Aranthia the hard way.
Este flinched, then turned her face half away, lashes veiling those pale eyes. Velens stared, as if she had reached out and struck him. Something like hurt flashed—and then was gone, replaced by the rigid line of a prince who had been given a public challenge.
“You do not mean that,” he said, voice suddenly very careful. “You must not.”
“Perhaps I do not,” she allowed, “but then again, perhaps I do. Yes, despite being a flighty and weak woman, I do believe I do. You would do well to remember that my father respects the wishes of his only daughter. Not to mention, I will receive my mother’s counsel on this matter. I will marry for love, Velens, not for the realm. Once upon a time, I thought that I could do both with you. It seems I have been too greedy with my simple desires. You have pushed me too far, Your Majesty. Many will suffer because you do not know the meaning of devotion,” she warned, green eyes flashing with lethal promise.
There. Choice selected. Route diverged. If the game had a sound effect for breaking destiny, she would have heard it. She had done what the original Seraphina had never found the courage to do—until it was too late, that was. Better a clean break than a lingering mess.
Velens drew himself up, the sun catching in his blonde hair, turning it to a crown he had not yet earned. “Very well,” he said. “If that is your wish, I shall speak to Lord de Sariens and my father. Until then, you will not insult the Saint again in my presence.”
His words, for some strange reason, felt forced to Seraphina’s ears. Most odd.
Seraphina inclined her head, all perfect poise and composed demeanor. “Then keep the ‘Saint’ who can not perform a simple healing miracle from my path,” she replied. “And keep to yours, my Prince.”
She turned, skirts whispering, and walked away without looking back. Behind the hedge, Hughes pressed a hand to his chest, as if the world had tilted under him. He had come running to make amends, to say something foolish and earnest. Anything to soften the Lady de Sariens’ mood.
Instead, he had listened to a promise shatter, and knew that nothing at the Academy, no in the Kingdom, would be simple again. Though it was late autumn, a rare flower opened in Hughes’s heart—hope.