Love is a fickle thing. Something Caroline Rosings was never able to experience before her untimely death: not familial, not romantic. But she did love in a rather unconventional method. She loved reading, and fictional worlds with fictional princes and happy-ever-afters, and as she decided that love was nothing more than just a word on a page, she met him. Ink on paper suddenly became so much more when it came alive, creating this world around her. No, not her, not Caroline Rosings anymore.
Me.
Sir Amalie Marinette von Ewell the third, only daughter of His Grace Duke Ewell. This is the life I chose for myself, and as I look at my fictional prince, riding on his horse, arms wrapped around his waist, I wonder if perhaps this, this happiness, this foreign circumstance, is as rare as love is. True love.
We had left the others at the estate with my father to debrief the situation to the second knights' regiment. The Duke agreed to lend us his troop for this purpose, but we would be unable to procure mass amounts of armor and weaponry through him without detection from Queen Rista. Father gave me a name and an address of a crooked noble that would assist us in remedying this predicament, but I'd be lying if I said I weren't at least a bit skeptical of my skills of negotiation. Though having a Duke's fortune tied to my name doesn't hurt. We have a meeting scheduled in two days time.
It was decided that at least one of us should return to the castle to assess the situation, and report that the Crown Prince and his knight were both certainly dead. Geoffrey happily volunteered, insisting on honing his skills of espionage. Grace, Percival, and Phillip remain at the estate, awaiting further orders. For now they will be devising a plan that involves insider information on the layout of Lambhurst Palace, as well as spread the rumor through the Ewell Dukedom of the Queen's cruelty. How could she murder the beloved daughter of their Duke? The more aristocrats we can persuade to our faction, the less resistance there will be for a coup.
For now, Cole insisted on taking me to a trusted apothecary on the outskirts of the dukedom, one that he has seen since he was a boy and retired a few years back, Sergei Bryant. He wanted to take a carriage to ensure I don't further injure myself, but I insisted riding horseback would be less conspicuous. I was right, of course, but being right has come at the unfortunate cost of my comfort; not that I have much room to complain, a bruised tailbone is preferable to a slit throat. Dressed in simple, plain garb, and curls pinned to the top of my head, we've been riding since dawn, and only now arrived.
"Careful, Princess," he offers a hand to help me down, "It'd be shame to be out of commission before the fight has even started."
Careful to keep my weight on my one good leg, I less-than-gracefully accept his gesture and dismount from the horse. "You're mistaken, Cole, for I'm not a princess."
"Not yet. But when this is all over I fully intend to make you one."
"Is that a proposal?"
"It's a promise." He places a gentle kiss on the back of my hand and I find myself fighting the butterflies finding residence in my stomach. "Come, there's an old friend I'm sure you'd be delighted to meet."
"Sergei, you mean? You have spoken so highly of him and yet it's been years since you've last made acquaintance. What if the gentleman has become less than exceptional?"
"Then the halls will be hung with portraits of a one-legged queen." Cole offers a wry smile and I push an elbow into his side, though it's clear he has the same doubts and concerns as me. What if he can't help me? Or worse, what if I simply can't be helped?
"Best not to ponder on 'what ifs' and 'what nots,'" I laugh a nervous laugh, "Questions must be answered before mourned."
Looking around, there isn't much to see but a desolate village and foliage obscuring my vision every few feet. Why such a famed physician decided to retire to the slums is beyond me, but another thought occurs to me. Though this area is so close to the dukedom, I'm wholly unfamiliar with the terrain. In my limited time in this world, I've never looked beyond the walls I've been kept in; perhaps that can be accredited to my ever-changing circumstances and ever-wavering survival status. Though if I'm to overtake the throne with Cole by my side, it's time to stop making such excuses for my negligence. I'm as familiar with these lands and people as the Crown Prince, and yet I have not been locked in a palace my entire life.
A group of small children had been playing with a partially deflated ball that made its way towards me and the prince, and he simply hands it back to them with a smile, unbothered by their tattered clothes and dirt covered faces. He doesn't even seem to recognize that they're from poverty.
"Sergei only has a clinic here," Cole says as we walk from the stables we've stashed our horse. "That's what you were thinking was it not? Why he was here of all places?"
"Please do not read my thoughts. It's jarring when accurate."
"It's difficult when everything is painted so plainly on your expressions. But to answer your question, he's always been a philanthropic fellow, and when he retired he dedicated his life to assisting the impoverished and starved. He's been moving to the poorest regions of Belmar for years, bringing his clinic with him to any area that great requires his expertise. Last I've heard, a case of cholera has swept through the this town, and he's been called to treat this town and their water."
"He sounds like a wonderful fellow."
"He's a fool, to be curt. Intelligent to a fault, and as kind as a priest is to God. He loves unconditionally, that optimistic senescence, believes the best in people. But that's why he's better than any other physician, we can trust him to keep our secret for our own sakes."
"The let's meet the poor fool."
On the end of the street was a more modern building, each wall still standing and a roof to top it off which is more to say for most of the places we've passed so far. Cole doesn't bat eye, no matter how broken these homes are, though I suppose shifting pitying glances will draw more attention than pretending as though this was our ordinary as much as it is theirs. We're wearing rags, we rode in on tired horses, and Cole's even learned how to slouch. From the outside, we really do look like commoners.
Once we reach the clinic, a gust of cool air brushes past the doors, leaving the heat of the summer sun behind. A young receptionist sits at the desk, and speaking to her, an elderly man hunched with time. "Sergei you old grumbleton, will you not meet your patients?"
Sergei's head snaps upward at Cole's voice, "My stars. From the grave himself." He hurries over to embrace the prince, the two of them laughing like the old friends i didn't realize they were.
Once parted, Cole returns to my side, helping me hold my weight, and gestures towards the physician. "Sergei Bryant, former royal apothecary, retired a decade prior. He's the one that bandaged my knees when I used to fall in the gardens."
"How often you must have fallen for you to be so well acquainted," I joke, and they nod in mutual agreement.
"He would never walk the palace without at least a dozen bruises on his legs and a smile on his face. Much stronger now aren't we Your Highness?" Sergei's voice is unexpectedly deep, soothing, like a fathers. Perhaps the Crown Prince found solace in his physician when his father was away dealing with courtly duties.
"Yes indeed," Cole nods, "Nowadays bandages are seldom necessary. A kiss for recovery is more than enough, though it can't be said for my Lady here. Lady Amalie is badly burned, could you prepare her some ointment for her leg?"
"Lady Amalie? The Duke's daughter?"
I nod something akin to an eyeroll, "That's the one."
Sergei glances at my leg as I lift the hem of my skirt, exposing the charred skin underneath. He sucks in s breath, lets out a tut or two, and smiles as though all I've done was scraped my knee. "Just a simple burn? I'd be delighted," he says, guiding us to an examination room. "Though know, the best I have will still leave a scar behind. It might make finding prospective husbands difficult in the future."
I start to respond but Cole does so for me. "That's not a worry to be had, the Lady has already found a suitor that will look past scars of duty," he winks.
Sergei looks back at the both of us and nods in understanding, a mischievous grin forming ever so slightly and I wonder if that's where Cole learned his smile.
The room he brings us to is painted a soft white with a patient bench on one side – lined with a sterile, disposable sheet of paper – and a desk filled with small instruments to the other. On the far right wall between the two are shelves and shelves reaching from floor to ceiling, filled with different medications and herbal remedies. Sergei removes a few jars from the wall and sits to begin his alchemy when he continues speaking. "Do tell me, Your Highness, why have you sought out my services this far west from the capital? Are there no other apothecaries in Belmar?"
Cole, helping me onto the bench while remaining conscious of my leg, responds, "There are, of course, but to them I am dead, and to you, hopefully not. I would like to trust you, Sergei, and so I am telling you this before the news has spread thus far. Can I trust you?"
An unassuming laugh echoes from the apothecary's desk, almost as though his answer was always obvious. "If I wanted you dead I would not have cured you so many times. Speak."
"Queen Rista has burned down my palace – intending for me to die– stolen my throne and now she intends for Tristen to be the next king. The day my father dies is the day of Tristen's coronation and I can't help but feel as though she's far along the process of widowing. "
Sergei looks up, finally concerned at the gravity of our situation. "Oh dear," he stares at us, reaching for another jar to add to his mixture, "and what am I to do? I left the politics of court behind when retiring, this is no place for an old man to meddle."
"I ask that you provide potions, tonics, and remedies in such that when our men reclaim the throne, you will be there waiting to aid the injured. Or at least send some people of able mind who are willing."
Sergei stops working for a moment, shifting his gaze between the two of us. How must it feel to look at the prince he once served dressed in rags, crown stripped from his regal self. He recognized him as though it were just any other day, despite being a decade older. Were the two really that close? There was no chance to meet him in the original story even if they were, Cole and Margarite would surely be captured if they ventured anywhere near the Duke's territory.
The old man, hands shaky with age, only noticeable when he's not lost in his craft, settles his line of sight on me. "Tell me child, were you too at Lambhurst when it burned? Was the Queen the reason someone so young must be in such pain?"
"It's not the first time the Queen has burned me." A shaky laugh catches in my throat; I never chose to think about the pain. Excruciating, enough to make a grown man cry. Putting weight on it almost doesn't feel real anymore, like it's not my leg to use. Almost as if Rista knew it wouldn't matter if she scarred me, so she wanted to make sure it was a mark that would make running from her all the more difficult. "It's my duty," is all the more I say, but now focusing on the pain, I stifle a cry.
Sergei looks at me sympathetically, at my disfigured leg, and nods resolutely. "Providing medicines, treating the wounded, that I can do, but understand this game of treachery you are playing, Your Highness. If Rista catches wind of your plans the entirety of Belmar will be burned to the ground in search of you."
"And I will not let that happen."
The physician stand from his desk, mortar and pestle in one hand – a sickly white paste grinded in the center – and cloth wraps in another. "Aloe vera to rehydrate the burned area, acetaminophen to relieve pain, and antiseptic to kill any lingering disease. Apply this ointment and change your bandages twice a day and you should be ready to fight, my Lady." He takes my leg and begins applying the cool paste before continuing his conversation with Cole. "It is strange, however, that it is Rista who plans this. I remember her to be a pleasant, generous Lady of the court."
The two of us share a confused glance. "How so?"
"Well she helped me nurse your mother back to health, though that venture did turn sour so quickly and I am still unsure as to why."
Cole flinches at the mention of his mother, and his tone toughens at the memory of her. "I was told mother's condition was mysterious and incurable, so it was a fruitless task."
"Mysterious? From what I could see your mother had nothing more than a common cold, she would have been up on her feet in a few days, but a complication with her lungs prevented it." Sergei tighten a wrap around my leg and I grit a bit at the pain. "Suddenly one morning she couldn't breathe, and that was the end of it."
A crease forms between his brows, and Cole turns his head. "And how did Rista help?"
"Well she was a lady in court before she was Queen, popular among the other ladies, applauded for her kindness. She nursed your mother on her bedside and drew baths for her everyday. I even heard that the Lady would put smelling salts in the baths to make the scent more enjoyable."
"Rista did this?"
"Yes, I recall notes of eucalyptus, vanilla, and morning dew."
Cole's eyes widen and he swallows hard. "Vanilla?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"In my mother's bath? You are aware vanilla originates from the orchid plant are you not?"
"Well she had asked me for geranium oils that smelled of vanilla, it was not made from orchids what I gave to her. I had assumed that that was what it was for."
Cole shakes his head. "You trusting fool," he mutters under his breath. "That bitch!" this time louder, loud enough to startle.
The second my bandages are pinned in place, Cole snatches the ointment from Sergei, grabs my hand, and storms towards the door, trotting with an anger I've only seen once before. "Thank you," I say quickly before I'm dragged away, "We will send you an invoice regarding our next plans of action in a weeks time."
Cole continues to drag me and he doesn't stop to offer an explanation until we are on the back of his horse. "What is the matter?" I ask, frustrated more than confused. "Explain this outburst, this change in mood."
"My mother is allergic to orchids!" he's shouting, though not at me, more at the wind, at the entirety of Belmar, "She can't breathe around them. It's why Rista planted so many in her palace after she died. She loved everything my mother hated, everything she couldn't have. And the rest of the court doesn't even realize what their queen has done."
If vanilla comes from orchids, and her death bed smelled of vanilla, Rista wouldn't have needed the smelling salts Sergei had given her. Not to accomplish her goals at least. All it would have done was give an explanation as to why her room smells of vanilla that isn't incriminating, and would have helped her maintain her innocent, docile image. "So does that mean..."
"Yes. Yes it does. It means Rista tricked Sergei into an alibi," he releases a shaky breath, "And she killed my mother."