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♛❞
I breathe quickly once more through my nose and out through my lips, attempting to my utmost capabilities to alleviate the nervousness spreading within my quivering body. I was especially conscious of my nasty habit of tapping when anxious, drumming my finger against the table or thumping my feet on the floor— inhibiting myself from doing so with every fibre of my being became quite a challenge. I do not remember any other day where I had been a jittery wreck as awful as today since I never imagined myself dining before the Queen Charlotte of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Without any well-acquainted company -in other words, Simon- in the Her Majesties' family dining room, I felt absolutely out of place.
This morning's sudden occurrence had left me vulnerable. In a matter of seconds, the normalcy I grew up in was ousted from me, forcing me into this unknown life— practically like a newborn opening its eyes for the first time. And now I am amongst influential figures, posh and adorned in luxurious articles of clothing, whereas I am still sporting what is deemed outright rubbish in their eyes.
I discreetly glance to my left, where the Empress sat, my hand clasped between hers on her lap, her thumb hovering above my knuckles. The little contact felt a tad uncomfortable -I did not have the heart to slowly extract my hand away from her with how content she appeared- yet her touch also felt oddly familiar— the sensation was indescribable.
"Oh, you look just like your mother," the Queen comments as she scrutinizes my features, embellished in white hair and velvety maquillage, gazing with soft eyes, "little Vasilia is back home."
"I cannot believe she is right beside me, as though my mind is still playing tricks with me," the Empress lightly squeezes my hand, tears threatening to spill as she looks at me, "but she is here. After years and years of searching, she is finally here with us again."
"She will need formal training to be a proper princess," the Emperor expresses from my right, then sips his tea from the gold-trimmed China cup.
"Indeed," the Queen follows, her gaze unwavering from me, "she has her mother's beauty, of course, but she lacks the demeanour and confidence of a Grand Duchess."
"She must be perfect, as well," the Emperor continues, "as a woman and the eldest of the Imperial House of Russian, there will be a lot of expectations from the public."
"We also need new dresses for her," the Empress conveys excitedly, "my tailor has quite an exceptional eye for fashion. You will outfit in gorgeous dresses and enchanting pieces of jewelry. Oh, I cannot wait to doll you up, my dear."
"Do you enjoy books? I believe it is essential for women to educate themselves and attain as much knowledge as men."
"She should also learn to play some instruments."
"Thankfully, Vasilia bears no ring. However, she is six and twenty," the Empress peers at me, eyes shining with child-like excitement with a bright smile, "I do not want to let go of you so soon, but it is time to look for a potential suitor, do you not agree, dear?"
I cannot be here any longer.
I swallow a lump of saliva as everyone's attention comes solely to me, waiting in silence for an answer. Little by little, I can see my freedom becoming more and more out of reach. And though I do agree I would need the training to fit my role into this society, I cannot see myself marrying yet, not when Anthony still harbours my heart. I clear my throat and voice with as much confidence I can muster, "Yes, of course— and, um, m-may I please be excused, Your Majesties? I-I feel a bit lightheaded—"
"Do you need a royal physician?" the Empress quickly asks, brows furrowed deeply, responding the way a mother would react when concerned for their child. My breath hitches at how motherly the Empress is behaving, and my mind spirals unconsciously back to the one who raised me for the last 25 years.
For the love of God, stop thinking about her!
"No, no. No, I am alright. I merely need some air, yes," I say, standing up from my chair and bowing before hastily leaving Her Majesties' family dining room. I respire out heavily once the family dining room door shuts softly behind me, not realizing I held on to my breath until now.
The sun rests under the horizon, and the darkness comes wide awake,moonlight shimmering through the open windows, creating a shadow of myself on the marble floor. The calm breeze caresses my reddened cheeks as I wander through the majestic empty halls mindlessly, enjoying my time away from the chattering of the other individuals. Gradually, my steps halted at the sight of -from the corners of my eyes- an extravagant painting hung against the wall, one of the Imperial House of Russia— one with a petite doe-eyed girl in the comfort of her father's embrace. As though under a trance, I deliberately near the artwork, the distinctive odour of oil-paint tickling my nose.
I felt myself trembling, not from the chilliness, more so from the emotions built up inside— the anger, the sadness, the confusion. Tears prickling down my cheeks, chest tightening as I stared into the eyes of my innocent self in the painting, "why did this happen to me?"
"I can be of assistance for that."
I whip my head towards the unexpected voice, nearly tumbling from my own feet when encountering Matvey Romanov a few steps away from me, "Your Highness—"
"—You don't need to speak with titles. After all, we are family," his voice quiet, "mother was rather blue when you called her by 'Your Majesty.' She was hoping you would drop it with her."
"Oh, I- It was not my intention to make her upset."
"We know, and though it hurts to be seen as strangers by you, it was to be expected," he says, slowly reaching my side, "a lot has occurred today. You deserve to know why you separated from us."
Seeing my anticipatory expression, he continues, "Father told me he had met Aleksandra Kalashnik before meeting mother, and she was his mistress. After falling in love with mother, he banished her from the palace. Somehow he had acquired a letter from her a few months afterward, declaring she was pregnant. Father did not believe her."
"She didn't lie," I say, recalling Aleksandra's blaring words this morning, "her daughter's name was Kira. She passed, and I became her replacement."
"That is what I am assuming, yes."
I hum softly, turning my gaze from the painting to Matvey, "you are five and twenty, I hear? I am a year wiser than you then."
"One year wiser, my arse," he rolls his eyes with the ends of his lips quirked up as I gasp in shock at his vulgar choice of words, stifling my laughter with my palm, "you could not have been much cleverer at age one than a one-month-old child, sister."
