The Curse of Windsor Castle

Chapter One

King Francis sat in his throne, waiting to begin another tedious council. Of course, if he had his way, all of his useless council members would be sent home and he would be relaxing in a warm bath with rosemary oil and herbal scents. But at the will of his subjects, an emergency meeting was called to discuss the ever growing concern over the magician, Nuntius Mortis.

His daughter was at his right hand, and his advisors were in their seats in his court. All was quiet. Finally, the king spoke. "For years, Nuntius Mortis has been cursing our kingdom. He has brought disease and misery to Maagiline."

This was the first time the King had every spoke of the pressing problem. Many thought he was just ignoring it, and many hoped he was quietly finding a solution. But none of them truly knew the cause of the magician's agenda. Least of all, the crown princess and heir apparent, Princess Viola Adagia.

There was silence. Finally, the princess spoke. "Father, what has caused Nuntius Mortis to curse this land?"

"It was a week before you were born, Viola." Francis' voice was barely audible."Your mother and I were hosting a ball to celebrate your anticipated birth. Kings from kingdoms as far Ziamlia came. Everyone was invited except for someone."

"Who?" Viola asked, then shook her head. It was obvious. She was not usually this daft but lately her mind had been concerned with other matters. Those that a princess should concern herself with. Curses and famine were not such matters.

But her father answered the question anyway. "Nuntius Mortis. He and I had had a complicated past, and he was disliked in my court. But despite our mutual hatred, the cursed witch came. Then he cursed your mother."

"What did he do?" One of King Francis's most loyal advisor asked. His name was Fidelus. The death of the Queen had always been surrounded by mystery and the public—advisors included—had only been given vague answers related to childbirth and disease. Fidelus didn't expect the King to answer.

But once again, Francis surprised them all. "He told Queen Victoria she would die with Viola. Then he gave me his gif—"

Rosemary McAllister woke up in a cold sweat. She looked around, trying to ground herself and steady her increasingly rapid heartbeat. She was still in her quaint room in her mum's flat in London. Her bed was smaller, thanks to her most recent growth spurt, and her room still smelled like basil. "You're still home, Rose," she told herself. "It's fine." She fell back asleep.

"What were the gifts?" Viola asked. She had always assumed it was a dagger or poison, or something equally vile and dangerous.

"Those seven chairs." Francis pointed to a group of unassuming chairs, too plain for a royal throne room, at a corner of the courtroom. "I didn't think there was anything special about them so I accepted his gifts. The next day, your mother came down with scarlet fever. The maids were able to save you, but your mother didn't make it."

"Why did she get scarlet fever? Was it Nuntius Mortis?" Fidelus asked.

"No one knows. Some thought the chairs were cursed," Francis answered. "I consulted many healers, but they did not know what the fever was or how it happened. No one was able to prove that it was indeed Nuntius Mortis—"

"Rosemary McAllister! Wake up. It's time for school," her mother called.

Rose groaned and slowly threw her sheets off. She went to go put clothes on before realizing that she hadn't changed into her pyjamas last night.  Her clothes were wrinkled from the hours she had tossed and turned in her bed before sleeping. Rose trudged to the kitchen, dragging her feet across the carpet.