I bet my former press advisor Ursula Caulfield is already hard at work on the movie rights.
A Thorne in the Royal Rose Garden: The Octavia Story
For over a month, Chloe refuses to leave the castle, unwilling to face either the mob of press gathered at the gates or the gossiping aristocrats at social functions. I assure her things will blow over, now that justice has been served. With Octavia and Ramsey behind bars, the pendulum of public attention will soon swing back to more pleasant diversions.
Namely: the rapidly approaching royal wedding.
In the wake of the trial, weeks pass in a monotonous blur of meetings and wedding preparations. It all feels quite trivial to me, but the country seems to need a happy occasion around which to rally. And so, I put on a smile and act the picture-perfect bride-to-be whenever I’m in public.
Why yes, I’m so excited!
I can’t wait to marry Alden.
Thank you for your blessings.
There are photo ops and dress fittings, cake tastings and menu selections. Alden is a far better sport than I am — ever-pleasant, exceedingly positive. I try to muster enthusiasm as Simms and Lady Morrell meticulously lay out all the details for our big day.
The most important day of my life, as I’m frequently reminded. A day that will go down in history.
May rushes by, June close on its heels. As spring breaks slowly into summer, balmy mornings turn bright and warm. Flowers burst into bloom everywhere I look. The castle grounds have never been so full of beauty… and yet so stained by my own gloomy disposition. A raincloud seems to follow wherever I go, no matter how sunny the day.
Construction on the East Wing is in full swing, now. I watch new walls rise from the ashes of scorched earth and wonder about the fire that set all of this into motion. Despite confessing to my attempted assassination, Octavia refused to take responsibility for the blaze that claimed so many lives.
Perhaps she was lying… though there was no reason to do so. Her life, for all intents and purposes, was already over.
Why own up to one crime while denying another?
The question nags at me, gnawing my stomach lining like a cancer. I try to talk to Chloe about it, but she institutes a ‘No Octavia’ rule in the castle. As far as she’s concerned, the case is open and shut.
Who cares if she admitted it or not? She obviously started the fire. She’s evil. End of discussion.
Spending too long with my own thoughts soon becomes a dangerous pastime. I lean into anything that serves as a distraction — riding Ginger around the network of trails, touring the construction site with Alden, training with Riggs and Galizia in the Gatehouse, basking in the sunshine with Chloe on the edge of the in-ground swimming pool.
It’s harder at night. There are fewer tasks to keep me occupied, fewer friends around to prevent my mind from meandering places that only cause me distress. More often than not, I find myself unable to sleep, wandering the castle halls like a ghost.
I devour half the library’s contemporary fiction section, losing myself for hours in tales of horror and gore, murder and mystery. Once my favorite genre, I now studiously avoid love stories. My interest in fictional romance and happily-ever-afters seems to have evaporated around the same time I slid the massive sapphire onto my ring finger.
Now that the snows have melted, I can once again access my favorite spot in the castle — the sky-scraping turret. Climbing the hundred or so winding stone steps to the top with a flashlight in hand, I stare out over the slumbering streets of Vasgaard as the night sky lightens in slow degrees, thinking maybe if I squint hard enough, I might be able to see all the way to Switzerland.
All the way to him.
In the clutches of insomnia, I have far too much time to think. I find myself reflecting on what might’ve been with alarming regularity.
My life has changed so much, since I first arrived in the castle. I have changed so much. I bear little resemblance to the girl I once was — that poor, purple haired psychology student who was barely scraping by, struggling to juggle mortgage payments and student loans on minimum wage alone.
If I could go back and warn her of what was to come… if I could somehow intervene in how things would play out…
I don’t think I would.
Despite the pain, despite the loss, despite everything that’s happened to me… I do believe I was meant to wind up here. The youngest monarch in the world. A ruler leading her country into a more progressive future, one tenuous step at a time… alongside the newly established House of Peers, which recently swore in its first ever female Parliamentary Ministers.
That thought brings a rare smile to my face.
Once the wedding is behind me, perhaps there will be time to turn my eyes toward new political pursuits. There are so many causes I could champion — from accessible healthcare to affordable college.
Student loan forgiveness.
Climate change.
Renewable energy.
Options sprawl out before me in a kaleidoscope of moving parts. I merely need to reach out my hand and take one. To add my voice where it is most needed.
Perhaps this is enough for one person. Perhaps the love of my life will not be a man at all, but a country.
My country.
My Germania.
Before this period, I had not allowed myself to give much thought to my future on the throne. I’ve been so consumed in just making it through each day — in keeping my head on straight from daybreak to dusk — that I barely had room to wonder about the rest of my reign.
That’s changing, though.
I have never felt so secure in my queendom. My marriage to Alden has effectively shut down my most vocal naysayers, just as my advisors predicted. The wedding — and the resulting boost to the Germanian economy — has soothed many a ruffled feather amongst the aristocrats.
Money may not be able to buy happiness, but it seems quite capable of purchasing loyalty.
Without the support of the nobility behind him, Ludwig von Strauss fades a bit more into my rearview with each passing day. Octavia and Ramsey were his foremost champions, railing against my reign and calling for me to abdicate; in their absence, those calls have all but ceased.
Evidently, no one wants to be associated with two felons or their feeble political puppet.
Whatever objection to my reign still exists has been effectively eliminated — swept away by the tidal wave of support the royal wedding has unleashed. For if the treason trial stirred a publicity storm, my marriage has produced a full-blown cyclone.
The closer the wedding creeps, the more intense the media frenzy. By early August, it seems the whole world has its eyes on our small nation. Press coverage reaches a crest, with reporters from all over the world camped outside the castle gates twenty-four-seven.
Twelve days.
Eleven.
Ten.
In the week leading up to the ceremony, dignitaries and foreign leaders from all over the world begin to arrive. I’m told citizens have begun pitching tents in a line outside Windsor Abbey, staking out their spots on the sidewalk for a glimpse at the royal processional.
Six days.
Five.
Four.
Time is slipping through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, impossible to keep hold of. I feel like a passerby in my own life, watching events unfold from afar with very little say in the matter.
Stand here.
Sit there.
Smile.
Wave.
Walk.
Talk.
I am a puppet; who exactly is pulling my strings remains to be seen.
Three days.
Two.
One.
Before I know it, the eve of the wedding has arrived.
The seamstresses come for one final fitting, making infinitesimal tweaks to what, in my eyes, appears to be an already perfect dress. It’s got so much fabric, it makes the gold gown I wore to my coronation look like a handkerchief. The t
rain is ten feet long; the veil is double that. When Chloe walks into my chambers and sees me in it, she bursts into actual tears.
“Oh, E!” she sobs. “Look at you!”
I, on the other hand, feel completely numb as I examine the beautiful bride in the mirror.
Twenty-four hours.
I will be married in twenty-four hours.
I’m told to relax. Everything else is prepped and ready to go. The royal cooks have baked and iced a six-tier white cake — enough to feed five-hundred guests at the reception. The Great Hall floors shine like never before, buffed and polished to perfection for the formal ball. Every surface and side table in the castle boasts a flower arrangement, artfully coordinated with blooms in our official color palette: gold and navy blue.
Eighteen hours.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
After a quick walkthrough of the ceremony in the throne room, Alden and I wander through the castle courtyard arm in arm. It’s a lovely evening — a warm wind stirs the tree boughs overhead, blows strands of hair across my shoulders like a playful lover’s kiss. The sun is setting over the mountains, basking the world in ombre hues of orange.
A beautiful nightmare.
“I can’t believe this time tomorrow, we’ll be married,” Alden marvels lowly.
I glance over at him. “Want to make a run for it?”
“No. You?”
“In these shoes?” I show off a stiletto heel. “I wouldn’t make it past the castle gates.”
Chuckling, he squeezes my arm. “I suppose we’re stuck with one another, then.”
“Seems that way.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been married before; I don’t have a baseline for the proper amount of pre-wedding jitters.” He tilts his head, bemused. “Though the prospect of fumbling my vows in front of the entire world does stir a certain amount of anxiety.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re one of the calmest public speakers I’ve ever seen. Without you by my side — not just during this wedding press junket, but through the entire referendum campaign and the treason trial — I would’ve been lost.”
“Not true, but kind of you to say, My Queen.”
“Alden. We’re getting married tomorrow. I think it’s time you dropped my formal title.”
“But you’ll always be My Queen.” He pauses. His voice drops lower. “My wife. My love.”
We come to a stop under a towering oak tree, its canopy bursting with life. Alden pivots me around so I’m facing him properly. I feel like an actress in a movie — trying to muster up emotions that do not belong to me for the sake of someone else.
What’s my line?
“Emilia,” he says, quite seriously.
“Yes?”
“I know for you, this wedding — this marriage — was born from a sense of duty. But… for me… it is about something quite different.” His hazel eyes are brimming with emotion. “Since we first met, I have admired you. Your strength, your courage. Your beauty. Your determination.”
“Alden—”
“Allow me to finish. Please.”
I bite my lip to contain my objections.
“Tomorrow, when I become your husband… I want you to know, I do it not out of duty or obligation, but as a man deeply under your spell.” His fingers lace with mine, tightening gently to underscore his declaration. “I am in love with you, Emilia.”
I feel my mouth gape open, shock reverberating through me like I’ve been electrocuted. “Alden, I… I don’t know what to say…”
“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. Before we take our vows before God and our countrymen. Before we move into this castle as man and wife. Before we consummate this marriage… I do love you. And I will be here, loving you, until your heart is ready to reciprocate.”
I look into his eyes, wishing I could offer him assurance of my affections without it being a fabrication. Wishing I was capable of returning the feelings he so eloquently expressed.
But I will not lie to him.
And, the truth is, my heart… it is no longer mine to give away. Not when it already beats for someone else.
It will forever beat for someone else.
Pulse pounding, I reach up and lay one hand against Alden’s cheek. “Thank you for telling me. I value your honesty and your friendship more than you will ever know.”
Something flashes in his eyes when I say the word friendship, but he hides it away too quickly for me to decipher. Clearing his throat, he forces a bright smile.
“They say when a woman gets married, she needs something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a slim velvet box. Inside, there’s a stunning sapphire bracelet. It glitters like starlight as he pulls it from the bed of satin and clasps it around my wrist. “Here is your something blue, my dear.”
“Oh, Alden,” I murmur. “This is too generous.”
“Nonsense.”
“It must’ve cost a fortune.”
“Don’t you know by now that there is nothing I would not give you?” he whispers ardently, leaning in until our faces are a hairsbreadth apart. “That there is nothing I would not do for you? If you asked, I would die for you. I would kill for you. I would protect you from anyone who seeks to hurt you. What else must I do to prove that?”
For the love of God…
What’s my damn line?
But there is no one there to tell me what to say and I have no words of my own to offer him. So there, beneath a three-hundred-year-old oak tree, in the fading light of a perfect August day, I arch my head back and allow my future husband to kiss me for the first time.
His lips move over mine — a light, lovely exploration. And it’s undoubtedly nice. Unquestionably pleasant.
The perfect kiss from the perfect man at the perfect moment.
If only my broken heart agreed.
For weeks, meteorologists predicted a sun-drenched forecast for my wedding day. All of August, we’ve enjoyed miraculously fair climes. And yet, I wake to torrential rain and cloudy skies. It seems an unexpected front moved in overnight, drenching the streets in relentless drizzle, basking the world in monochrome.
If my sense of humor was still intact, I’d see a certain sort of irony in that.
My morning is spent with a fleet of seamstresses and beauticians, who assist me into my gown under the careful supervision of Lady Morrell. My hair is styled artfully in a low bun to accommodate my veil, industrial strength spray insuring not a single strand will fall out of place. A makeup artist clucks over my dark circles as she applies what feels like a pound of powder to my face.
Four hours later, I am deemed presentable. There’s not a dry eye amongst the beauty prep team as they stare at me in my dress — a voluminous silk monstrosity with a square neckline, tapered waist, and dainty cap sleeves.
I’m told twelve designers worked night and day to get the fit right, hand-sewing the pearls that trail down my spine. The veil’s edge is laced with Germanian crystals, twenty feet of pure glitter dragging in my wake — as if the diamond-encrusted crown atop my head wasn’t already heavy enough to induce a migraine.
“Oh, Your Majesty!” Lady Morrell wipes a tear with an embroidered handkerchief. “You are an absolute vision!”
“The world will come to a stop when they see you in this dress,” one of the makeup artists murmurs, staring at me in awe. “Kate Middleton will be a distant memory.”
Chloe comes up behind me in the mirror, catching my eyes in the reflection. “E, it’s true. You look amazing.”
The smile on my lips is as stiff as my tone. “We should go now. Wouldn’t want to be late to my own wedding.”
Chloe stares at me with worried eyes as I turn to leave my chambers for the last time, each step robotic. Tonight, when I return, I will sleep in the new East Wing… with my new husband.
I
make my way slowly down the corridor. With this much fabric on my body, I can’t move much faster than a crawl. I need three assistants just to carry my train.
Using the bathroom is going to be an adventure.
“E…” Chloe is chewing her bottom lip worriedly — half her pink lipstick is already ruined. Otherwise, she’s a vision; her maid-of-honor dress, a shimmering gold sheath, looks amazing with her pale skin, slim build, and red locks. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I respond automatically, eyes fixed on the floor in front of me. We’re approaching the stairs, which will require all my attention to navigate.
Don’t think about anything else.
Just focus on the path directly in front of you.
One step at a time.
“E…”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Sure. If you say so…”
She doesn’t sound convinced, but I keep walking anyway, hoping she’ll drop the subject. With a sigh, she falls into step beside me, offering her arm in support when we reach the stairs. I can hear Lady Morrell and her assistants behind us, dealing with my train as we descend. Their excited chit-chat grates on my nerves like nails against a chalkboard.
The household staff has gathered in the Great Hall to watch me go. I spot Simms at the front of the group, along with a dozen other faces I’ve come to know well. Patricia the Head Cook. Hans, the Master of Stables. Derrick, the pageboy.
Most of the women are wiping tears as they watch me walk by. Even the men look a bit red around the eyes, taking in the sight of me in my dress.
Galizia and Riggs are posted at the front exit, clad in their formal dress uniforms — navy with double-breasted gold buttons, hilted swords strapped to their sides.
They pull open the doors to reveal a line of Queen’s Guard standing at attention in the pouring rain, their spines stiff as rods, their faces fixed straight ahead. They form a path down the steps, straight into the waiting limousine.
Riggs whistles and, without adieu, every guard in the gauntlet reaches for his hilt and pulls out a sword. Except, I quickly realize they aren’t swords at all — they’re umbrellas. They open in unison, instantly creating a rain shield for my walk to the car.
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