✧༺ Hearts Of The Crown

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔

꒰ CECILY ꒱

"𝑯𝒐𝒘 providential it is to be born amidst the grandeur of royalty, nurtured in opulence and abundance, and to bear the weight of a crown upon one's brow"

Such sentiments have surrounded me since my earliest days. My life, deemed charmed, resplendent, and filled with mirth, until the shadows began to gather. I often muse that perhaps it would have been simpler to be born into a noble household, away from the piercing scrutiny that accompanies royalty. The expectations set upon me were not merely lofty-they were unattainable.

The first rays of dawn filter through the heavy drapes of my chambers, casting a soft, golden glow on the ornate furnishings. I stir beneath the silk covers, blinking away the remnants of sleep. A gentle knock on the door announces the arrival of my personal maid, Mary.

"Good morrow, Your Highness," she says, her voice a soft whisper as she draws the curtains open. "It is time to rise."

I sit up, stretching slightly, and allow Mary and another maid to assist me into my morning attire. The routine is precise, practiced, and seamless. Layers of fine fabric, carefully chosen for the day, are draped and adjusted until I am presentable.

Breakfast is a formal affair, taken in the grand dining hall with my entire family. The table is laden with a feast fit for royalty, though my appetite is often modest. We exchange polite conversation, discussing the day's agenda and the state of the kingdom, invariably turning to politics.

After breakfast, I indulge in a leisurely promenade through the palace gardens. The air is fresh, scented with blooming flowers. The gardens provide solace, a brief respite from the pressures of court life. I exchange pleasantries with the gardeners and occasionally pause to admire a particularly exquisite rose or tulip.

Visiting the gardens is the most tranquil part of my morning routine. It is a sanctuary of calm and quietude, untouched by the demands of courtly etiquette. I smile as I gaze upon the blossoming flowers, finding solace in their beauty.

"Cecily," a voice calls out, and I turn to see my aunt, Princess Matilda, approaching. I curtsy respectfully before her.

"Aunt Matilda," I greet her with a smile, but her reception is less warm; she merely rolls her eyes and quickly fans herself.

Aunt Matilda is my father's sister, tasked with imparting upon me the intricacies of princess etiquette since my mother's passing. She is considered a paragon of perfection, much like my mother.

"Over the past days, I have observed your conduct..." Oh dear. This does not bode well. "...and I must say, it has been nothing short of disappointing," she continues, her tone reproachful. I avert my gaze, feeling the weight of her scrutiny.

"This morning, I observed your excessive consumption. It is unbecoming for a princess to partake so heartily! How many times must I remind you of the importance of moderation? Do you wish to resemble Princess Diane? Unattractive and corpulent, with no prospect of becoming a queen?" She exhales sharply, fanning herself more vigorously-a clear sign of her displeasure.

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Matilda. I shall be more mindful of my portions henceforth," I reply, keeping my eyes lowered.

"You must. Now, tell me. I have noticed your frequent visits to the garden lately. Pray, what is your favorite flower?" She demands abruptly, catching me off guard.

"I appreciate all varieties of flowers, though I hold a preference for tulips," I answer tentatively, earning another disapproving sigh.

"Yet another disappointment, Cecily. Why can you not be more like your mother?" She places a hand to her temple, as if vexed. "You must understand, a princess's favorite flower should be none other than the rose! Is that clear?" Her voice rises with each word.