Princess of Athelia

by Aya Ling

  Contents

  Princess of Athelia

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

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  15

  Dear reader,

  Books by Aya

  About the author

  Princess of Athelia

  Copyright © 2015 by Aya Ling

  No part of this document may be reproduced without written consent of Aya Ling

  1

  “I simply fail to comprehend what Edward sees in you.”

  I try to make my smile appear as sincere as I can manage. Lady Petunia, aka Her Most Honorable Duchess of Somerset, has called upon me for afternoon tea, and there’s no way I can refuse. We sit in a small pavilion in the palace gardens, sipping sweetened ice tea, while a gentle breeze wafts in the air. It should be peaceful, it should be delightful, but the atmosphere couldn’t be more unbearable.

  She’s Edward’s aunt, I tell myself. And Henry’s mother. And Elle’s future mother-in-law. So don’t antagonize her, no matter how much you feel like pelting her with macaroons.

  “Perhaps you can ask him,” I offer in the sweetest tone I can muster.

  “Those freckles!” The duchess holds up a monocle and peers closely at me as though I’m some insect under a microscope. “Really, child, have you not tried anything to remove those freckles? It is imperative that you look flawless on your wedding day.”

  A pang briefly hits me. Wedding day. That will also be the day that I leave Edward. Although both of us have agreed NOT to talk about my departure, and I’ve told myself NOT to think of the inevitable, there are times when I can’t help wondering what it will be like when I’m gone. Will I disappear altogether? What about the old Katriona? Krev is missing these days, so I can’t ask him about it, and honestly speaking, part of me doesn’t even want to because I dread how he’ll answer.

  “Of course,” I say lightly. “The idea of marrying with a freckled nose is simply unpardonable. I forgot there is a written rule that forbids the bride to be anything but absolutely perfect.”

  She glares at me. “Your attitude could use some pruning, young lady. I need hardly remind you that flippancy is highly unattractive for a girl of your age.”

  And yet this is why Edward fell in love with me, I am tempted to retort. I look down at my hands, itching to take out my pocket watch. Such a pity that they don’t have wrist watches in Athelia.

  “I ought to have a word with Madame Dubois,” the duchess continues, still frowning. “Now that you are marrying into the royal family, you must learn to conduct yourself with propriety. Tell me, Katriona, is it true that you offered to stand witness for Poppy Montgomery when she ran away to Ruby Red with a solicitor?”

  Her words drip with contempt. Having considerable experience with such a condescending tone—thank you, Lady Bradshaw—I just nod and smile as though she’s asking what I had for breakfast.

  “Good heavens!” The duchess spills tea from her cup. I grab a napkin and hand it to her. “So it is true that you supported a thoughtless, headstrong girl’s decision to be married without the blessing of her parents?”

  “She does have her parents’ blessings. Mr. Davenport convinced her father that he is worthy of her, and they had a proper wedding at Sir Montgomery’s house.”

  “She ought to have gained permission first,” the duchess says with a sniff. “Such willful disobedience! I am sure, Katriona Bradshaw, that now you are to become a member of the royal family, you will not engage in nor encourage such scandalous behavior.”

  It takes every ounce of restraint not to give her the finger. Luckily, I’m saved from the temptation when my personal maid, Amelie, appears. She’s quite attractive, with her hazel eyes, curved cheekbones, and pointed chin. However, she looks even prettier when she smiles, for it brings a sweetness to her usually stern, no-nonsense expression. It’s a pity that her smiles are hard to come by.

  “A message for Her Highness.”

  “Is Edward finished with his business?” Usually in the mornings, he has to stay in his room, drafting memorandums, writing letters to foreign ambassadors, and reviewing pages and pages of documents that are akin to law school material and make me squint and yawn. I never knew a prince could be this busy.

  “Madame Dubois wishes to see you.”

  I try hard not to show my displeasure. More lessons on deportment and etiquette, yay. Just when I thought I’d had enough of lady lessons, I have princess lessons. I need to learn how to receive foreign guests, memorize the royal family’s history, and even learn how to pair different foods with wine. It’s intriguing in the beginning, but when the lessons go from early morning until evening, added to the pressure to flawlessly perform all that royal stuff, the novelty wears off quickly. The life of a royal isn’t the way the fairytales paint it—at least, not in Athelia.

  “Then she ought not to be kept waiting,” the duchess says. “I hope that by the time you are engaged, you will have sufficiently improved.”

  Seriously, with a mother who is worse than Lady Bradshaw, I wonder how Henry stayed a good kid. I rise and sink into a curtsy. No wobbling at all—I told Amelie I’d need to wear comfortable shoes or she’d be seeing bruises on my knees every day.

  “I thank you for your company, Lady Catherine—um, Lady Petunia,” I say. Whoops. But I’ve never seen anyone more similar to Lady Catherine de Burgh than the duchess.

  * * *

  When we reach the end of the corridor, Amelie takes a turn and goes down a flight of winding stairs. I’m still unfamiliar with the palace, but I do realize that we aren’t heading to the torture chamber–I mean, the schoolroom–where I have princess lessons.

  “Amelie, is Madame Dubois really expecting me?”

  “Of course she is,” Amelie says.

  “Excuse me if I’m wrong, but I don’t really think we’re heading in the right direction.”

  “Oh.” Amelie doesn’t even look back. “His Highness has ordered to have your lessons scheduled for an hour later.”

  I knew it. Sure enough, when we reach the foot of the staircase, Bertram is there, grinning like a big puppy. He must be happy to see me . . . not. It’s Amelie. I have a sneaking suspicion that Edward arranged for Amelie to be my lady-in-waiting because Bertram has a crush on her. Which is not to say that Amelie isn’t competent. She’s brisk, efficient and loyal, and unlike some of the older, more experienced servants, she never lets me feel like I’m not good enough for Edward. It’s just that she’s only seventeen but acts like she’s thirty—matronly, bossy, and frightfully practical.

  “Princess Kat,” Bertram exclaims. He briefly glances at Amelie before giving me a magnificent bow. “May I escort you to His Highness’s garden?”

  “I know the way,” I say quickly. “I’ve been there a dozen times already. Why don’t you escort Amelie back to my suite?”

  Bertram brightens. Amelie, however, doesn’t look too enthusiastic. She crosses her arms and deals me a glance that makes her look just like my kindergarten teacher. “Forgive me, but even with the shortcut it would take about twenty minutes to get from here to His Highness’s garden. Since you have lost your way around the palace no less than twice each day, it’s far better that Bertram show you the way. You won’t be doing him any favors if His Highness has to wait too long to see you.”

  Damn—she owns me. I consider arguing that even if I become lost, there will be plenty of other servants to show me the way, but her words have struck a chord.

  Bertram strides forward, an urgent look in his eyes. “Allow me take you there right away, Princess K
at.”

  2

  My heart beats faster when I approach that familiar door draped with ivy. No matter how many times I’ve visited Edward’s garden, I still get butterflies in my stomach knowing that he’s waiting for me. I take out the big, golden key—he had a duplicate made for me the instant I moved into the palace—and insert it into the keyhole.

  No sooner have I closed the door than a hand seizes my wrist and tugs me forward. A blur of royal colors flash in front of me, my chin is lifted, and then warm lips descend on mine—heated, passionate, filled with hunger, like a traveler finally discovering an oasis in the desert. Edward encircles me in his arms, melding my body against his, and I forget everything except trying to stay upright.

  I gulp down a huge breath of air when he finally lets me go. “Edward,” I chide him. I don’t have a mirror with me, but I’m sure my lips are bruised and puffy. I’ve already endured knowing smirks from Bertram since I moved into the palace. “I have to meet Madame Dubois in an hour. I thought your upbringing had taught you more restraint.”

  He nuzzles my throat, his hands still resting on my waist. “All morning, I’ve been chained to my desk. All morning, I’ve been drafting and reviewing piles of documents. All morning, I’ve been forced to listen to my subjects drone in a tone that could put an energetic babe to sleep. It is hardly inconceivable that I should crave your presence. Besides,”—he raises his head and stares into my eyes—“I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss.”

  He looks so serious that I’m tempted to put a finger on either corner of his mouth and tease a grin out of him. But something in his tone makes me drop the notion. And the way he’s looking at me—with desperation written in his eyes—it reminds me of that heartbreaking moment when I confessed to him that I wasn’t from Athelia.

  I place my hands over his. “I’m all ears.”

  “I heard my parents discussing our wedding date.” He swallows and focuses on the ivy-covered wall behind me. “They plan to set it for next June.”

  That leaves us less than a year. A pang stabs me. Even if the time frame sounds reasonable—long, even—now that we’re finally together, next spring seems too soon for us to say farewell.

  “Don’t we have a say in this? I mean, can’t we offer an opinion?”

  “Kat, it’s traditional for royal weddings to be held in June, for it is named after the goddess of marriage. Besides”—his face reddens—“the schedule is set for the first child to be born the following spring.”

  I blink. We’re not even engaged, and he’s already thinking of children? Yeah, there’s definitely a world’s difference between us. I don’t want to know what the consequences will be if I return to my family with Edward’s child. Maybe it’s just as well that there are strict rules for the bride-to-be to remain chaste before marriage. Though, from what I’ve heard about the many earls and barons, there’s no restriction for the groom—another reason I dislike Athelia.

  “So . . . unless we can come up with a plausible alternative, the wedding will take place next June?”

  “That goblin who is responsible for sending you here . . . was he absolutely certain that you must return when the wedding takes place?”

  I nod, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I’ve asked Krev the same question a million times, until he lost his temper and hasn’t shown up since I moved into the palace.

  “That’s how the spell works. Once the bells start chiming, it’ll send me back through a magic portal.”

  He swallows but gives me a smile that actually seems genuine. “We still have nine months. Let us make them the nine happiest months that I have yet to live.”

  His words hit the core of my being. I smile back at him but am unable to prevent a tear from sliding down my face.

  Edward dabs my cheek with a handkerchief. “Happy months, remember?”

  “Right.” I tell myself to stop being so emotional. Crying will only make both of us feel worse. “Let’s make a pact, okay? Don’t mention anything about my . . . my . . . what’s going to happen after the wedding. We’re going to be the happiest couple that Athelia has ever seen.”

  “Which is, actually, a necessity. No one should know that you are not really Katriona Bradshaw. It is imperative that we act like you will stay by my side forever.”

  It’s too much to bear. I wrap my arms around him and cling to him as though that can ease the pain. Stay with him, my mind screams. We’ve been through this a million times, another voice in my head answers. Even if you choose to abandon Mom and Paige, you still can’t marry Edward.

  A while later, Edward gently pushes me away. His expression returns to his everyday mask of calm, collected indifference. “There is another matter I need to mention. Galen returned this morning from his travels.”

  I distinctly remember that Edward granted Galen a few weeks off to give him a well-deserved break after all that strenuous preparation for the ball. Organizing a nationwide event is no small feat.

  “He brought us a letter from Adam Snyder’s widow.”

  Adam Snyder! “He had . . . his wife is still alive?”

  “Galen inquired in his circle and tracked her down. I’m not sure how he did it, but during his travels to the earl’s manor, he convinced Mrs. Snyder to write a letter of confession. Her written proof will greatly aid us in restoring to Elle her rightful identity and inheritance.”

  Edward extracts a folded paper and hands it to me. The letter is crudely written, but the message is clear. Mrs. Snyder overheard her husband taking orders from Lady Bradshaw to have Elle drowned. She didn’t know that Meg had appeared and forced Adam Snyder to let Elle live, but she did know that the little girl Snyder brought to the capital was actually the earl’s daughter. Later, Lady Bradshaw rewarded Adam Snyder with a huge sum of money that paid for his daughter’s dowry. Mrs. Snyder even expressed her wish that her husband would be lauded as a hero for saving Elle’s life.

  I crumple up the letter. I don’t know if Mrs. Snyder is being completely truthful, but I don’t feel like pursuing the issue any further. It is possible that she believed her husband had defied Lady Bradshaw at the last minute and that she didn’t know a fairy had ordered Snyder to preserve Elle’s life. Whatever the truth may be, I’m holding proof that Lady Bradshaw tried to have Elle killed—and that Elle is the earl’s daughter.

  “I’m so glad for Elle,” I say. “Although in the beginning, I expected that she’d go from poverty to riches because of you. But this way is even better. She achieved her new status from justice.”

  “Speaking of justice”—Edward tweaks a lock of my hair—“I have a special gift for you.”

  I give him a suspicious look. I had long since refused any jewelry or dresses from him as I already have an overflowing wardrobe. Usually he opts to get me books when I can’t visit Mr. Wellesley’s bookstore, or sometimes he surprises me with flowers from his garden. But as he simply came from a meeting with the Lord Chamberlain, I don’t see anything that may indicate a gift.

  Edward extracts a card from his pocket. The size isn’t much different from that of a calling card, but the card itself is plain white, apart from a red and gold border running along the edge. A paragraph, written by hand, reads: I hereby grant the Lady Katriona permission to attend the parliament session that will take place on 15 September. It is signed by the king.

  I look up at him. “I . . . don’t understand.”

  “I believe it should be obvious. After all the hard work you have been doing with pushing the eight-hour bill, I thought that you would like to attend the meeting when the Third Reading takes place.”

  “I’d love to see the Third Reading. But are you sure it’s okay? Has there been any precedent of a woman in the parliament?”

  “The only instances that I can recall are when there is a female monarch on the throne, because it is her responsibility to open the parliament with a formal speech.”

  Just as I expected. Nevertheless, I’m grateful that he had taken the steps to seek ou
t his father and speak on my behalf.

  “Thank you”—I tuck the card securely in my pocket, then rise on tiptoe to kiss his cheek—“for making exceptions for me. Did I tell you again how much I love you?”

  He smirks, clearly pleased, and snakes his arm around me again. “What else to expect when I’ve fallen in love with the most extraordinary girl in the kingdom?”

  3

  “Name the great-great-great-grandfather of His Highness, Edward.”

  I don’t have an effing clue. I’m sitting in this gorgeous but stuffy room, where Madame Dubois is making me memorize the royal genealogy—right up to twenty generations back. Guess what? Princess lessons are even more stressful and frustrating and demanding than the lady lessons I had earlier. But I try not to complain; I have to make an effort for Edward’s sake. Although the king and queen have assured me that they have no objections to Edward’s choice, many people have found it incredible that a plain, insignificant younger daughter of an earl could attract the prince’s attention. I don’t want to prove them right.

  Madame Dubois—a tall, stately woman with huge butterfly-like spectacles—raps her cane on the table. Instead of treating me with more respect now that I’m a princess, she makes me feel like a seven-year-old on her first day of school.

  But with genealogy, at least it’s only names I have to memorize. Royal protocol is more of a pain in the ass, with complicated rules that are even more demanding than those for being a lady—like the exact angle I should extend my arm when greeting a subject.

  “When you are hostess to forty guests for dinner, what is the precedence of their seats?”

  “Um . . .” Can I say that the most guests I’ve ever had to entertain are . . . five? Last Christmas, we had Grandma and Grandpa over, which made five of us. Then I can’t help it—I cover my mouth to stifle a yawn. I’m well aware that it’s rude, but being up since six doing nothing but princess lessons is bound to take a toll.