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When Alexandria took the throne, she had about all the warning one is ever given at war. One morning, she was the eldest daughter of Edmond of Kres, and the very next, she was Archduchess of Kres, regent to the throne until her baby brother was old enough to take it, right with the letter announcing her younger brother’s death along with her father’s, and the death of most of her hopes in life.
For years she had remained in court, working as a secretary to her father, unmarried through his will alone, claiming that he needed her loyalty to him only if she was to sign by his hand. For years, her duties had been pleasant administrative tasks, managing correspondence, and occasionally colluding with the steward in order to throw whatever ball or feast was suitable for whatever occasion. For years, she’d lived as free as any woman, going riding and hunting with her brother, settling marriages for her ladies in waiting, and finding positions for the ones that would rather stay under her protection. She had liked her life, wading through the tides of court with all the breadth her station allowed her, playing games only when it suited her designs, and making them all dance to whatever tune she fancied.
As regent, there was very little she could retain.
Her brother was the heir, that much was undeniable, but there would be scrutiny on her for the next fifteen years while she held the throne. So much could happen in that much time. While she would like to believe herself both sensible and liked enough for her courtiers to somewhat respect her authority, she lived under no illusions of stability. A rumor of an affair with the wrong man, or of any semblance of respect she might show one would do greater damage than a plague.
Alexandria’s solution had been simple: to write to her liege lord, Emperor of Briador and King of Kres, for a wife. Ideally from Nortung or Sierez, if only to consolidate the recent alliance, and of appropriate standing to her own. A woman, so that there would be no possible heirs, and so that anyone claiming to have disgraced her would be less likely to be believed.
Which was how she met and was set to marry Clemence of Sierez, second daughter of the King of Sierez, a mere fifteen days after her ascension.
The day of Clemence’s arrival was nothing special. Of course, festivities had been organized in her honor, and of course, there had to be the marriage preparations, but Alexandria’s morning had been otherwise occupied.
Her little brother, Auguste, had spent most of the early hours in her rooms, babbling away about whatever he had planned for the day, as most children his age were wont to do, though not usually before dawn. Woken by a nightmare, though he’d swear otherwise, he’d made his way across the hall and onto her bed, poking at her arm until she’d finally woken up, bleary and squinting in the dark room, to tell her all about the horse his riding instructor had promised him he’d get to ride. By the time her head maid had come in to wake her, they’d spent a good couple of hours awake already, and most thoughts of her marriage had been thoroughly replaced by a boy’s musings.
Alexandria, truthfully, was only reminded of the date when Auguste had run off to his lessons and her maid asked what hair she wanted to wear to meet her future wife as she was meant to arrive from Sierez at noon.
The rest of the morning was a bit of a blur.
She found herself in the entrance of the palace to greet her betrothed mere minutes before her carriage came into view, along with her head lady, Evangeline Beaufort, who hung a respectful foot back. She had no uncle or mother or aunt to back her, and so she stood alone. Clemence would, disaster aside, change that.
The carriage was luxurious, but not unreasonable. The horses were stout geldings, built for power and endurance rather than speed, unlike some of the folly she had witnessed in some men from court, which served to weigh somewhat in Clemence’s favour. Time had been too short to exchange letters, so all that she knew was from what little gossip she had managed to gather, which was unsubstantial at best. But then again, she would rather know too little than too much.
Clemence’s carriage stopped a few yards away in the gardens. The stable hands detached the horses and started leading them away before the lady had even started to walk out, in a show of efficiency which Alexandria prided herself on.
Then, her future wife.
She was not the most beautiful woman Alexandria has ever seen – no, that would go to Count Montellimard’s daughter, Victoire, who was unfortunately a bit of a flirt – but she was pretty nonetheless. Her blond hair was gathered in a braided crown, framing her soft face which was devoid of the powder so common in the court of Sierez, letting her light freckling show. She was perhaps a few years younger than Alexandria was, not yet in her third decade, but still older than she would have expected. She curtsied, bowing as deep as a Princess ever should to an Archduchess, and Alexandria followed suit.
Her own household was barebones. From what she could see, aside from a maid, three guards, and a stable hand, she was alone. Neither her father, uncle, or either of her two brothers had made the trip to accompany her, though as far as Alexandria knew, they were alive and well.
“Welcome to Kres, your Highness,” Alexandria greeted. “I hope you will find your stay in my lands as pleasant as your own, as they are soon to become.”
Clemence bowed her head slightly. “Your Grace honours me. I thank you for your hospitality, and hope likewise that we suit each other as well as I believe we will.” She spoke with a slight accent, but her tutors must have been very good. Her spine was straight as she spoke, and from where she now stood, Alexandria could see the fine embroidery all along her collar, weaves of lines and dots that spelled courage and morale, though whether it held the power behind the thread was as much of a guess as anything else.
“Steward Piermont will see to your Highness’s effects, while we enjoy supper in your honor, if it pleases you,” Alexandria said.
Clemence smiled. “It pleases me. The road has been kind, but I will admit that I have had quite enough of rabbit for the next month at least. I’ll be glad to enjoy whatever specialties your court has to offer.”
Alexandria inclined her head, smiling slightly in return. “Certainly. Follow me, please.”
Clemence fell into step with her, or rather a step behind, right alongside Evangeline, while they walked. It was proper, as they were of similar station and this was, after all, Alexandria’s lands until her brother came of age, but it did make conversation ever so slightly harder. Looking over her shoulders did not make for the most peaceful walk towards the main hall, especially as they started encountering more courtiers, all eager to meet their Regent’s future wife, and see with what sauce they might begin to eat her.
To her credit, Clemence seemed unfazed by the piercing looks thrown her way, and carried herself with poise to the hall, her short train trailing behind her softly. By the time they stopped, only one guard remained by her side, the others no doubt having fallen off to meet the rest of their future fellows.
A servant opened the door, and quiet fell on the dining hall. Not silence, there could never be silence, but conversations turned into whispers, and the music came to a halt.
“Her Grace, Archduchess Alexandria of Kres, and Her Royal Highness, Princess Clemence of Sierez,” he announced.
Alexandria stepped forward. “My lords and ladies,” she said, voice carrying over to the far wall and echoing back. “Today, we welcome my future wife amongst us. This is a celebration of a union of love, and prosperity between our two nations under the banner of the Holy Empire.” She let her words ring for a few seconds, the intent behind them clear to all those who would listen. “Please, return to the festivities,” she added after a second, “and have the pleasure to make her acquaintance.”
Before she’d finished speaking, the music and conversations had picked back up. They made their ways right up to the high table before they were disturbed, which truly spoke to the quality of the musicians she’d hired, as she’d expected at least one Count to get to her before then.
She gestured for Evangeline to walk on with Clemence while she held back.
Lord Montellimard looked nothing like his daughter, who, in turn, had more in common with his mistress than his wife. He was a severe old man, with ratty little eyes and a mustache to match. Once a supporter of her father’s, he had not appreciated her place in court for the past two decades, and he had not started to appreciate it now.
Alexandria did not sigh.
He bowed a smidge less than he truly ought to. Really, if he didn’t have such a good standing with the more conservative factions of her court, and if his daughter didn’t make for such a wonderful lady, she would have sent him back to his summer house days ago. As it stood, she hadn’t.
“Your Grace,” he said as though it pained him. “I speak for a number of others when we urge you to perhaps reconsider your choice in bride.”
Of course. Though Sierez and Kres had been at peace since before Alexandria was born, there were nonetheless many who would still remember a time when they weren’t, and some barely older than her. “My Lord, pray tell, who would be those others you speak of?”
He looked at least halfway contrite. “I have vowed to be the spokesperson of those concerns. I am not alone in thinking that perhaps, a member of this court would make a good husband and Regent, at least until His Grace is crowned.” He said it with a glance to the high table, where her brother was, no doubt, too engrossed in conversation with Montellimard’s daughter to notice the eyes on him. For having such a… wonderful father, she had had more patience for Auguste’s antics than most.
“Perhaps,” Alexandria agreed. “Though, I would argue that in this match, we consolidate an alliance that, were it to be broken, would have my duchy in a chokehold in too little time for any army to stop, or have you forgotten where Vesine stands? If my future wife can assure our prosperity, I am quite able of handling Regency myself.”
Lord Montellimard bowed again. “Your Grace,” he said, and that was the end of it.
No one liked being reminded of Vesine less than the old crowd. No one liked to remember that their most prosperous land was only still theirs by the will of the Holy Empire, stranded in the midst of what had one day been their most ardent enemies. Now, communication was only done by boat and rarely, when she needed to communicate quickly with its lord, enchantment. Their forces there were thoroughly diminished, and any attempts at building any sort of army would only be met with hostility. It was a problem, yes, but not one she had any ability to solve, and so having an alliance with one of the nations holding the land hostage was, perhaps, better than nothing.
She made her way to her chair, sat between her brother, and, today, her future wife.
Clemence had filled her plate already, and had set aside a tray of the various dishes that were served. When Alexandria sat, she moved the tray in between them.
“I feared that what you preferred would have gone before you had the chance to make it back, your Grace,” she said. “But I thought that, ah, keeping more than one of each would have earned me disgruntledment.” She glanced towards Auguste, who was happily monopolizing the meat pies.
“You’ve earned my thanks,” Alexandria replied, filling her own plate before sliding the slice of pie to Auguste.
Clemence smiled, showing just a little bit of dimples, and a little more genuinely than court would like her to. “It only does me well to see my future wife happy.”
Alexandria took a sip of her wine. “Yes, as it does me. I would like to discuss this further with you, once we are not at risk of interruption,” she said. She loved her brother with all her heart, really, and most of the court she tolerated, but there were many places other than the dining hall where they might have this conversation, as chaperoned as they would be by Evangeline.
“Of course, your Grace.”
That was the first thing that would have to go, but she had no time to say so before her brother tugged on her sleeve.
As the younger of two brothers, unexpected as he was, Auguste had been raised in Hippolyte’s shadow, and that had guarded him well. Where his brother was once expected to take the throne, taught in his father’s image how to reign, Auguste was destined to serve as an advisor, maybe, in his brother’s grayer years. Manners befitting to a duke eluded him, and while it was still cute and forgivable now, it would not always be so. Victoire and Alexandria entertained, but there were many who would not.
It was for this reason that Alexandria knew she would do better to ignore him, at least until he used her proper form of address. However, he was, before the duke and before the heir, her little brother.
“Yes, your Grace?” she asked him, making him wrinkle his nose in distaste.
“Can you ask her for her bread if she’s not going to eat it?”
His own plate was still quite full, with a half eaten slice of pie and a few untouched ones. Alexandria raised her eyebrow. “And pray tell, my lord, why would she give it to you when you’re not going to eat it either?”
Auguste scoffed, indignant in the way only royal children could be. “I’m going to eat it.”
“Then you can ask her yourself. Nicely. She is not from here, and she does not answer to you.”
Victoire leaned towards him, and whispered loudly enough for Alexandria to hear. “You can call her Highness, or Princess. If you don’t remember, you can call her your lady, but that’s only because you outrank her, technically.”
Auguste got a concentrated look on his face before nodding, and Alexandria made a note to herself that she truly ought to give Victoire’s marriage a closer look. So far, the girl had done nothing but flirt her way through court, but perhaps if Alexandria found her someone who would not mind more discreet flirtations, she could avoid the duels that kept being thrown in her name.
“Your Highness,” Auguste called with careful words. “If you are not planning on eating your bread, may I have it?”
Alexandria watched Clemence carefully. She had to have heard Auguste before he’d asked, as she thought that most of the table had. The people Alexandria kept close would not scoff one way or another at Clemence’s refusal or agreement, but they would balk at a less than friendly dismissal.
She smiled, blue eyes twinkling in something like delight. “My lord, I am afraid that I was planning on eating my bread, but perhaps the kitchens might be able to supply more. I may ask them if you wish me to.”
Auguste pouted slightly, then yelped and looked backwards to Victoire. “What was that for!” he demanded.
“Thank you, Highness,” she said, directed towards Auguste.
“Thank you, Highness,” he sighed.
Alexandria was keeping her smile carefully off her face, but Clemence did not seem to have the same skill, a soft, muffled laugh at her left. “You are very welcome. Shall I call them?”
Auguste considered it for a moment before looking back at his plate. “No.” Another small jolt and a pout in Victoire’s direction this time. “Thank you, Highness.”
Clemence leaned back into her chair and pressed a hand to her mouth. It did little to conceal the slight shake of her shoulders and the faint giggling she couldn’t quite suppress, more for Auguste’s benefit rather than anyone at the table, who were rather used to him.
Laughter, and a tray.
Those had been Clemence’s first two acts in Kres.
Perhaps not extraordinary – Alexandria certainly hadn’t fallen in love at first sight – but there were worse auspices for a marriage.
Clemence had liked hunting. One of the first things she had bought as the Consort of Kres were a pair of hounds, only just weaned from their mother, which she had then spent months training to answer to her every command. The two beasts had been her most loyal companions, lounging on the hearth when their mistress was in her rooms, and following at her heel when she wasn’t.
It had been an adjustment, surely, for Alexandria, whose main contact with animals started and stopped at her mare, but Auguste had taken to them like a duck to water, matching the dogs’ boundless energy with his own.
For a while, Alexandria’s days had been spent simply: in the morning, she would wake with her wife’s hair covering her face, then she would leave for her own room to get dressed and pretend such a thing was unthinkable at breakfast. Then, Alexandria would leave to discuss whatever matters of state needed discussing, whatever letter needed writing, and whatever courtier needed scolding. Finally, the evenings were spent with Auguste and Clemence, in their private dining room, so that she might learn about their days.
Auguste rode, and went to his lessons, on which he always had much ill to say, at the age where anything involving sitting still was akin to torture. Clemence hunted, and when she was done, she amused herself, terrifying whoever had displeased her wife. She had quite a knack for it.
In the years of their marriage, what had been convenience had turned into true companionship, and Alexandria was glad for it. They were friends, and at times they needed it more. Clemence was beautiful, and smart, and she had proven herself more than able to keep up with the most important part of Alexandria’s life. She ran the balls, she ran the court, and Auguste had her wrapped around his little finger.
More than once, the two of them had been late to dinner and in various states of disarray. They seemed to both attract the sort of mud and grime only found in the depths of the woods, and neither had much against covering the floors of their rooms with it. She would have objected, if only because of the chair she’d had to replace, if it hadn’t been for the matching joy that they always greeted her with.
And perhaps, she would have liked it if Clemence had married her for love, but she would settle for companionship.
Clemence had liked hunting.
Her dogs, her hawk, and her horse were found with no trace left of her but blood.
The hunting party had gotten caught in a deadlock between boars and bear, her huntsman had said. In the confusion, they had seen her horse and kept guard, but they had not seen the swipe or fall that had led her down, her huntsman had said. They had killed the boar, but the bear had run, her huntsman had said.
Her Grace’s wife was dead, he hadn’t.
When her father and brother had died, Alexandria had expected it. Or, rather, she hadn’t been surprised. War made for casualties, and even the best guarded leaders might still fall as men.
In the four years of her reign as Regent, there had been peace. Auguste was too young to remember a time where war had waged, rapidly growing into a young man in a land of prosperity, without any of the uncertainty that had once haunted Alexandria’s early years.
Auguste did not handle the news well.
His little hand flew to land on Alexandria’s cheek as soon as the words were past her lips.
“You’re lying,” he said, voice trembling with rage. “You’re lying!”
Alexandria breathed. Her cheek stinged, and she had no doubt it was already reddening. “I am not. I was told this afternoon.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Auguste screamed, grabbing the sleeves of her dress. “You didn’t tell me!” he let go and slammed his fist on her shoulder, little hands coming down with surprising force, and for a moment, Alexandria was too surprised by that fact to notice that he was crying, even more so to notice that she was.
She grabbed his hand as he went in for another hit, and brought it to her chest, pulling him along with it. “I’m sorry,” she said in his soft, downy hair as he tried to jerk away. “I’m sorry, Auguste. I’m not lying. I’m sorry.”
Her hold on him went soft as the words sunk in.
Clemence was dead.
She had woken up in Alexandria’s arms, bright as morning, and now she was dead in time for supper.
Such things should never be so abrupt.
Auguste went lax in her arms after a few more minutes, and then he started shaking. Far were the great, heaving sobs that had riddled the first three years of his life ; they had slowly been replaced by the tears he showed now, almost painfully contained. He had learned that from her, she knew, which filled him with some amount of shame.
Her hand traced absent minded shapes on his back. It had been years since the last time she’d held him like that. Since the last time he’d woken her and Clemence up in the middle of the night, inserting himself right in between them so they could read to him back to sleep, a plait in his hair from Clemence’s dextrous fingers.
She missed it most ardently.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered in his hair, horrified by the tremble in her voice. “I’m sorry.”
Alexandria’s second marriage was not as precipitated as the first. She was given a year to mourn, after which only would the court start their unrest at being led by her alone, as stupid as that made them all. So, she dressed in red, embroidered by the finest mage money could afford for strength and peace of mind, and she kept to herself and affairs of state while she grieved her wife and searched for another.
The solution presented itself to her unceremoniously.
After Evangeline’s marriage, the title of chief lady in waiting had gone to Victoire, who had refused every offer she had been given, but had thankfully stopped flirting with every visiting dignitary in recent years. It had made for much more peaceful, if boring, yearly festivities.
As chief lady in waiting, she had access to most of Alexandria’s correspondence, and her ear to the floor regarding anything that might be said about the Archduchess. She was as good a spy as any scullery maid she might have hired to serve in Nortung, and twice as trustworthy.
Which was why, when she knocked on Alexandria’s door in the late hours of the night, she was answered, and the maids sent away.
Victoire didn’t bow. She hadn’t in the years since Alexandria had become Regent, contenting herself with a nod to spare her bad knee. “Your Grace,” she said like she never did. “I come bearing news.”
Alexandria sighed, and passed a hand over her face. She had not reached her middle years, yet, the last year alone seemed to have made her put one foot in the grave. “And what might that news be, Victoire, tell me.”
“You are reaching the end of the mourning period, and they are lining up their sons and daughters for you.” she swallowed. “My lord father Montellimard would put forward my sister, and, if she were not to please you, he would support Marquess’s Ouens daughter as your bride. They are hoping that, in choosing one of them, they might have your ear.”
Alexandria raised an eyebrow. “Your sister, and not you?” she asked.
“He knows I am loyal to you only. It is the only reason why he has not come and begged you for my marriage, as he knows that whichever son of his friends’ might have me would never live another day unobserved.”
She hummed, and got up from her reading chair to take the bottle of wine from her wardrobe, tucked away safely from where Auguste might see, along with two glasses. She poured both and handed one to Victoire. “What do you suggest I do, then? Which one won’t make a bid for power behind my back? Which one won’t try to get me with heirs before Auguste’s convenient demise?” she asked.
Those were not questions she would ever have asked anyone but herself, were the sun still up, and the wine any less warm. Was the person in front of her anyone but Victoire.
Victoire sipped her wine, red against her lips. “Marry me,” she said.
Alexandria laughed, not without humor. “Would your father allow me your hand?” she asked. “Would he not fear what you would do, armed with the nation?”
“I already am,” she replied. “I sign by your hand, I tutor your brother, I have been whispering sweet nothings in the steward’s ear to follow my word on matters of your household. He is not so big a fool as to think your favor would change.”
Once, Victoire had been the most beautiful woman Alexandria had ever seen. She had been ruthless and brave, words cutting through men before they even drew their swords, but also funny and kind, taking on the responsibility of Auguste when Alexandria hadn’t been able to, in the last few months but also when her father had first died. Then, for years, that spot had been taken by Clemence, and her dimpled smile, her easy care for those around her, from her wife to her dogs to the huntsmen who all spoke of her as though she had hung the moon. Her mean streak, even, for those who had crossed her, and the glint in her eyes that she got at justice well served.
Clemence was dead.
“Marry me,” Victoire repeated.
“Yes,” Alexandria answered.
Their wedding was much like Alexandria’s first. In her year of mourning, she had not gotten another dress gone, though Victoire had suggested it, with the intent of remarrying. No, she’d wear the same dress, and all the eyes could be on her new wife instead.
Auguste was old enough to give her away now. It was almost comical, the way he hung from her arm as he walked her right to the priest, pressed a kiss to her hand as she bowed, lips pressed in a tight line of discontent. He had not spoken to her since she’d told him of her wedding, and Victoire, she knew, had not heard from him either.
It weighed heavy on Alexandria’s shoulders even as she said the vows, knowing her little brother did not approve of them.
Then, in the blink of an eye, they were married, and the festivities started.
Auguste slipped away in the crowd, dodging the court as well as she’d taught him to. Victoire’s hand and everyone’s gaze on her held her back from following, pleading with him to just tell her what was wrong, so that she might fix it, so that they might get along once more. He was all she had left of her family now, her responsibility to raise and cherish, though he would not let her.
Victoire’s hand was warm at the small of her back.
She leaned in to whisper into Alexandria’s ear. “I’ll get him once entertainment starts,” she said with all the assurance she always seemed to possess.
“Speak with him, if he lets you?” Alexandria asked in return. “He always liked you best.”
Victoire’s eyes crinkled, the first hint of smile lines digging into her skin. “He liked me best when I let him have the last slice of pie and practice his polite insults on me.”
Alexandria breathed out a laugh, but any reply she might have made was buried in the clamouring of starting celebration. Victoire’s hand rubbed a small circle in her back, and then it was gone. She missed it instantly, as Lord Montellimard lost no time in crossing the room the moment his daughter was out of sight. What he thought he would achieve, trying to hide his machinations from Alexandria’s wife, who was as sharp and cunning as anyone else she’d ever met in court, she wasn’t sure, but he did devote a lot of energy to it.
“My lord,” she said with a shallow bow. “You are aware that you need not wait for a wedding to ask for an audience with me.”
Montellimard bowed much more deeply and had the decency to look slightly embarrassed about it. “Your Grace. I apologize for finding you like this again, it is only that I am quite busy in my lands for the rest of the year.”
Alexandria hummed. “I’m sure. What may I do for you?”
“I don’t presume to ask for anything, you Grace, I–”
“Father,” Alexandria cut. “I may call you that, now that I am your daughter. Speak plainly, I will have no games at my wedding tonight. You lust know better than anyone how much more prone my wife is to those than I am.”
For a second, Montellimard looked as though someone had poleaxed him. It took him a moment to gather himself enough to speak. “Yes. I know. That is what I’ve come to speak of.”
Alexandria raised an eyebrow slightly. “Of my wife’s appetite for mind games? My lord, I have known her for close to a decade.”
“Still, my lady, speaking as her father, I urge you to be careful. There are many things that she wants.”
“I am well aware, my lord. She has made her designs exceedingly clear when she asked for my hand,” Alexandria replied drily. “And I have accepted her proposal with those designs in mind. What I find acceptable in a wife is my business and mine alone.”
Lord Montellimard got a pinched look on his face that was very satisfying to look at. For the years of polite rebuke to every attempt at undermining her authority, she’d say it was well deserved. Victoire was a woman she trusted above most others, as ambitious as she was. She would make a bid for Auguste to offer her a place as her mother when he came of age, she was sure, secure her position of power in a court that would no longer be her own, but that was something Alexandria was inclined to grant her, for the years spent in her service alone.
He bowed, and took as graceful a dismissal as he could. “Your Grace.”
“My Lord.”
Alexandria nodded once before turning away and heading back to the grand table, where Auguste and Victoire had taken their seats, Victoire now whispering in her brother’s ear.
She refused to let her throat tighten at the reminder.
Nothing was as it had been.
Clemence was dead, and she had married another in her place. This was how things had to be.
They did not consume their marriage that night. That is not to say that it hadn’t been consumed, perhaps slightly too early.
Victoire held onto Auguste’s arm all the way back to their room, where she pulled the boy inside after them and sat him down unceremoniously on one of the chairs. Auguste frowned, and opened his mouth to protest, but Victoire put a hand on his mouth before he could even utter a word. “My lord, with all the respect that is due, let your sister and I speak.”
Alexandria threw her a look, amused, her eyebrow raising slightly. “I wasn’t aware I had to come prepared,” she said.
“Very well, I’ll start then.”
Victoire sat at the foot of Auguste’s chair, holding onto his hand. Her mask slipped into familiarity in the way she never allowed it to outside of these very chambers, outside of this very moment. “Auguste. I have cared for you from the moment you were introduced to me. I have cared for your sister as long a time as I have spent in her service. I married her today, so that I might be sure that I could continue to do so.” She reached up and tucked a strand of Auguste’s hair behind his ear like she used to when he was a child. “You were very lucky when Clemence was sent to marry,” she said softly. “I do not believe such luck would have held again.”
“It’s not fair,” Auguste replied as soon as she shut her mouth. “It’s not fair! You shouldn’t marry Alex, it’s not been long enough!” He turned his eyes to Alexandria. “You shouldn’t get married! Clem– It’s only been a year.” His voice broke and turned into a whine with it, tears springing from his eyes. “She just died.”
Alexandria stumbled forward to wrap him in her arms. “I miss her, Gus. I miss her every day,” she said in his hair. “I do.”
Victoire disentangled herself from the pair, leaving her with him.
“I still needed to be married again,” she whispered. “So you can have the throne when you grow up and you won’t have to fix a mess I’ve made. And– Victoire’s good, right?” she glanced backwards, though Victoire had slipped away. “We know her. She loves you.”
Auguste clung to her. “What if she dies?”
“Would it hurt less without a handfasting ceremony?”
His face crumbled entirely, little fingers digging at the back of her gown searching for purpose. His shoulders shook, and she could only be grateful that she had already worn this dress once.
She wished she could promise Victoire would never leave. She wished she could promise that she would never die, and that it’d be the three of them forever and ever until Auguste was old enough to let them go. She could nod.
Though Victoire was wonderful, she did not fill the hole in Alexandria’s chest where her wife had been. What they had now was easy, born out of the decade of longing on Alexandria’s part, but what she had with Clemence would never be fulfilled. She would never find her wife in the middle of the night, wrapped around her pillows as she tended to be, to tell her, once and for all, that she loved her in spite of the politics that had pushed them together. She would never get the chance not to be a coward anymore.
She supposed she still was, in a way, a world of unsaids swinging above her head.
Auguste stopped crying after time Alexandria did not count. “You have to swear,” he said.
“Anything,” Alexandria said.
“You can’t–” he cut himself off and bit his lip, a nervous habit she’d been trying to talk him out of and had not succeeded in yet. “You have to try to stay.”
Alexandria squeezed his shoulders tight. “I swear it, Your Grace. I swear it to you, Auguste.” She pressed her forehead against his, sealing the deal like she had a few times now. Her word was law, and she had given it. “Do you want Victoire to swear?”
“She doesn’t have to,” he said quickly.
“No she doesn’t,” Alexandria agreed. “But do you want it?”
Auguste bit his lip harder. “She’s not going to replace Clem.” He said it like a statement, but there was some uncertainty seeping into his voice nonetheless.
“Never.”
“Yes.”
Alexandria pulled away slightly. “Come on then. We can ask her.”
Kres was peaceful. It had been peaceful for the past decade, or nearly so.
Alexandria still ruled, though her brother was now of age to start working at matters of state, as a silent spectator if nothing else. Victoire held the household and the court with a velvet gloved iron fist, though truly only the court had found things to complain about in recent years, aghast at the idea that disturbing servants in their work would be frowned upon. No skirmish in recent years had been so bad as to need higher intervention, and so far, the cold had spared enough of their harvest for survivable, if not comfortable winters.
Auguste was growing into a fine young man who looked more and more like his father every day, though perhaps… kinder than Alexandria remembered him to be. He carried himself with the same pride, but he was not as willing to consider menial tasks as inherently below him, or to think the dirt under his shoes of another substance entirely to his subjects’, though at times the dirt did not stop at the soles.
She could see Clemence in him at times, though she always wondered if it was nothing but a trick of the mind. It was in the way he stood, chin in the air, in the way she’d taught him to ride, in the way the dogs still followed his every step like they used to do hers. It didn’t hurt to think that way anymore, not like it had in the first year after her death, the reminder on the sweeter side now that the wound of her absence had had time to scar, though never to close. She lived, still, through the mark that she had left in the world.
It no longer felt like either adultery or revelation, when she held Victoire through the night, taking what they both longed for during the day. It no longer fulfilled a fantasy of herself, if she had been braver. Of herself if she had managed to tell her wife she’d loved her. It was simpler: joy, fun, comfort in the arms of the one who had been loyal.
Alexandria would not have believed in her happiness, the moment that the weight of the throne had been laid on her shoulders nearly ten years before. She believed in nothing else now.
When the messenger rushed her rooms before supper, she did not fear the worst.
The young man laid his forehead to the ground. “Your Grace, please come quickly to the doctor’s chambers. You must see.”
Alexandria’s blood froze in her veins. “Is my brother well? Is my wife?”
“Yes, Your Grace, but I beseech you, come quickly.”
She let out a shaky breath and got up, dusting off her kirtle. “Thank you. I’ll come. Please fetch my brother and wife.” The messenger hesitated, and Alexandria raised an eyebrow. “Speak.”
He cleared his throat. “I have no presumption to know better than Your Grace, but I would recommend going first before fetching them.”
Alexandria hummed. Most servants would not dare speak up if they did not genuinely believe it to be best, no matter how much she valued their insight. Servants often saw what people tried to hide, after all, blending in so well with the background of court. “Very well. I will go.”
“Your Grace is wise.”
She hummed again in answer.
The doctor’s chambers were on the other side of the palace, close to the servants’ quarters. Of course, the doctor didn’t live with them, as status indicated, but he was certainly not sleeping with the nobles here for court, who would take offense at the idea. Instead, he shared a floor with the thread mage, though Alexandria has more reason to visit him than she ever did the mage. No one in the family was particularly sickly, but even the best constitution did not always keep the common cold away.
The doctor’s door was closed when she reached it, knocking firmly on the wood. The doctor opened after a second, just a sliver at first, then fully once recognition filled his face. “Your Grace. Please come in and sit down,” he said, gesturing towards a seat.
“Very well.” The sickbed was enclosed in a canopy, obscuring the figure on it entirely. By design, Alexandria supposed.
“Your Grace should prepare herself.”
Alexandria sighed. She was not made of glass. Her brother and her wife were well, if the messenger was to be trusted. Anything else, she could live with. Anything else, she could put aside in a small box in a corner of her brain until it was time. “Tell me, doctor.”
“We found her this morning,” he said, hesitantly reaching for the canopy. “We do not know how, or why. Cynthia has looked for magic but there does not seem to be. At the very least, it is not one she is familiar with.”
He pulled the canopy open.
Alexandria gasped, a hand flying to her face.
Clemence looked as though she had not been gone a day.
It has been– slightly less than eight years now. In that time, the hair on Alexandria’s head had started to go grey, the lines on her face more pronounced, a deep ache making its home in her bones when the winter was at its coldest. She had lived, and aged. Clemence had not.
She turned to the doctor. “Is she alive?”
“She is. She is asleep, though she has not woken yet.”
Alexandria pressed her lips into a thin line. “Very well.” She looked at Clemence again. Her hair was in the same way she’d worn before dying, she thought, though she could not remember it well. She had been changed into a nightgown – not one of her own, that Alexandria still kept in a trunk – but in one of the spares the doctor had. She was… Exactly has Alexandria remembered, and yet her memory had failed to draw up the picture before her eyes. “Leave us,” she ordered.
The doctor bowed, and obeyed.
Alexandria sat at the foot of the bed, and stared.
She wanted to say something. Anything. Stop the closing of her throat and will her lips to move and speak. She wanted to ask how she could have left them, how she could have been so cruel as to die. She wanted to tell her of the misery that had been the year of mourning, of the way Auguste had cried for her. She wanted to tell her of the way her spirit still haunted the castle, weaved into every small change she’d made. She wanted to tell her she loved her, like she had never done.
“I have missed you,” she said instead, taking cold fingers in hers.
They sat in silence for a long moment. From under the covers, Alexandria could barely see Clemence’s chest rising, but if she moved, she could feel the air blowing from her nose.
She had not remembered the exact spots of the freckles and moles on her face. She had not remembered the way her nose was slightly lopsided. She had not remembered the way her eyelashes kissed her cheeks, or the way that, when her eyes opened, the blue seemed to cut right through her.
Alexandria’s breath caught in her chest.
“Clemence,” she said.
“Alex–” Clemence’s voice was cut by a harsh cough, making her bend over in the bed, one hand pressed to her mouth and the other to her chest, until she caught her breath and laid back down. “I had forgotten about the smell of candles.”
Alexandria herself did not notice the smell, but she did not care about whatever Clemence said, rather her mere presence. “You– how?”
“Does it matter?” she whispered, bringing Alexandria’s hand to her mouth. “You still wear your wedding ring.”
“I–”
“Alexandria!”
The doors opened, and both Clemence and Alexandria looked at Victoire when she entered, eyes wide and hands frantically clenching and unclenching at her sides. She rushed towards the bed and stumbled to her knees, pressing her cheek against Alexandria’s knee. “Oh thank the lords below! They only said that you were at the doctors and wouldn’t–”
Alexandria’s free hand fell to her hair, a reflex by now well ingrained. “It’s not me. Victoire, it’s not me.”
Victoire looked up at her, and only when their eyes met did she take a deep breath and straightened. “Thank the lords,” she repeated, both palms down to the ground.
“I–”
“It is good to see you,” Clemence said from the bed.
Victoire’s head snapped up. “My lady?”
“I think maybe I should be calling you that,” she replied, not unkindly, eyes fixed on the hand Alexandria had in her hair, and the grip Victoire still had on her skirts.
Alexandria held her breath as Victoire swallowed. “You must know that we believed you dead,” Victoire said softly. “I held nothing but respect for you in life, and I would have never proposed such an arrangement as I did had we known you were alive.”
“I know.” Clemence squeezed Alexandria’s fingers. “Though our wife was never good at hiding how she felt for you, she was no better at hiding how she felt for me, was she?”
Victoire’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “No she wasn’t.”
“I–” Alexandria’s words died in her throat. She had not imagined this. She had not dreamed of this. In her dreams, there were only what ifs, and memories of how it felt for Clemence to touch her, under the cover of dark, and the slowly shifting presence until Victoire was the one under her, the two of them haunting her nights. There were only the memories of Clemence’s laughter, and Victoire’s sharp smile, and the life that she had now, in the shadow of what she had lost.
Clemence squeezed her fingers again. “How is Auguste?” she asked, and Alexandria broke.
She collapsed on the bed, on Clemence’s legs, Clemence who was warm and breathing and alive while Victoire got up and wrapped her in her arms, ignoring all the propriety that should have stood in the way of embracing her on her no longer dead late wife. She was alive, alive, alive.
“Shh,” Victoire whispered, her hand rubbing down her side. “Shh, my love, all is well.”
Clemence’s hand was still tight around her fingers.
“You– You both– I love you,” she said, a little desperately. “What–”
“Let it be enough that we are here,” Clemence said, in the no nonsense voice she used to tell Auguste he was being ridiculous. Her blue eyes were twinkling, and she moved towards Alexandria, letting go of her hand only to cup her face, thumb wiping the tears from her cheek. She leaned in, and kissed her softly, then and there. The doctor and messenger were gone, affording them privacy, but Victoire was not, and Alexandria’s throat clenched as she pulled away.
She glanced back at Victoire, who watched them with a serene look on her face. “Don’t stop on my account. You know I always loved you, Alex, but I’m not opposed to two beautiful women kissing in front of me.”
Alexandria nodded mutely.
“I don’t think it’s fair, though,” Clemence said again. “That our wife gets two, and we each only get one.”
Victoire barked a laugh, completely different from the way she laughed in court, brash and unafraid. “I did wonder once or twice, what it would be like,” she said, rising from where she was to climb onto Clemence’s lap next to Alexandria. She glanced at her wife. “Unless you’re opposed?”
Alexandria shook her head, transfixed by the image in front of her.
She had had dreams, before. She had had a father, and a brother, and the throne had been the furthest thing from what she had expected to get from her lot in life. Never did she think it would lead her here.
Victoire kissed Clemence like a spectacle. Clemence kissed back like she enjoyed being played.
“Surely,” she started, before Victoire put a finger over her mouth, not letting go of Clemence for another few seconds.
“Shush. The people will wonder more how your wife’s back from the dead without having aged one day than they will about what the three of us get up to behind closed doors. Enjoy this.”
Alexandria swallowed. “Auguste–”
“Will be overjoyed his mother is back, and that no one is asking you to break your heart.”
She nodded. “Alright.”
Clemence grinned. “Alright?”
Alexandria breathed. “Alright.”