chapter 14
1946 Words
The morning of the wedding did not begin with the joyous pealing of bells, but with the rhythmic, suffocating thud of a silver hammer. Workers were erecting the final scaffolding for the international press corps outside the Nieuwe Kerk in Amsterdam. Inside the palace, the air was thick with the scent of lilies—a cloying, funeral sweetness that made Elisa want to retch.
Elisa stood on a pedestal in the center of the dressing room, a tectonic plate of white silk and Chantilly lace draped over her frame. She felt less like a bride and more like a cathedral being built by committee. Six seamstresses fluttered around her, their mouths full of pins, tucking the fabric until she could barely draw a breath.
"It’s too tight," Elisa gasped, her ribs straining against the bodice.
"It is the silhouette of a future Queen-Regent, Elisabeth," her mother, Mrs. Van den Berg, said from the chaise longue. She was sipping champagne at ten in the morning, her eyes sharp and predatory. "A Queen does not need to breathe; she only needs to be seen."
Elisa looked at her reflection. The dress was a masterpiece of architectural cruelty. It had been designed by a Parisian house specifically to symbolize the "binding" of the two families. The train was five meters long, weighted with seed pearls that felt like lead shot.
"I’m not a Queen," Elisa whispered, her voice cracking. "I’m a hostage."
"Don't be dramatic," her mother snapped. "Saskia is already in the Veluwe, fuming. You have won the ultimate prize. You are marrying the man who holds the seal of the Regency. You have salvaged our family's dignity from the gutter where your brother-in-law nearly threw it."
"I didn't win anything," Elisa said, tearing a stray thread from her glove. "I lost the sky. I lost the ability to walk down a street without a security detail. I lost a man I actually liked and replaced him with a statue made of ice."
Across the palace, in the Prince’s wing, Casper was undergoing a different kind of preparation. He stood before a full-length mirror, staring at the uniform of the Grand Cross of the Order of the Netherlands Lion. The heavy gold epaulettes weighed on his shoulders like the hands of the dead.
His valet was polishing the star on his chest, but Casper was looking at his hands. They were soft now. The callouses from the Achterhoek—the honest scars of the plow and the fence-wire—had faded. He felt unmoored, a ghost inhabiting a costume.
The door opened, and Floris stepped in. He was dressed in his naval uniform, looking older and more tired than a man who had been married only a few months should look.
"You look like a King, Casper," Floris said, though there was no mockery in his voice today. Only a hollow, echoing pity.
"I look like a liar," Casper replied. He reached for his ceremonial sword, the steel cold against his palm. "How is she, Floris? How is your 'Queen'?"
Floris flinched. "Saskia is... adapting. The hunting lodge is quiet. Too quiet for her. She spends her days writing letters to the Prime Minister and her nights staring at the fire. She thinks you’re going to fail."
"I might," Casper said. "But I won't fail Elisa. Not today."
"You’re marrying her to save the Crown, Casper. You're both being sacrificed." Floris walked over and straightened Casper’s collar. "I’m sorry. For everything. For being the reason they needed a 'spare' bride."
"Save your apologies for the pews, Floris," Casper said, his eyes hardening. "Today, we perform. Tomorrow, we bleed."
The drive to the Nieuwe Kerk was a blur of cheering crowds and blue-and-orange flags. To the citizens of Amsterdam, this was the romantic c****x of a turbulent year. They didn't see the two people inside the armored glass carriages as individuals; they saw them as symbols of a restored order.
When the heavy oak doors of the church swung open, the organ music hit Elisa like a physical blow. The "Prince of Denmark’s March" roared through the rafters, a triumphant sound that felt like a mockery of her internal silence.
She walked down the aisle on the arm of Alexander Van den Berg. Her father’s grip was like a vice, a silent command to keep her head high. She looked at the guests—the rows of diplomats, the minor royals of Europe, the weeping socialites. They were all there to witness the funeral of her freedom.
And then, she saw him.
Casper was standing at the altar, silhouetted against the stained glass. He looked terrifyingly regal. The blue sash across his chest was the color of the deep ocean, and his face was a mask of cold, immovable granite. But as she drew closer, she saw his eyes. They weren't hard. They were devastated.
When Alexander handed her over, Casper’s hand met hers. His skin was burning hot, a sharp contrast to the chill of the stone church.
"You look beautiful," he whispered, his voice so low only she could hear.
"I look like a cage," she replied.
The ceremony was a marathon of tradition. The Archbishop spoke of "duty," "sacrifice," and "the holy union of state and soul." Each word felt like a brick being added to a wall.
When it came time for the vows, the silence in the church was deafening. Thousands of people held their breath, waiting for the "I do" that would seal the Regency.
Casper spoke first. His voice was steady, resonant, and utterly devoid of passion. He promised to honor her, to protect her, and to serve the Kingdom by her side. He was giving his life to a contract, and everyone in the room could hear the ink drying.
Then it was Elisa’s turn. She looked at the heavy gold ring in the Archbishop’s hand. She thought about her apartment in the city, her unfinished sketches, the life where she was just "the younger sister" who could disappear into a bookstore for hours.
She looked at Casper. He was watching her with an intensity that wasn't love—it was solidarity. He was a drowning man looking at the only other person in the water.
"I will," she said. The words were small, but they carried the weight of a sentence.
As Casper slid the ring onto her finger, it felt like a cold, golden shackle snapping shut. He leaned in for the kiss—the moment the cameras had been waiting for. It was brief, a ghost of a touch, the contact of two people who were apologizing to each other for existing.
The reception at the Royal Palace on Dam Square was a nightmare of crystal and caviar. The King, looking remarkably recovered and smug, stood at the head of the table. He had won. He had turned his rebellious heir into a puppet and neutralized the "wild" Van den Berg daughter.
"A toast," the King announced, his glass raised high. "To the King-Regent and his Princess. May their union be as stable as the dikes that protect our land."
A roar of "Leve de Koning!" went up from the hall.
Casper sat beside Elisa, their chairs inches apart but feeling like miles. Neither of them touched the pheasant or the vintage wine. They were the centerpieces of a feast they weren't allowed to eat.
"My father is already talking about the first overseas tour," Elisa whispered, her fingers twisting a napkin under the table. "Washington, London, Tokyo. We’re going to be a traveling circus, Casper."
"We’ll do what we have to," Casper said, his hand finding hers beneath the tablecloth. He didn't hold it romantically; he gripped it like a lifeline. "But listen to me, Elisa. They have our names. They have our schedules. They have our faces on the currency. But they don't have our minds."
"Don't they?" Elisa looked at the ring on her finger, the Orange-Nassau diamond catching the light. "I feel like I’m disappearing. I feel like 'Elisabeth' is being erased by 'The Princess of Orange.'"
"I won't let you disappear," Casper said, his voice dropping into a growl. "I’ll make you a deal. For every hour we spend in this uniform, we spend an hour being real. We’ll find a corner of this palace that they don't own. We’ll keep the 'Farmer' and the 'Rebel' alive in the dark."
"It won't be enough," she said, a tear finally escaping and hitting the white silk of her lap.
"It has to be," he replied.
On the other side of the table, Floris watched them. He saw the way they leaned into each other—not as lovers, but as soldiers in a foxhole. He looked at Saskia, who was sitting beside him, her eyes fixed on the crown sitting on a velvet cushion behind Casper’s chair.
"They look miserable," Saskia whispered, a flick of venom in her voice. "He’ll break within a year, Floris. And when he does, you need to be ready to pick up the pieces."
"Stop it, Saskia," Floris said, his voice weary. "Leave them alone. Haven't we done enough?"
"We haven't done anything yet," she said, her smile as sharp as a razor.
As the night wound down, the royal couple was led to the balcony of the palace. Below them, tens of thousands of people stood in the square, their phone screens glowing like a sea of stars.
Casper stepped out first, the cold night air hitting his face. He felt the immense, crushing pressure of the crowd’s expectations. They wanted a savior. They wanted a fairy tale.
He reached back and took Elisa’s hand, pulling her forward. She looked pale, her violet-bruised eyes wide with shock at the sheer scale of the noise. The cheers were a physical force, a wall of sound that vibrated in their chests.
Casper raised their joined hands into the air.
The flashbulbs of a hundred photographers flared simultaneously, turning the night into a blinding, artificial day. In that moment, the image was captured: The King-Regent and his bride, standing at the precipice of a new age.
To the world, it was the picture of a perfect union.
But as Casper looked down at the people, he realized the King was right. He was no longer the man from the North Pasture. He was the man in the cage. He looked at Elisa, and he saw his own reflection in her eyes—a person trapped in a suit of gold armor, marching toward a throne that felt like a guillotine.
The bells of Amsterdam began to peel again, echoing over the canals.
"The tragedy is just beginning," Elisa whispered, her voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
"Then let's play our parts," Casper replied, his face hardening into the regal mask once more. "Until we find a way to burn the theater down."
As the royal couple turned to go back inside, the heavy doors closing behind them, the fireworks began to explode over the Amstel—red, white, and blue sparks that lit up the sky before falling, cold and dark, into the water.
The wedding was over. The Regency was absolute. And the two most powerful people in the country were the only ones who knew they were already dead.
- Writer
