To My Duke, Dearest| j. kirschtein

x. First Meeting

A tally chart is what you had created. The ink had stained the parchment and even bled through to the desk where you kept your jewellery box. When the sun shone, it made the ink glitter in the most spectacular way, it bleached the colour of the yellow and grainy sheet and almost made it look rather white. As white as the face powder that Lady Hitch used to hide the soft freckles starred along the bridge of her nose, which she believed were a blemish. The paper waited patiently each morning for you to strike another cross through the stick-looking marking.

You wished you could say you awoke gracefully, but it would be an outright lie. Every morning, you longed for more rest. There was something about the mysterious softness of the bed that always lulled you back into its comforts. It felt like the soft skirts of your mother's winter-time frocks she liked to parade in when she visited friends in the village. She used to bundle you in so much layers that you would secretly blaspheme her beneath your breath as she held your gloved hands, tugging you along like a reluctant donkey. What you would give to simply touch her hand again.

Despite your often restlessness, tonight you were unable to sleep for a different reason. Your stomach felt like a pot of swirling caramel, bubbling up and threatening to spill. Nerves had plagued your body like terrible case of illness, paralysing your body and forcing your knees to surrender to weakness.

Cracking one eye open, you squinted over at the awaiting desk, seeing that there was only one tally left to strike, for today was the day. The thought of it made another wave of illness churn over your stomach. Too many thoughts tore through the tracks of your mind, so many villainous and deceitful plots weighed heavy in the forefront of your brain. It was better to think of a bloody revenge than the panic that surged through your body at the thought that today was your first court with Prince Jean, heir to the throne of Trost, most admired suitor for miles around...and the perfect victim to fall fool to your wicked scheming.

Today would be the day to truly test yourself, to see how capable you truly were to actually exact your malicious revenge. Talk was cheap and this was your first opportunity to make an impression that made you stick to the forefront of the prince's mind like tree sap. You needed to be the only girl he thought of when he dreamt of his future queen, you needed to somehow convince him that you were the perfect candidate of marriage, and you needed to win for the sake of Rielle's future, Porco's honour...and your poisonous grudge.

Sitting up in the sheets, nervously, you picked at your nails. You knew nothing of seduction, nothing of how to change a man. You had wit...and you were not exactly sure if that was an attribute men truly liked in women. No, not at all. They liked to see them submissive and subservient, awaiting their beck and call like a dutiful dog to their master. But, if that were true in the eyes of most of the men in Marley, why did the boys of this castle seem to think differently?

"Lady Rielle!" Came the desperate and breathless shout of your assigned maid.

Scrambling out of the sheets, you slipped on your far too narrow, and blistering evening slippers, that you had abandoned last night, and you flung yourself to the door. Slowly turning the handle, you pulled it open, revealing an incredibly flushed Louise. Her cherub cheeks were a stark red, and she was panting as if she had wrestled a wild horse. Yet, the moment her eyes met yours, she shrieked in excitement, almost dropping her bucket of water.

"Today is the day!" Both of you said in unison, only except hers was a song of glee and yours suppressed your inner anxieties.

Turning from her, you drew out a tense breath, collecting your quill and striking a diagonal line through the final soldier standing. You heard Louise place the bucket down behind you, unable to contain her immature giggles.