"Princess-elect, a little more of your face this way, please."
Before the vanity. With three maids at work on her hair, Miria gave a small nod.
"Princess-elect." "Prince Alfred's." "Our future Crown Princess."
This morning, too, the name "Miria" did not pass the maids' lips even once.
There's no one left anywhere in this castle who calls me Miria.
The girl in the mirror returned a thin smile.
But that should be an honor, shouldn't it? Because soon, I really will be "Her Highness the Crown Princess."
The physician's words still lingered deep in her ears.
You are with child, Princess-elect.
She was carrying the heir.
She had not yet told anyone.
The maid paused with the comb in her hair and asked, timidly:
"Today's breakfast menu, the change of bed linens, and the selection of sweets to be served at Her Majesty the Queen Mother's tea party—the Mistress of the Household asks that you give your approval on each, Princess-elect."
"...I'm the one who decides that?"
"Surely a princess would know such things as a matter of course."
A faint chill crept into the maid's voice.
Miria could say nothing.
A country girl summoned to the church as a Saint candidate could hardly decide a royal palace's breakfast menu. No one taught her. If she asked, the answer was "Surely you know." If she didn't ask, they whispered behind her back: "What a careless princess-elect."
"...As usual, please."
That was all she could say.
The Queen Mother's tea party.
The clink of porcelain pierced her ears like needles.
"My, that combination of tea things. Lady Rosalind would never have chosen it, I should think."
The Queen Mother's lips drew an elegant arc.
"The late princess, too, favored porcelain of a far finer grade. —Well, perhaps that's still a difficult subject for a girl raised in the provinces."
Miria laced her fingers in her lap.
"My deepest apologies, Your Majesty. Next time, without fail."
"By the way, Miria."
Her name, called without warning, made her heart jump. Her own name, which she had not heard in so long.
But the words that followed were a knife.
"The heir—not yet?"
Miria's finger, which had been tracing the rim of her teacup, stopped.
"If you don't conceive soon, your very worth will be called into question. After all, Alfred requires only one thing of you."
Worth, the Queen Mother had said.
Something sour rose from the pit of her stomach.
Should she tell her now? The fact the physician had given her only this morning?
—No, she reconsidered. If she told Her Majesty before Prince Alfred, who knew what would be said afterward. Yet she had not told even Prince Alfred. No one would give her anything to judge by.
"Once I bear the heir, everything will turn out fine."
She murmured it inside her mouth, too softly for anyone to hear.
Yes. As long as she bore the heir, these barbs would stop. The Queen Mother, the Mistress of the Household, the maids—all of them would have no choice but to treat Miria as "the princess who bore the heir."
The one thing Rosalind Abel had never managed to obtain.
I'll be the one to get it first.
"I shall strive to do just as Your Majesty says."
Miria returned a textbook upward glance.
On the desk for state affairs, documents were piled so high they threatened to topple.
"Please sign these in His Highness the Crown Prince's name."
The Queen Mother's maid held them out, matter-of-fact.
"What's in them...?"
"I couldn't say. Please read them first, Princess-elect, and then sign."
She plainly had no intention of answering.
The pile of documents was stacked so high it threatened to topple. If she examined the contents one sheet at a time, the sun would set before she finished.
Slipped into that bundle was a single document diverting the church's relief fund to one family's domain. A sloppy document, the kind Rosalind Abel would have recognized as fraud at a glance.
—But Miria did not read it.
I can't be expected to read every single one of these.
Miria picked up the quill. The nib stroked the paper.
Besides, I'm not the one at fault.
He had Big Sister, and still, all it took was a little upward glance and a whisper, and Prince Alfred fell without a fight. I let one teardrop fall and said, "Big Sister has been tormenting me," and he took it to heart and threw her away, his own fiancée, just like that. —He's the one who fell for me first, isn't he?
If Big Sister had only managed to keep hold of one fiancé of her own, I'd never have ended up in this chair. By rights I'd be living at ease with my family in some country domain right now.
Again and again, Miria recited in her heart the name of the woman she had brought down.
Do look, Big Sister. In this chair, I'll show you I can do it better than you ever did.
The courtyard.
Seated on the rim of the fountain, Alfred was laughing.
Beside him was a young lady in a pale blue gown. Lady Lily, a count's daughter. —The new favorite Alfred had been so eager to keep at his side of late.
"Prince Alfred."
As Miria approached, for the briefest instant, a shadow of annoyance crossed his handsome face.
Even so, he quickly put on his Crown Prince smile.
"Miria. What do you want?"
"May I join you?"
Lady Lily rose and curtsied flawlessly.
"For someone like me to be taking up His Highness's time... It's all thanks to everyone that I'm having such a lovely afternoon."
Miria's fingertips went cold.
She knew those lines.
Three years ago, while Rosalind Abel stood at the edge of the social scene, Miria herself had used that very technique over and over. The trembling voice. The misting eyes. The modest smile. A calculated performance of devotion, designed to draw out the urge to protect.
Lady Lily's upward glance was just a little younger than Miria's, just a little fresher.
...I feel like I've seen that move somewhere before.
—I can't remember. I don't want to remember.
Miria brought her lips close to Alfred's ear.
"Prince Alfred. I have news to report."
"What is it."
"I am carrying your heir."
Alfred's eyes widened slightly.
Miria did not miss the expression that followed. —Not joy, not surprise. Relief.
Relief that this would excuse him, for a while, from the duty of touching her.
"Ah. Well done."
Alfred patted her shoulder lightly. The way one might praise a dog.
"Rest well. We can't have anything harm the heir. Tonight I'm dining out."
He stood and offered his hand to Lady Lily.
"My princess-elect is at a delicate time. Keeping you company elsewhere is simply a nobleman's consideration, wouldn't you say, Lady Lily?"
"Oh, how very kind of you."
The two of them walked away.
Only the sound of the fountain remained in Miria's ears.
"Well done," he says.
She laid a hand on her lower belly.
I'm not a dog.
But the blame-shifting switch flipped on at once, the way it always did.
—This is all Big Sister Rosalind's fault.
If Big Sister had only managed to keep hold of one fiancé of her own, none of this would have happened. If he's this fickle, if his eye wanders to some other girl so quickly, it's because she spent all those years at his side and couldn't hold on to his heart. By rights, I should have been welcomed with a love more befitting me. I'm only being made to clean up after her mess.
Night.
When she dimmed the bedroom lamps, the white sheets of the bed beside hers floated up out of the dark.
Not a single wrinkle. Tonight, again, no one would sit there.
Miria lay down alone on her own side.
Once I bear the heir, everything will turn out fine.
Watch me, Big Sister. I'll do it better than you ever did.
Nausea rose from the pit of her stomach. Even when she rang the bell, the night maid did not come right away.
In the end, no one came at all.
Miria pulled the basin beside the bed toward herself. Hunched over, stifling her voice, she was sick alone.
No hand to rub her back, no hand to offer her water. When she was done, she poured even the water to rinse her mouth herself, with trembling hands.
...Why does someone carrying the heir have to be like this—
She started to think it, then stopped. Thinking about it wouldn't change the fact that no one was coming.
The white sheets of the bed beside hers looked, even in the dark, just one shade whiter.