The language of peonies

🌸 ✿ ✾ Chapter 1 ✾ ✿ 🌸

Olivia "Ollie" Amber-Rose Dawson stood in front of the massive palace gates, trying really hard not to pass out. She could practically hear her heartbeat in her ears, each thump a reminder that this was her big, huge moment. The one where she absolutely, definitely wouldn't screw things up. Right?

"Alright, Ollie," she muttered under her breath, adjusting her ridiculously fancy red silk uniform that made her look like a walking, talking flag. Don't be fired. Don't be fired. Don't be fired.

"Don't be a mess." She did a mental checklist. "Don't faint. Don't insult anyone by accident. Especially the king."

She glanced at her reflection in the polished gold door. Tall? Check. Gangly? Oh, hell yes. Freckles? Definitely. Eye color? One was blue-grey and the other was grey-blue, but honestly, at this point, who could tell the difference? Her hair, however, looked less like a powdered wig and more like she had rolled out of bed after a windstorm.

"Perfect."

With that, she pushed open the door and stepped into the grand hall, immediately feeling like she was in way over her head. I am so not cut out for this, she thought, looking around at the polished floors and towering pillars like they were about to swallow her whole.

A voice broke her thoughts.

"Ah, the new page," came a voice, smooth and a little amused, from across the room.

Her eyes snapped up to find him: King George III. The one and only. Except... he didn't look like a king. Not at first glance. He was just—well, he was just there. Tall, too, which made her feel a little less awkward in her gangly glory. The way he looked at her, though? It was like he was sizing her up, trying to figure out if she was a threat—or if she was just... a disaster waiting to happen.

"Ollie Amber-Rose Dawson," she said, snapping into a bow like she'd been taught for this exact moment, but internally, she was screaming. Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Don't mess up.

"Your Majesty," she added. There. Professional. She was handling this like a boss—sort of.

King George raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Is that so? I thought you were going to be a man, or at least a boy."

Ollie's heart skipped a beat. "I... I am." She blinked, then mentally facepalmed. Smooth, Ollie. Real smooth. "I mean—No, wait, I'm not. I'm a woman, Your Majesty. But—don't worry. I can do this. I can totally do this."

He tilted his head slightly, clearly curious now. "Really? And what makes you so sure?"

Oh, no, no, no, don't make this weird, Ollie. She really wasn't supposed to answer that. It wasn't in the job description. But she said it anyway.

"I'm just a page, Your Majesty," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "What could possibly go wrong?"

His grin grew wider. "Everything, it's an occupational hazard."

Her brain just short-circuited. WHAT?! She opened her mouth to protest but instead just blinked at him, hoping she wasn't about to turn into a puddle of embarrassment. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm definitely not panicking.

"Of course," she said, nodding vigorously, even though she had no idea what he meant. Occupational hazard? What is he talking about? Am I in danger of dying on my first day? She swallowed hard and glanced away.

George just chuckled at her obvious confusion and stepped aside, gesturing toward the long hall. "Come on, then. You've got work to do. Follow me."

Great. Now she had to follow him around like an idiot. But she did. Because that's what she was here for.

Ollie entered her quarters, which were admittedly huge. Like, way too huge for someone who was technically just a page, but hey, she wasn't about to complain. She dropped her bag, instantly regretting her choice of outfit. She needed to do something to calm down.

"Okay, deep breath," she muttered to herself.

She looked around the room—grand, ornate, the kind of room you'd expect a princess to live in, except... well, she was just a page. And, honestly, shouldn't she be off doing something?

Ollie noticed a vase on the far side of the room, all clean and empty.

Must fill that, she thought. For some reason, this was the one thing she could definitely control in this sea of chaos.

She quickly grabbed her royal suit jacket and fixed it. "Your Majesty," she said to the mirror, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady. "I will try my best to assist you in every way."

She said it like she believed it—kinda. Please don't fire me. Please don't fire me.

And then she was gone, leaving the room in a whirlwind of panic.

Her feet practically flew back to the hallway, but the instant she crossed the threshold into the corridor, there it was.

A single peony. On her bed.

It was... there. Waiting for her. And Ollie—well, Ollie had no idea how to feel about it.

Her fingers brushed the petals, and she just stared at it for a solid five minutes before muttering, "What the hell, George?"

And that was it.