Chapter Twenty-Four: Veritas

Previously: Volition

 

The morning of the coronation, a servant delivered a note from Sir Adrian.

 

My gracious lady, it said, it appears I have no taste for pomp. I am bound for Auremer, and hope to see you before long.

 

Mireille stopped, gasping for breath. She'd been looking forward to the coronation, to the grand ceremony, the feast, and the dances. But if Adrian wasn't staying, then she wasn't either.

 

His sudden return had gifted her clarity, pulling everything sharply into focus. One moment, she couldn't wait to be seen with Aurélien, to spark rumors of her royal ascension. Now she couldn't even abide the sight of the blond Prince, and longed to end their acquaintance.

 

That said, she was going to miss this castle. The Orsynians possessed a truly elegant culture, despite their brutal climate. There was a haunting beauty in the ghostly gray autumn light. Despite its melancholy, she found it as comforting as the coast of Auremer.

 

With an aching heart, she reached for her pause bracelet.

 

She fast-forwarded to the carriage ride back to Valeronne. Once again, she found herself opposite Aurélien, but he wasn't sullen anymore. Instead, he seemed rather curious.

 

"You've changed since you spoke to that knight," the Crown Prince remarked. He tilted his head slightly. "Was he your lover in Westervale?"

 

Mireille shot him a look. "No, Highness."

 

"Did you want him to be?"

 

She looked appalled. "Your Highness!"

 

"Forgive me, mademoiselle," he said, hands rising and falling haplessly into his lap. "I didn't realize you were such a prude. You'd think after our night together—" 

 

"That was a mistake!" she blurted, fuming. Aurélien stared her at, visibly stunned. He'd probably bedded several women by now, but it was unlikely any had ever called him a mistake. At least, not to his face.

 

"We were drunk," Mireille hissed. "And I don't just mean on wine. We were drunk on dreams and delusions that your parents would ever let us marry." 

"We can elope," he said lowly, slowly, as though in a daze. "We can elope now, before we return to Valeronne."

 

"Your father is the King," Mireille reminded him, sneering. "He could annul our marriage with the snap of his fingers."

 

Aurélien swallowed awkwardly, hesitantly, like he didn't know what else to say, except, "What did that knight say to you?"

 

"That knight has a name. It's Sir Adrian Thornmere," she retorted. "He is and always has been a paragon of honor and duty, and within those few moments we spoke, he reminded me of mine." She turned to glare out the window, as her emotions swelled and her eyes threatened tears.

 

Now the Prince was confused. "Your duty?"

 

"I was wrong," she confessed finally, her tone leaden. "I should've never pursued you, Highness. I should've reminded you of your duty to your people. Whichever girl they send will have a massive dowry, enough to change lives in Valeronne." She looked back at him, bottom lip quivering. "Do you know what it's like in Orvienne? Do you know how many people were left suffering after the war your father failed to stop?"

 

Aurélien stiffened, sitting up straight. "My father told Lord de Montverre that attacking Avenholt would be a grave mistake."

 

"Oh, he told him, did he?" the Viscountess jeered. "De Montverre invaded a sovereign nation! He laid waste to countless homes and businesses—destroyed thousands of lives! He committed treason! Why didn't your father put the Duke's head on a pike?"

 

The Prince's jaw tensed. "You know it was more complicated than that."

 

"Oh, I know," Mireille rasped, scowling. "We all know. From Avenholt to Orvienne, the name 'd'Aubremont' is like a curse. You have a chance to change that. You have a chance to be better than your father ever was. Either way, I have to go home."

 

They rode in silence for a time, before Aurélien spoke again. "Will you at least be there when I meet her?"

 

Mireille looked at him, frowning in confusion. "What?"

 

"I enjoy your company," he admitted, nodding, "but not just because you are beautiful and witty. Your presence has brought me comfort, Vicomtesse." He paused. "I have been dreading this from the moment my tutors explained what marriage was. But I think it will be less painful if you are there."

 

That should give Adrian enough time to get to Auremer. "Fine," she grumbled. "You know, Highness, I have seen Wellenish girls before. And I will tell you the same thing I told my cousin when he first saw Marguerite at the convent. It's nothing a milk bath can't cure."

 

***

 

When they returned to Saint-Véronne, the Wellenish envoy was already in town, but not yet at court. Mireille returned to her cousin's home for a night, so she could join the Prince in the morning when he was presented to the Wellenish princesses.

 

"What do you mean you're stepping aside?" Thibault demanded, when she announced she no longer desired to be Queen of Valeronne.

 

"You could be Queen!" Edith exclaimed, equally dismayed.

 

Marguerite seemed to be the only one who understood. Wearily rocking her baby by the fire, she said, "Mireille cannot stomach that man-child for the rest of her life. And I don't blame her."

 

"It wouldn't be for the rest of your life," Thibault rasped urgently. "You would only need to give him one or two children—three at most—and then..." He trailed off, letting his eyes finish for him.

 

And then Aurélien would suffer a hunting "accident", she read his mind. Mireille shook her head, tired from traveling and confessing and healing.

 

"No, cousin," she said softly. I don't do that sort of thing anymore, she didn't add.

 

"So now what?" her cousin asked, tossing his hands in the air. "You'll just go home, to your small house by the sea and rebuild the family business with Lucien?"

 

She nodded, not willing to mention Sir Adrian just yet. "The best time I had in that house was when it was crumbling, when we ate cheap bread by the fire and drank cold cider." She looked around herself, at the vast grandeur of the ducal palace. "This is a good life, Thibault, but so was that. And when Aurélien marries the Wellenish princess, many other people will also get to enjoy good lives."

 

He stared at her, as though unable to recognize her. But Edith... Edith was smiling. This was her Vicomtesse. This was the Mireille she knew at her best.

 

"Shall I accompany you to court?" the redhead offered.

 

Mireille nodded. "If you please."

 

Thibault had to take a seat, as though the world was collapsing around him. Mireille knew he was shocked as well as disappointed. They had spent so much time plotting and planning, just for her to give it all away.

 

"I will come too," he said flatly. "I need to witness this with my own eyes."

 

***

 

It's nothing a milk bath can't cure, she'd assured the Crown Prince. Boy, was she wrong about that.

The two princesses were presented in the great throne room. The graying King and Queen of Valeronne sat on their thrones, occasionally exchanging tense looks. On the sidelines, Edith and the du Mauriers watched with bated breath.

 

"Princesses Margrete and Agnete of the Wellenish Empire," a herald announced.

 

The grand double doors opened and two young women entered. One was tall, pale, black-haired with gray eyes and painfully thin. Her skin seemed dry and weathered. The other was shorter, slightly less thin, with light brown skin, dark brown eyes, and rippling waves of honeyed curls. Her skin had a slight ruddiness to it, and both princesses had untamed eyebrows. Compared to Valeronnese splendor, their woolen gowns were plain and their furs somewhat shabby. 

 

Aurélien stood before them, eyeing them in abject horror.

 

These two need far more than just a milk bath, Mireille realized. And even then...

 

"I am Aurélien," the tall Prince finally introduced himself. "Which one of you is...?"

 

"I am Margrete," the tall brunette said, her face sullen.

 

"And I am Agnete," the shorter one said. She seemed a bit more optimistic.

 

Mireille noted that their accents sounded similar to Valeronne. Both peoples pronounced their R's in the back of their throats, and substituted TH with Z. But the Wellenish accent was less raspy and much harder, it seemed.

 

"We are honored to welcome you to Valeronne, Your Highnesses," Queen Geneviève said quickly. "All that is ours is yours."

 

"Nothing a milk bath can't cure?" Thibault murmured lowly.

 

"And a salt scrub," Edith quietly added.

 

And perfume, Mireille didn't say aloud. The girls did not smell good. They smelled of sweat, earth, wood, smoke, and for some reason, cabbage.

 

"I see my work is cut out for me," she sighed instead.

 

Next: Hard Women