Francesca paced her chambers like a caged animal.

  "Can you believe it? Estelle this, Estelle that. Again!" Her voice cracked on the last word. "I've been hearing that wretched name constantly—to no end!"

  The maid—Clara, still bearing a faint red mark on her cheek—nodded with quiet sympathy. "I agree, Your Highness."

  "You should take revenge."

  "No." Francesca stopped pacing. Something shifted in her expression—a tired resolve. "I won't be brash anymore. It's not worth it."

  "Even despite what she said?"

  Francesca turned slowly. "What?"

  "Oh, you didn't know?" Clara's eyes glittered. "I probably shouldn't tell you..."

  "Tell me."

  Clara lowered her voice, as if the words cost her something. "She said... that you were a pompous princess. That all the men you ever wanted would eventually come to her instead."

  The color drained from Francesca's face. Then flooded back.

  "She actually said that?"

  "Yes, Your Highness." Clara pressed a hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry—I shouldn't have said it aloud—"

  "No." Francesca's hands curled into fists at her sides. Her voice had gone very quiet. "No. You were right to tell me. She's been lying this whole time. Pretending to be my sister while trying to destroy me."

  Her eyes blazed.

  "She'll get what she deserves."

  She swept out of the room, her skirt snapping like a whip behind her.

  Clara remained in the empty chamber. The silence settled around her like a cloak.

  She smiled.

  Then she began to laugh—quietly at first, almost to herself. Then louder. Unhinged. The sound echoed off the stone walls and meant nothing to no one.

  "Yes," she whispered to the empty room. "She'll get exactly what she deserves."

  ***

  The morning light came softly through the curtains.

  "It's time to wake up, my lady."

  Estelle opened her eyes.

  For a moment she simply stared at the familiar face leaning over her—and then she was sitting upright, arms thrown around Anne before she was fully awake.

  "You're back," she said into her shoulder.

  Anne laughed, warm and a little flustered, and returned the embrace. Ten years of service had made her less a maid than a fixture of every good memory Estelle had in this palace.

  "I'm back," Anne confirmed. "And you, my lady—you look like you haven't slept properly in a week."

  "I'm fine." Estelle sat back, smoothing her hair.

  Anne, moved briskly to the writing table and held out a sealed envelope. "You've received another letter. From the Second Princess."

  "Elizabeth." Estelle's voice softened. She took it carefully and broke the seal.

  Dear Estelle, I'll be returning soon from my trip! I can't wait to see you. I've missed you terribly. Love, Elizabeth

  Estelle read it twice. A real smile crossed her face—quiet and unguarded, the kind she rarely wore anymore.

  Anne pressed a warm cup of tea into her hands without being asked.

  "Now, my lady, you must get dressed immediately."

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Estelle took a slow sip. "Why?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Anne's eyes were already dancing. "Sir Alec himself has requested an audience with you. Can you imagine? The Hero of the East—your knight!"

  The teacup stilled in Estelle's hands.

  She set it down. Carefully. Too carefully.

  "My current dress will do fine."

  "Absolutely not!" Anne was already at the wardrobe, throwing it open with the energy of someone who had been waiting for exactly this occasion. "You must wear something worthy of the meeting!"

  "Anne, I really don't need—"

  But a gown was already emerging from the back of the wardrobe—deep blue silk, silver embroidery catching the morning light, finer than anything Estelle had touched in years.

  "Please, my lady." Anne held it out like an offering. "Just this once."

  ***

  Estelle stood before the mirror and didn't quite recognise herself.

  The gown fit as though it had been made for her. The deep blue brought out the rose in her hair, the pale clarity of her complexion. She looked—

  Like a princess.

  The thought made her stomach turn.

  "You look beautiful, my lady!" Anne clasped her hands together, eyes bright.

  Estelle's reflection stared back at her. Pale. Tense. Wearing a face she didn't know how to inhabit.

  She was supposed to meet Alec. East wing. Ten minutes.

  "Anne." Her voice came out softer than she intended. "I don't feel well."

  Anne's expression shifted instantly to concern. "Oh—should I call for a physician?"

  "No. Just..." Estelle hesitated. "Could you inform Sir Alec that I'm ill? That I need to reschedule?"

  Anne looked at her for a moment—a long moment, the kind that meant she saw more than she said. Then she nodded.

  "Of course, my lady. Rest."

  Estelle waited until the door clicked shut.

  Then she changed her shoes and slipped out through the side passage toward the greenhouse.

  ***

  The east wing chamber had been prepared carefully. Ornate furniture. Rich tapestries. A room designed to impress, or perhaps to intimidate.

  Alec sat sprawled in the chair with his legs crossed and his posture entirely relaxed, as though the grandeur around him was a mild inconvenience. He was studying the ceiling when the maid entered and curtsied so nervously she nearly lost her balance.

  "Sir Alec—I'm afraid the Third Princess is feeling unwell. She sends her sincerest apologies and asks to reschedule the meeting."

  He looked at her.

  She stopped breathing.

  Alec stood. He crossed the room slowly, each step unhurried, and stopped just in front of her—close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his golden eyes.

  "Thank you for telling me," he said pleasantly.

  She waited for something else. There was nothing else.

  "If the Princess won't come to me..." His mouth curved. "Then I'll go to her."

  He walked past her and out the door.

  She remained where she was for a long time after he'd gone, not entirely certain she was breathing.

  ***

  The greenhouse was warm with afternoon light.

  Estelle knelt in the dirt between her roses, fingers working the soil with practiced ease. She had changed into an old dress—plain cotton, already streaked with green—and she felt, for the first time all day, like herself.

  Just avoid him. Just stay away. He'll lose interest eventually.

  "Hello, Princess."

  She spun around so quickly she nearly fell.

  Duke Verne stood at the greenhouse entrance, one hand resting on the doorframe. He was dressed finely—too finely for a garden visit—and he was smiling with the confidence of a man who had never been told no and never expected to be.

  Estelle rose and brushed the dirt from her hands. "Duke Verne. This is unexpected."

  "I hope I'm not interrupting." He stepped inside without waiting to be invited.

  "My, you're even more beautiful up close." His gaze moved over her. "I can see why there's so much talk."

  Estelle stepped back. "I beg your pardon?"

  "There's no need to be shy." His smile widened as he closed the distance she'd made. "I heard you've taken an interest in me."

  "That's—no. I haven't. I don't know where you heard that, but—"

  "Ha." He tilted his head, amused. "The act is charming. But there's no need to play coy."

  "I'm not playing anything." Estelle moved to step past him. "I think you should leave."

  His hand shot out and closed around her wrist.

  The grip was immediate and hard.

  Estelle went very still.

  "Why are you acting like this?" His voice had shifted—the pleasantness thinning at the edges, something uglier beneath. "You should be grateful. Even with your... circumstances... I'm willing to overlook them. I'm offering you something."

  "Let go of me."

  "Are you seducing me the way your mother seduced the King?" His face was close now, his breath warm and sour. "Is this the game?"

  The words landed like a slap. Estelle's mouth went dry.

  "I never—I didn't—"

  Voices drifted through the glass walls. Footsteps. A gathering crowd, drawn by some instinct that cruelty was about to be witnessed.

  "Did you see? The Duke followed her in—"

  "Just like her mother, isn't it—"

  "Oh, how shameless—"

  Estelle's hands were shaking. The whispers pressed through the glass like cold water.

  "Let go of—"

  The Duke's grip tightened until it hurt.

  Then—

  A hand closed around his wrist from behind.

  The Duke was wrenched backward with a force that had nothing performative about it—pure and efficient and brutal. His grip tore from Estelle's wrist. He hit the greenhouse floor hard, the breath knocked from him.

  Estelle looked up.

  Golden eyes. Burning cold.

  Alec crouched over the Duke, one hand still clamped around his wrist, his posture relaxed in the way that a drawn blade is relaxed—completely still and entirely capable of movement.

  "I didn't think the Duke was the sort of man who'd enjoy losing an arm," Alec said. His voice was pleasant. Conversational. The tone of someone discussing the weather. "But you're making a compelling case."

  He squeezed.

  The Duke made a sound that wasn't quite a word.

  "Who—" He gasped, scrabbling uselessly at Alec's grip. "Who are you?"

  Alec leaned down until they were nearly face to face. Something in his golden eyes had gone very dark. Very quiet.

  Something cracked.

  The Duke screamed.

  "I'm the Princess's knight"

  End of Chapter 8