Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Ch. 47: The Calm Before the Storm

Mrs. Laroche’s voice fades into background noise as I loop a forest green thread around my fingers. My legs swing back and forth on the sofa, my heels nearly knocking into the fancy lion’s claw leg that supports the white seat.

My mind can’t help but recall Julian’s retelling of the unused threads as I draw the thread taut between my fingers. The string doesn’t break, its vibrant color indicative of its good quality.

I, for better or worse, want to be part of the tapestry of this world. I want to be free from Peppermint, so I can wholeheartedly focus on carving out a comfortable life for myself. But so far, the only way I can think of weaving myself into the picture is by becoming the promised child that Julia is favored to be.

In the web, Julia was officially announced by the Holy Church as the promised child when she was 8 years old, which means I have time to figure out how to steal the title from her. However, I also know from the web, that the title is completely bogus and will be exposed as a fake created by the empress someday in the future. But what other choice do I have, but to try?

“Your highness,” an icy voice inquired, dragging me rudely from my thoughts.

I blink my fluttery lashes up at a sour-faced Mrs. Laroche, murmuring a quick, “Sorry.”

She held her glare for a beat, so that I could see how she was displeased with my inattentiveness, before launching back into her lecture.

Her hand held a plain silk handkerchief, pulled flat within the wooden mechanism I’ve seen before in historical movies.

.....

“It’s best to wear a thimble, to prevent yourself from accidentally harming your finger,” she resumes, handing me a special miniature thimble to looks more like a toy in her hands but fits my thumb perfectly.

It was a welcome suggestion, as the suddenness with which the long and slender needle pierced the fabric led to numerous pings of metal hitting metal. Each time the sound rang out in my sitting room, Mrs. Laroche would regard me with a stink eye and I would smile lovingly in her direction. This made for an absolutely peachy hour of haphazardous embroidery.

“What... What is this?” Mrs. Laroche asked in horror, never forgetting her manners as her freshly embroidered hanky moved to cover her open mouth. If my feelings were actually invested in this otherwise useless task, I would’ve been hurt by her reaction, but instead, I had to smother a giggle or two.

“It’s you!” I reply sweetly.

On the low coffee table between us, Mrs. Laroche actually set out many subjects for me to recreate. There is a rose she plucked on her way in, a red vase, and a palm-sized detailed drawing of a songbird. Last night, I had stayed up late with Emma creating hundreds of cups of fruity pudding for the royal guard. It’s becoming warmer and warmer every day as the first days of summer are upon us, and I figured a cool treat would be more than welcome.

But how was I supposed to remember that today of all days, I had an etiquette lesson earlier than usual since Mrs. Laroche wanted to take extra time to teach me the foundations of embroidery? It was a soul-crushing moment reminiscent of my previous life’s school days as I sullenly sent Emma out on her own with the snacks to her sword lessons.

Thus as revenge, I decided to embroider Mrs. Laroche as my subject of choice. Her gray dress came out more like a messy blob, some threads loose while others were tight. Three small black knots made up her eyes and mouth that is always pinched as if she sucked a lemon. Her brown hair looks like it was electrocuted on my hanky, the elegant bun ruined in my childish hands. Watching her satisfying reaction at my grand reveal, I am not disappointed in the slightest.

“Yes, it’s you! This is your hair, and your eyes and mouth, and that’s your gray dress.”

Sometimes being a child is not so bad. I can tell that my rendition of her appearance has riled Mrs. Laroche up, but she can do nothing other than swallow down her rage.

“Your highness,” my governess starts carefully, a slight hint of anger still evident in her tone, “It is... improper... to embroider people. Next time please use a still object as your subject.”

“Mmkay!” I reply obediently. But Mrs. Laroche has high standards and is displeased.

“Noble ladies, especially princesses, do not use such common vernacular. When agreeing, use your words. Yes, Mrs. Laroche, for example, would be a proper reply.”

“Yes, Mrs. Laroche,” I say, slightly less enthusiastically. Thankfully, my teacher does not notice.

At this moment, a young steward rushes up to me with a panicked expression. Marie, who typically stands in the corner during my lessons, meets him halfway and they exchange flurried words before Marie turns to me with a similarly shocked expression.

“Her Majesty, the empress, has arrived at Rose Palace,” she says hurriedly, so that both Mrs. Laroche and I can hear her.

“Hmph!” Mrs. Laroche says indignantly, “The panic within your voice would make those who don’t know better think that the empress mistreats her highness. Your highness, take care to discipline your staff so they know how to carry themselves.”

I pay little mind to her words. I know very well that the empress’ act is Oscar-worthy. Other than those unfortunate enough to suffer her wrath, such as myself, one would assume she is a saint.

The saint in question sweeps gracefully in my sitting room, her stunning personage wrapped up in a deep blue gown and followed by her palace’s attendants. It’s a breathtaking sight indeed, one I can’t help but envy. Her entire person exudes light, like the sun. Even though she has hurt me so much, when the empress smiles down at me with none of the loathing I know she feels, I can’t help but wish she liked me. That she stood on my side instead of against me. But my experiences have proved otherwise.

“Greetings, your majesty,” Mrs. Laroche and I say at the same time, dropping into a formal curtsey. Mrs. Laroche says nothing to me, but when I briefly meet her eyes when we rise, I can see the silent approval in her eyes.

“Winter darling,” the empress says sweetly as she personally helps me up from the curtsey, “I take you as my own daughter. You do not need to be so formal with me.”

Chills crawl down my spine as her cool hands take mine. Her cropped nails softly graze the top of my hands I desperately want to yank myself free. But I don’t.

If I did, I would inevitably look like a brat who doesn’t appreciate the goodwill of the wife towards a child outside her marriage. The news, like much information about me, would make its way down the winding entrance of the Rose Palace and into the imperial palace, before everyone on the streets is talking about it. And then, my hard work in slandering the empress’ name would be in vain.

I return Empress Katya’s gesture of goodwill with my own, holding her hand of my own volition and smiling at her with a childlike naivete. Her green eyes land on the basket of threads and she smiles down at me.

“You were learning embroidery?” she asks. Mrs. Laroche silently excuses herself from the room and I reflexively swallow as a maid by the empress’ side similarly shoos out a reluctant Marie.

“Yes,” I say before correcting myself, “I mean, yes, your majesty.”

“Now, now,” the empress chides in a calm voice, “I told you to call me mother before, remember?”

In your dreams, I want to yell. But I just nod half-heartedly as we take a seat at the sofa. Every nerve cell, latent animal instinct, and shred of common sense in my body is telling me to flee when Katya makes eye contact with me again, her perfect smile beginning to show cracks. But two of her maids have closed the sitting-room door and moved in front. It is the most polite trap I’ve ever seen.

“The way I was raised,” Katya begins gently, her sapphire earrings trembling with each word, “Embroidery is an art taught from mother to daughter.”

“It teaches you about life, specifically how proper women should live. The art is quiet and unintrusive. When one embroiders, their actions will never interrupt a conversation or draw an unnecessary gaze. It takes place indoors and does not disturb the important business of one’s father, brother, or son. With each breath, one remains innately focused on their task, their mind never pondering any disgraceful fancies unfit for a noblewoman.”

The corner of my mouth falls briefly at the empress’ pretty words, which fall smoothly on my ears but jars with my sensibilities. My modern ideology strongly disagreeing with her Erudian rendition of the ‘women belong in the kitchen with a baby on their hip’ speech. Within her words, a clear message is heard.

Stay in your lane, you bastard.