Reincarnation By Execution

3. Reincarnation By Execution Underway

By morning, Evelyne awoke to find her chamber restored to order—her scattered tomes stacked in neat pyramids and her ink-splattered notes arranged with surgical precision. The maids hovered nearby, their expressions a blend of practiced serenity and faint exasperation. “Lady Aurelis, you must rise. The sun is already quite scandalized by your continued slumber—it is well past noon!” one declared, her voice as crisp as starched linen.

“Grr, five more minutes,” Evelyne groaned, clutching the blanket and burrowing deeper, only to spring upright so abruptly that the maids nearly dropped their silver trays. Her hair, wild and defiant, looked as though she’d spent the night negotiating with thunderstorms. Eyes blazing with resolve, Evelyne proclaimed, “I shall become the most notorious villainess in all Solaris, earn a grand execution, and rewrite history! Sleep is for the faint of heart!”

The maids exchanged glances—half puzzled, half resigned—like seasoned diplomats negotiating a treaty with a firebrand. Margaret, the senior maid, let out a refined chuckle. “Perhaps, my lady,” she said, guiding Evelyne from bed with the grace of a courtier, “world domination would be best undertaken after a proper bath and breakfast, lest your villainous ambitions wilt beneath yesterday’s jam stains.”

With regal efficiency, they ushered her toward the bathroom, trailing behind and whispering with the hushed awe reserved for an opera diva preparing her grand entrance. “What new spectacle shall Lady Evelyne unveil today?” one whispered. “Did you see the demon in the top hats in her notes?” another replied. “Perhaps she’s plotting to conquer the kitchen next.”

Refreshed by a steamy bath, sated by a decadent breakfast, and buoyed by a moment of serene contemplation, Evelyne perched at her desk once again—this time plotting her inaugural foray into infamy. Her eyes gleamed with the mischievous promise of grand schemes as she tapped her fingers together.

“My lady, a letter for you,” piped a timid maid, clutching an envelope as if it might combust. Evelyne snatched it with dramatic flair, tearing it open and scanning the parchment inside.

“A tea party at the palace—hosted by the Crown Prince’s fiancée,” she mused, lips curling into a sly smile. Schemes stirred behind her gaze. “Tell me, if I were to brazenly snatch your dessert in front of the court, would that enrage you?”

The maid’s eyes widened, her hands fluttering anxiously at her apron. “Stealing sweets is pure evil, my lady! You mustn’t even jest about such things.” She glanced nervously around, as if desserts everywhere were suddenly at risk.

Evelyne pressed a hand to her heart, adopting a mock-serious tone. “I must. I shall!” she declared, letting out a villainous cackle that bounced off the walls—a sound teetering between theatrical and genuinely unhinged. She could already envision the scandal: Rosalind’s gasp, the murmurs of the court, the Crown Prince’s icy glare. Surely such a crime would spur a plea for her execution!

“How evil is it, truly? Execution-level evil?” Evelyne wondered aloud, fingers drumming on the letter as she weighed the gravity of confectionary theft in royal circles.

The maid shook her head, torn between horror and exasperated fondness. “It’s cruel, certainly—but not quite worthy of an execution,” she replied, voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you ask, my lady? What mischief brews in your mind this time?”

“Dessert theft accompanied by public mortification,” Evelyne announced, her tone resolute. “I shall openly critique Lady Helewood’s flaws before the entire gathering. That will be my weapon at the tea party.” She flashed a sly smile, her mind already orchestrating the day’s schemes, convinced that such acts would surely earn her a scandalous demise. “Lady Helewood is painted as flawless now that she’s been chosen as Crown Prince Cassian’s bride.”

The maid gasped, clutching her apron with genuine alarm. “That’s social suicide, my lady! You mustn’t,” she pleaded, her concern evident—though deep down, she doubted even such audacious behavior could truly threaten House Aurelis, the unrivaled mages of Solaris.

Evelyne’s plan was flawless—deliciously wicked, daring enough to scandalize the court and, perhaps, provoke an execution dramatic enough to activate her spell and transport her soul straight into the demon realm. The anticipation simmered beneath her skin as the day of Rosalind’s inaugural tea party arrived, each moment charged with possibility.

She entered the palace’s rose garden on Damian’s arm, her older brother’s presence the perfect shield and silent accomplice. The garden bloomed in riotous color—roses in every hue spilling fragrance into the air, sunlight filtering through petals and casting dappled patterns on the polished marble paths. Noble ladies in spring dresses drifted between tables, the cool blues and lilacs of their gowns fluttering like butterfly wings amid the greenery. Delicate laughter mingled with the gentle clink of porcelain, the sweetness of pastries and fruit tarts perfuming the afternoon breeze.

Evelyne’s sharp gray eyes swept the scene with predatory precision. She moved with the composure of the truly dangerous, teacup poised, a faint, inscrutable smile on her lips. Her gaze locked onto her quarry: Rosalind, radiant at the heart of the gathering, surrounded by sycophantic debutantes eager to curry favor. Golden hair was braided intricately with pale blossoms and glints of jewel, sky-blue eyes sparkling as she offered some witty response that sent her companions into peals of laughter. Rosalind was the very image of innocence and grace—untouched, for now, by Evelyne’s impending storm.

Evelyne glided across the marble path on Damian’s arm, her posture regal and her smile enigmatic. The lively hum of noble chatter faded into the background as they approached the heart of the gathering, where Rosalind and Crown Prince Cassian held court amid a sea of pastel gowns and admiring onlookers.

Damian, ever the diplomat, offered a graceful bow. “Your Highness. Lady Halewood. It’s a pleasure to be here,” he said, his voice smooth and practiced. He cast a sidelong glance at Evelyne, silently prompting her to offer her own greeting.

But Evelyne had other plans. With a movement as swift as it was shocking, she reached out and slapped Rosalind’s dessert plate to the ground. The delicate confection tumbled into the grass, the fine china clattering as gasps rippled through the assembly.

“Evelyne!” Damian hissed, mortified. Noble ladies recoiled, hands fluttering to their mouths, while whispers of scandalous intent swept through the crowd. Evelyne met their stares with a cool indifference, relishing the chaos she had unleashed.

Crown Prince Cassian’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes flicked to the fallen dessert. He crouched gracefully, retrieving the plate, fingers deft and unhurried. Only then did he lift the pastry for all to see—a plump bee, wings furiously beating, was trapped within the sugary folds.

Rosalind’s wide-eyed shock shifted to disbelief and then confusion. “Why did you do that, Lady Aurelis? Do you hate me?” Her voice quivered, scandalized, as the surrounding nobles erupted in a chorus of accusations.

“She’s just jealous that Lady Halewood was chosen by the Crown Prince!” someone whispered, loud enough for all to hear. More voices piled on, feeding the rumor mill with fresh outrage.

Cassian silenced them with a raised hand. “Didn’t anyone notice the bee?” he said quietly, holding up the evidence. “Lady Halewood, you were seconds away from tasting more than just dessert.”

Evelyne blinked, momentarily stunned. She had meant only to provoke, not to save—yet fate, it seemed, had twisted her mischief into heroism. Before she could clarify her intent, Damian stepped in with practiced ease.

“Of course,” he interjected smoothly, “that was her sole concern. My deepest apologies for the startle, Lady Halewood.” He shot Evelyne a warning look, begging her to leave well enough alone.

Evelyne bristled, her eyes narrowing. “Her obliviousness will be the death of her one day,” she said, her words laced with barely veiled contempt. For a fleeting moment, Rosalind’s composure cracked—her flawless facade replaced by a glare as sharp as shattered crystal.

“We appreciate your… vigilance, Lady Aurelis. We shall strive to be more aware in the future,” Crown Prince Cassian replied, his tone measured but his gaze lingering on Evelyne, as if trying to decipher her true motives.