The Tower Library, too, had grown cold since Midwinter.
Even the fire, hissing and blazing in the hearth, seemed to quiver.Or perhaps it wasn't winter that had changed.
Perhaps it was we.
Mother sat by the window, an embroidery hoop resting on her knees, yet not a single stitch was finished in an hour.I sat curled in a velvet chair, Whiskers in my lap, pretending to read.
We waited.
Not for Alina.She was finished.
We waited for the court to understand.And they would.
They always did.
Act One: A Vacancy Beside the Throne
Father hadn't been the same since Alina's fall.
He gripped the crown more tightly now.Spent long hours standing alone in the throne room, scowling at nothing—as if he thought, or hoped, someone would come riding to his rescue again.
Letters arrived daily, tied in gold cords, perfumed to the point of savagery.Portraits followed: some empty-eyed, some eager, all wrong.
Mother stitched tidy crosses into the thin air and said coolly, "Let him look."
But when she turned those hawk-bright eyes on me, there was nothing idle in them.
"We must be ready, Charlotte," she said.
"For what?" I asked innocently, offering Whiskers a crumb from the tea tray.
Mother smiled—the slow, shining smile one gives a sword freshly honed.
"To remind them who truly belongs on a throne."
Act Two: Lessons for a Little Queen
The lessons changed.
No more dry geography or tedious diplomacy.Now it was:
How to sit so still you became the center of the room.How to make courtiers squirm without uttering a word.How to turn pity into horror, kindness into a weapon.
"You are not just our daughter," Mother said one afternoon, fastening a necklace of black pearls around my throat.
"You are the proof that the crown is not for sale."
I smiled at myself in the mirror—seven years old, and already more certain than half the fools who bowed before me.
Already inevitable.
Act Three: The Spring Festival
The palace gardens burst into riotous bloom for the Spring Festival.
Silk tents blossomed across the lawns like extravagant flowers.Musicians played, foreign visitors danced—preening, flapping, flaunting.
And of course, every noble family paraded their daughters, spread out on silver trays like pastries, ready for Father's gaze.
Mother and I sat side by side on the dais, silent and watching.
I wore a pale blue gown, a diamond pin glinting at my shoulder—a small sun, just like the one atop Father's crown.
When noble women curtsied to me, I smiled just a fraction too long.When their daughters stumbled or simpered, I nodded, noting each flaw:
Too eager.Too clumsy.Too obvious.
Not a single one was right.
Father's gaze skimmed the room, heavy and disinterested.
Until it landed on me—small, poised, unshakably certain.
And for a fleeting moment, I saw it flash in his eyes:
Pride.Relief.And just a flicker of fear.
Good.
Later, in the Tower Library, Mother kissed the crown of my head and breathed:
"Someday soon, they will realize you are the only future they have."
Whiskers purred on my lap, tugging at my skirt with velvet claws.
Outside, the bells rang for the end of the Festival.
Inside, I smoothed my skirts, straightened my back, and practiced smiling in the mirror.
The court may search for a queen in silks and perfume and empty beauty.
But I already possessed the truth.
The future was not going to be given to me.
I was going to seize it.
And I was never going to let it escape.