Dawn of Destiny (The Warrior Angels Trilogy - Book 1)

Chapter Forty-One

Beatrice pulled on her white lace gloves and glanced at herself in the looking glass. She scowled at her reflection and at the dark colors she'd been told to wear for the occasion.

Sir Allister had been buried earlier. The ceremony had been left between the soldiers and his family. Now her mother wanted to address the entire court about the ordeal and pay her respects to her guard. Beatrice needed to attend as well, and she felt relief she didn't have to speak. She didn't believe she could manage a speech right now.

She almost refused accepting the truth.

She refused to believe Sir Allister was... gone. The last time she had said more than a few words to him, three months ago, he'd been mortified by her comments about his son. She grimaced at the memory now. How absolutely shameful of her. He had always been nothing but gentle with her. And she could never apologize to him for that.

"Your Highness," Jeanette called from the other side of the door.

Beatrice took a deep breath and went over to answer. Maribel stood beside her mother and they both curtsied to her.

"Shall we go?" Jeanette asked.

Beatrice nodded, exiting her chambers. Jeanette closed the door for her and trailed behind as Beatrice walked side-by-side with Maribel.

"I feel ill," Maribel whispered to her.

"Do not feel ill, Mar."

"He's dead, Your Highness. Sir Allister is dead."

"We are all going to die, anyway." Beatrice raised her head higher. She needed to remind herself of that sometimes. Death should not be feared.

"No, he did not simply die. He was killed."

"Well, his death was not ideal, but almost no one dies peacefully. Even those who manage growing old might still die from a devastating disease."

Maribel gasped and touched her chest. "How can you speak like that? Does this truly not bother you at all?"

"It does, Mar."

"Then why are you—"

"Because I have to be!" Beatrice snapped, whirling on Maribel.

Jeanette froze in her tracks, along with servants walking past. They all stared astonishingly at Beatrice. Out of everyone they could have predicted her to shout at, it would've never been Maribel. And as Beatrice realized this herself, her chest tightened with guilt.

She swallowed hard and firmly said, "I am going alone. Do not follow me."

"Your Highness—"

"I said no, Maribel."

Maribel closed her mouth and looked away, fiddling with a string hanging off her lavender gown—another one of Beatrice's. Beatrice pursed her lips and turned, continuing toward the staircase. She heard whispers behind her and half-expected them to disobey and follow her, anyway.

Except they didn't.

Upon approaching the throne room downstairs, Beatrice listened to the murmurs and the insistent shushing from others coming from inside. She hurried into the corridor behind the room and met with her parents, who were waiting to be announced. Her father waved her over to his side while her mother didn't even acknowledge her presence. The usual.

The crowd inside was fully silenced before Lady Morgana cleared her throat and announced the three of them. A guard opened the door for them. Her mother entered first, her father next, and then Beatrice. They took their seats on the thrones—her mother's being the grandest, of course, while Beatrice's was the smallest and to her mother's left.