Traitor to the Crown.
Felon in the First Degree.
Conspirator to Commit Murder.
She waves her right to a trail by a jury of her peers, perhaps realizing the evidence stacked against her is not going to fall in her favor. The plea bargain her lawyers agree upon — a full confession in return for life in prison without the possibility of parole — takes the death penalty off the table. It also ensures a speedy end to a very public spectacle.
For weeks, the Thorne name has been dragged through the mud. Not just Octavia’s but Chloe and Carter’s as well. They are painted in almost every publication as social-climbing scoundrels — clinging to the royal family for prestige, clawing their way to the top of Germanian polite society by any means necessary.
I bet my former press advisor Ursula Caulfield is already hard at work on the movie rights.
A Thorne in the Royal Rose Garden: The Octavia Story
For over a month, Chloe refuses to leave the castle, unwilling to face either the mob of press gathered at the gates or the gossiping aristocrats at social functions. I assure her things will blow over, now that justice has been served. With Octavia and Ramsey behind bars, the pendulum of public attention will soon swing back to more pleasant diversions.
Namely: the rapidly approaching royal wedding.
In the wake of the trial, weeks pass in a monotonous blur of meetings and wedding preparations. It all feels quite trivial to me, but the country seems to need a happy occasion around which to rally. And so, I put on a smile and act the picture-perfect bride-to-be whenever I’m in public.
Why yes, I’m so excited!
I can’t wait to marry Alden.
Thank you for your blessings.
There are photo ops and dress fittings, cake tastings and menu selections. Alden is a far better sport than I am — ever-pleasant, exceedingly positive. I try to muster enthusiasm as Simms and Lady Morrell meticulously lay out all the details for our big day.
The most important day of my life,as I’m frequently reminded.A day that will go down in history.
May rushes by, June close on its heels. As spring breaks slowly into summer, balmy mornings turn bright and warm. Flowers burst into bloom everywhere I look. The castle grounds have never been so full of beauty… and yet so stained by my own gloomy disposition. A raincloud seems to follow wherever I go, no matter how sunny the day.
Construction on the East Wing is in full swing, now. I watch new walls rise from the ashes of scorched earth and wonder about the fire that set all of this into motion. Despite confessing to my attempted assassination, Octavia refused to take responsibility for the blaze that claimed so many lives.
Perhaps she was lying… though there was no reason to do so. Her life, for all intents and purposes, was already over.
Why own up to one crime while denying another?
The question nags at me, gnawing my stomach lining like a cancer. I try to talk to Chloe about it, but she institutes a ‘No Octavia’ rule in the castle. As far as she’s concerned, the case is open and shut.
Who cares if she admitted it or not? She obviously started the fire. She’s evil. End of discussion.
Spending too long with my own thoughts soon becomes a dangerous pastime. I lean into anything that serves as a distraction — riding Ginger around the network of trails, touring the construction site with Alden, training with Riggs and Galizia in the Gatehouse, basking in the sunshine with Chloe on the edge of the in-ground swimming pool.
It’s harder at night. There are fewer tasks to keep me occupied, fewer friends around to prevent my mind from meandering places that only cause me distress. More often than not, I find myself unable to sleep, wandering the castle halls like a ghost.
I devour half the library’s contemporary fiction section, losing myself for hours in tales of horror and gore, murder and mystery. Once my favorite genre, I now studiously avoid love stories. My interest in fictional romance and happily-ever-afters seems to have evaporated around the same time I slid the massive sapphire onto my ring finger.
Now that the snows have melted, I can once again access my favorite spot in the castle — the sky-scraping turret. Climbing the hundred or so winding stone steps to the top with a flashlight in hand, I stare out over the slumbering streets of Vasgaard as the night sky lightens in slow degrees, thinking maybe if I squint hard enough, I might be able to see all the way to Switzerland.
All the way to him.
In the clutches of insomnia, I have far too much time to think. I find myself reflecting onwhat might’ve beenwith alarming regularity.
My life has changed so much, since I first arrived in the castle. I have changed so much. I bear little resemblance to the girl I once was — that poor, purple haired psychology student who was barely scraping by, struggling to juggle mortgage payments and student loans on minimum wage alone.
If I could go back and warn her of what was to come… if I could somehow intervene in how things would play out…
I don’t think I would.