The Royal bride selection trials

Chapter nine

Camille Voss

She watched as Isabelle left the garden, her snotty lady-in-waiting following behind her like a lost dog.

“She must have figured out what the task is,“ she said, just loud enough for the girl sitting nearby to hear.

She tried to remember her name.

The girl leaned closer.

“Do you know what the task is?” The girl whispered.

“Well, of course,” Camille smirked, flipping her hair behind her shoulders.

She faced the girl, crossed her legs, and placed her hands on her knees.

She leaned in, and the girl followed.

“Discipline,” she said in a low voice.

The girl's eyebrows furrowed.

She looked around and then back to Camille.

“A queen should know how to punish someone who breaks the rules,” Camille said, letting out a small laugh. “If she's too soft, then she'll be disrespected, and a queen should always have her respect.

“I didn't think of that. Thank you, Camille.” The girl's eyes brightened

She almost burst out laughing; what an i***t. Instead, she turned away from the girl and observed as her other opponents tried to figure out the mess their ugly maids had gotten into.

Of course, she had already handled hers; her maid didn't even fail her task like the rest of these buffoons.

She was born to be queen; she didn't train to become Queen just to be thrown under by a MAID!

She waited for the seed she had planted to sprout, and sure enough, it did.

Another maid had arrived with a nervous expression and fidgeting hands.

She walked past her table to the girl she had spoken with.

She tried to listen in, but the maid spoke in a hushed tone.

The heavy sound of a slap echoed in the garden, and everyone fell silent.

The queen looked up from her table and set down her cup.

Camille tried to hold down her smile.

The girl rose to her feet, her eyes narrowed, and her fists clenched.

Camille spun around.

“What's going on?”

“She broke Queen Briella's vase !” the girl said through her gritted teeth.

Camille placed her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

“I suppose you should let the Queen handle it,” Camille said loudly.

She turned to face the queen.

“Your Majesty, there appears to be a misunderstanding between …”

She gestured towards the girl.

“Amelia … Lady Amelia.” The girl's cheeks flushed red.

“Between Lady Amelia and her lady-in-waiting,” Camille said, bowing.

The noise in the garden returned, the contestants whispering among themselves.

Queen Eleanor raised her hand and the garden fell silent.

“Come”

Amelia and her lady-in-waiting walked to the queen’s table.

Camille took her seat; she straightened her back and picked up her cup. This was going to be entertaining.

Her eyes remained focused on Queen Eleanor.

Amelia spoke immediately, posed in a small bow.

“Your Majesty, my lady-in-waiting made a terrible mistake, and I was merely …correcting her.” Amelia’s eyes searched for Camille.

“She broke a vase of extreme importance”

Queen Eleanor’s eyes moved slowly between Amelia and her maid.

The maid rushed to her knees instantly.

Queen Eleanor said nothing; she licked up her glass, took a sip, and set down the cup gently.

The garden watched in silence; the only sounds were the soft cries of the maid.

When she finally spoke, she gestured at some guards nearby; her eyes glanced at the kneeling maid.

“Take her away.”

The maid erupted in loud tears, begging for a second chance as she was pulled away.

Amelia stood up straight, a smile slowly spread across her face.

Camille set down her teacup with a quiet clink. Her eyes widened; she searched Queen Eleanor's face for something, but the old woman wore a blank expression.

Amelia made her way back to her table, giving Camille a thankful nod as she strolled by.

Camille tried to fake a smile.

It didn't make any sense.

Amelia should be eliminated; she had spent years studying the winners of all the other trials and how they talked about the stages.

She was certain about the task at this stage.

She held her cup a little too strongly.

She was quickly pulled out of her thoughts by a slight shoulder tap.

She spun around; Amelia leaned in with a bright smile.

“Thank you, Camille”

She nodded, turning back to her table.

Then a woman walked in; from her excessive Tacky jewelry, Camille could tell who she was.

Lady Cierra, her husband, was a council member, not as powerful as her father but a good ally nonetheless.

Behind her was her dirty little son, literally.

He was covered in dust and dirt, and his hair tangled in leaves and sticks.

Isabelle walked in next as usual, her sniveling wretch ever loyal, wasn't far behind.

The tension in her shoulders eased.

Maybe today wasn't a waste after all.

If she couldn't get rid of Amelia, Isabelle was a much better alternative.

Even better if they'd both be eliminated.

It would reduce the number of witless folks she'd have to step on to get her crown.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Cierra spoke loudly, her nostrils flared, her eyes red from rage.

Oh! She was fuming; if she got any angrier.

Camille feared she would explode.

She went on and on about the INSOLENCE of Isabelle’s lost puppy and disrespect and something about a swing and how they'd ruined her son and gotten him dirty.

Camille rolled her eyes.

The boy was always dirty.

Isabelle stepped in front of her maid and spoke.

No doubt it was to defend her.

Isabelle hoped she'd be nothing but a blubbering mess.