ᴍᴀᴅᴄᴀᴘ :: ᴀ. ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇʀᴛᴏɴ

ɪɪɪ: ꜰᴏᴏʟʜᴀʀᴅʏ

◊

❝ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝, 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭. ❞

― ᴍ.ᴊ. ᴀʙʀᴀʜᴀᴍ

◊

It seemed Lady Amelia Frost had reached the end of her fuse. She hardly spoke to Isabeau all the way back to the palace, and released her wrist as they drew near with an irate scoff and a shake of her head, as though it had been a rat she had dragged all this way by the tail rather than a princess of England.

If Isabeau had been in lighter spirits, she might have laughed at the comparison; instead, it dragged her spirits ever lower. Without her shoes, the dirt and fresh grass of the gardens pressed between her toes as she hurried after her handmaiden, and it felt like salt into a dozen wounds. The exultation from her earlier ventures into the maze could not have felt further away.

But it was not Isabeau's first encounter with consequences, and it would not be the last. It did not take much effort for her to keep her chin stubbornly high as she followed Lady Frost around the palace and through a servants' side door, studiously ignoring the curious glances of the guards outside it and the maids and chefs' hands bustling within. If she held her chin high enough, the mud on her skirts would remain a mark of pride instead of the smear of sin.

To Lady Frost, however, the mud and grime and fierce grins that made up Isabeau would always fall into the latter category – a fact she certainly made clear, as they at last approached Isabeau's chambers in the residential wing of the palace.

"I have had enough of treating you like a child," she snapped, striding towards the doors of Isabeau's bedchamber and flinging them fiercely open. Given her age, the strength in her arms was impressive: the doors slammed against the walls behind them, making the maids on Isabeau's tail jump in silent alarm. "It's time you learned from your mistakes!"

"This time, and the last time," Isabeau droned, with an impertinent skywards glance she knew would make Lady Frost twitch. "It's time you learned that my mistakes are not mistakes at all—"

"Oh, for God's sakes. Enough."

There was enough venom in Lady Frost's voice that Isabeau fell silent, and allowed herself to be steered from the gilded doors to the dressing table. Lady Frost flicked a hand at the maids, who undressed Isabeau down to her chemise, then pushed her by her shoulders onto the stool and reached for the nearest, pearl-encrusted hairbrush. She wielded it towards Isabeau's reflection like a sword before a duel.

"Don't you understand how you make us all look?" she hissed, before grabbing one of Isabeau's tangled curls and tugging on it sharply. Isabeau grimaced: she hated this part. "Your Ladies of the Bedchamber, your governesses, your dutiful aunt in Somerset – even your mother and father!  It's a mercy you've been away from the court, for if they were to see you, they would all speak of how you besmirch the royal name. And rightfully so. They will wonder how we raised you, to make you flaunt every protocol, to make you laugh in the face of decorum . . ."

For the first time, Isabeau felt a stab of guilt. It wasn't as though the feelings of her maids had ever escaped her; she knew what it must have cost them to constantly seek her and clean up after her chaos, but she tried to shove it out of her mind whenever it dragged at her heels. It wouldn't do to dwell on so many miseries, when she could all too easily sink.