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Chapter 12
Roland’s wounds had yet to close, and the royal physician had urged him again and again to remain at rest. But he would not hear of it.
He had transformed all of Blossomvale into a sea of peonies–Cecily’s favorite flower. A thousand blooms, each handpicked, each selected by Roland himself.
The feast had been overseen entirely by him, with every dish matching her taste–flaky honey cakes, cherry cordials, candied almonds, all carefully sampled by his own lips before they were plated.
Even the fireworks had been specially commissioned. When ignited, they would burst into a constellation of stars–spelling her name against the heavens.
Watching him with both amusement and disbelief, Lord William Westbrook gave a low chuckle. “By the Saints, Roland–this place looks more like a royal betrothal banquet than a simple courtship.”
Roland ignored him, eyes fixed on the timepiece. There was still half an hour before the appointed time.
But half an hour passed.
Then a full hour.
And still, she didn’t come.
He remained in the pavilion at the heart of the garden, his fingers wandered unconsciously over the emerald locket nestled in the velvet box, still warm from his grasp.
He had sent over a dozen messages, each met with silence.
Worry darkened his features. “Could something have happened?” he muttered. He summoned his shadow guard. “Find out where Lady Cecily went today.”
An incense stick’s time later, the report arrived.
Cecily is at Mistveil Parlor. She stopped by the Jewel Hall earlier to buy new hairpins, lunched at the Silver Chalice Inn, and is now testing new rouges.
Roland froze.
She… was trying on cosmetics? Had she forgotten the time? But he had reminded her just last night.
Jaw tightening, Roland leapt onto his steed and rode for Mistveil Parlor.
The Parlor catered exclusively to noblewomen, and as he approached the entryway, a flustered servant rushed to block him. “My lord, I beg your pardon, but men aren’t-”
“Out of my way!” barked the steward, who had recognized him. He slapped the servant aside. “You fool! This is His Grace, Prince Roland!”
Roland strode toward the private chamber she occupied. Just before he pushed the door open, he paused–voices drifted from within.
“Truly? You’re not going to meet that guard of yours?” a young woman’s voice teased.
Cecily laughed lazily. “Why would I? One look at his eyes and I know—he’s going to make some sentimental declaration. As if I’d marry a servant.”
“But he’s done so much for you,” the friend prodded. “Got himself wounded, picked you flowers, even carved your name onto his chest…”
“And so what?” Cecily snorted. “He’s handsome, sure, and fiercely loyal–but in the end, he’s a glorified watchdog. Meanwhile, I have Prince Roland’s favor, Why wouldn’t I aim for the royal house?”
Roland’s hand, still on the door handle, went rigid
The other girl hesitated. “Then why not just refuse him outright? Why string him along?
Cecily’s lone grew smug. “You don’t get it. A man like that strong, devoted, desperate to please–why waste it? Let him worship me. And besides…” Her voice dropped, thick with venomous glee.
“Eleanor’s in love with him. And he chose me. The look on her face when she realizes I’ve taken something she wanted–it’s delicious. Just like how she used to love white gowns, and I told my father I liked them. He took all her dresses and gave them to me. I wore them every day, just to make her hate theru. And eventually–she did ”
Roland felt as though he’d been struck by lightning
“Gods…” her friend murmured, “you’ve tormented her all these years, haven’t you? I even heard rumors about her mother when she died giving
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birth…”
“That woman deserved it,” Cecily snapped. “She clung to her title as Lady Viremont like a leech. I merely… helped her along. A pinch of abortion draught in her water, that’s all. Who knew she’d be so fragile? Two corpses in one night.”
“And the Academy scholarship?” the other asked slowly. “Was it really you who denounced her for moral corruption and disobedience?”
“Forged letters,” Cecily said airily. “She threw a fit, of course. But what did it matter? Father always takes my side.”
Each word landed like a blade, shattering the image Roland had once cherished.
The innkeeper beside him trembled. “Your Grace… shall I announce you?”
Silence fell in the chamber, and then Cecily’s voice rang out sharply. “Who’s there?”
Roland closed his eyes.
“No,” he said quietly. “She needn’t know I was here.”
He turned and walked away.
In his carriage, he drank. Cup after cup of cherry cordial and fine wine, until the seams of his robe were soaked.
Her voice echoed in his head.
She called him a watchdog.
She wanted only the prestige of marrying into the royal household.
She had murdered Eleanor’s mother. Poisoned a woman heavy with child.
She had sabotaged Eleanor’s future with lies, slander, and forged scrolls.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Eleanor’s sharp, mocking eyes. The trembling of her hands when she dressed his wounds. The way she had snarled, “Roland, I’m done with you.”
And all the while, the fireworks he had arranged exploded above Blossomvale, blooming into golden letters that spelled Cecily across the night sky.
But the man who was supposed to be watching… was only drowning in silence and wine.
How had that gentle girl–the one who had once saved a bird’s nest–become this?
Bang–his fist slammed into the carriage wall.
The girl he cherished had been nothing but a mirage–woven from sunlight and deceit. That girl in the white dress never existed. Or rather… she had never been Cecily.
A fragment of memory jolted him.
That day, three years ago, at the Spring Hunt.
The sun shining through the canopy. A girl in white, climbing a tree to rescue a trembling nest.
He had asked the attendant, “Who is that?”
And the answer came: “A Viremont daughter.”
Later, when he returned from the Southern, he sought her out.
He had heard there were two daughters–one, bold and brash, famed for her crimson gowns. The other, quiet as a garden lily, always in white.
He had simply assumed the latter was the younger sister.
But now…
His blood ran coid
“Look into it,” he said hoarsely. “Three years ago, at the Spring Hunt – did Lady Cecily ever slip away to the palace gardens?”
Chapter 12
