The princess’s love

Ghost??

The morning after the dinner was silent, just as every morning in the North Wing was. The sun struggled to pierce through the thick, grey mist that rolled off the Aethelgard mountains, casting a pale, ghostly light across Elara’s floor. She lay still for a long time, watching the dust motes dance in the air. In this wing of the palace, time didn't move in hours; it moved in heartbeats and the slow fading of wallpaper.

She dressed herself today. She didn't want to wait for a maid who would only flinch at her touch. She chose a simple gown of dove-grey wool, the kind of dress that was meant to blend into the stone walls.

When she opened her door, Silas was there. He didn't say good morning. He simply fell into step two paces behind her as she began her morning trek to the library.

"The King is meeting with the Master of Coin today," Silas remarked, his voice low and steady. "The East Gallery is off-limits. We'll have to take the servant's crawl through the kitchens."

"A princess in the kitchens," Elara said, a faint, dry smile touching her lips. "How scandalous. My sisters would have a fit if they thought their silk skirts might brush against a flour sack."

"Your sisters aren't awake yet," Silas noted. "They spent the night celebrating the arrival of the Southern silk shipments. They won't emerge until the sun is high."

They moved through the narrow, dim service tunnels. Here, the palace smelled of roasting coffee, damp earth, and sweat. It was the "under-palace," the world that kept the glittering one above it from collapsing. As they passed a group of laundry maids, the women stopped talking immediately, their eyes darting to the floor. Elara felt the familiar coldness settle in her chest. Even the commoners knew she was a bad omen.

As they reached the library—a massive, circular room filled from floor to ceiling with ancient knowledge—Elara finally felt she could breathe.

"I’ll be at the door," Silas said, stepping into the shadows of the arched entryway. "You have two hours before the Queen Mother’s memorial service. You are expected to stand in the back row of the chapel."

Elara nodded, moving toward the history section. She reached for a book on the founding of the kingdom, but as her fingers touched the spine, a hand clamped down over hers.

"Still looking for a way to rewrite the past, Elara?"

It was Princess Beatrice. She was dressed in a morning gown of ivory lace, looking every bit the pristine future queen. She hadn't slept late after all. Behind her stood Odette, who was busy peeling an orange with a small silver knife, her eyes bright with a sharp, bird-like curiosity.

"I’m just reading, Beatrice," Elara said, trying to pull her hand away. Beatrice didn't let go.

"You spend too much time in books," Beatrice said, her voice a calm, terrifying silk. "It gives you ideas. It makes you think that because you share our father’s name, you share our destiny. You don't. You are a biological necessity he was forced to keep, nothing more."

Odette popped a slice of orange into her mouth. "Father was saying this morning that he might move you to the old convent on the cliffs. It’s much quieter there. No libraries, of course. Just prayer and stone walls. He thinks it might finally 'wash' the Isadora out of you."

Elara felt her throat tighten. "He wouldn't. I haven't done anything."

"Your existence is 'doing something,' darling," Odette giggled. She stepped closer, the scent of citrus cloying and sweet. She reached out and plucked a loose silver hair from Elara’s shoulder. "Look at this. You even age like a tragedy. You’re only twenty-one, and you look like you’ve been carved out of a winter's night. It’s quite depressing to look at, really."

Beatrice finally released Elara’s hand, but only to brush a speck of dust off Elara’s grey shoulder. "We are going to the conservatory to have tea with the Duchess of Oakhaven. You, however, will go to the chapel. You will stand behind the pillar, you will keep your head bowed, and you will not—under any circumstances—look at the Duchess. She has a delicate constitution, and Father doesn't want her disturbed by... reminders of the scandal."

"I am his daughter," Elara whispered, the words feeling small in the vast room.

"You are a ghost that eats his bread," Beatrice countered. She turned to Silas, who was watching from the doorway, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Captain, see that she stays in the chapel. If she wanders toward the conservatory, you will be held personally responsible for the breach in protocol."

Silas gave a stiff, formal bow. "The Princess will be where she is commanded to be, Highness."

As the two sisters swept out of the library, their laughter echoing off the high ceiling, Elara sank into a nearby chair. She felt small. She felt hollowed out, like an eggshell that had been drained of its life.

"They're lying about the convent," Silas said, stepping out of the shadows.

"How do you know?"

"Because the King needs you," Silas said. He walked over to the table and picked up the book she had been reaching for. "He wouldn't move you to a convent where no one can see you. He needs you here, as a contrast. Every time people see you looking pale and unloved, it makes your sisters look more radiant. You are the shadow that makes their light seem brighter. He won't give that up."

"That’s even worse," Elara said, burying her face in her hands. "I’m a prop. I’m a piece of furniture meant to make the rest of the room look better."

Silas didn't offer a platitude. He didn't tell her it wasn't true. Instead, he reached out and tapped the cover of the book. "Then learn the furniture's secret, Elara. People talk freely in front of chairs and tables. They forget that the walls have ears. If they want you to be a ghost, then be the kind of ghost that knows where all the bodies are buried."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I checked the laundry logs. Genevieve didn't burn your journals. She’s keeping them in the false bottom of her jewelry trunk. She plans to show them to the Duchess of Oakhaven today to prove how 'unstable' you are."

Elara looked up, her eyes wide. "If the Duchess sees them... my father will never forgive me."

"Then we don't go to the chapel," Silas said, a spark of something rebellious in his dark eyes.

"But you’ll be punished! Beatrice said—"

"I’m a Captain of the Guard, Elara. I know the patrol routes better than the men walking them. We have one hour before the tea starts. If you want those journals back, you’re going to have to do something you’ve never done before."

"What?"

"You're going to have to break into your sister's room."

Elara looked at her hands. They were trembling, but for the first time, it wasn't from fear. It was from the sudden, sharp thrill of a girl who was tired of being invisible.