After having such a rough day out, walking back to the suite both feels like a salve and like a death sentence. It's a pretty enough place, with a manicured lawn and a quiet front desk. No one even looks at Victoria as she steps inside, swiping the guest key that activates the elevator.
Music plays as she rides up to the second floor. The door across from her room is closed and locked, and Victoria feels like her heart is closed up and locked, too.
She steps into her bedroom. There are suitcases laid out on her bed. A note is resting in one of them.
Due to previously discussed circumstances, we will be returning to Vertsea ahead of schedule. Our flight arrangements have already been placed, and I expect that you will be ready and waiting, on time, for it.
We will be leaving very early tomorrow. The fact that you aren't in your room now only farther proves to me, and to your father, that we cannot waste any more time in this dreadful country. It has corrupted you. It has broken you, and it has fouled you.
Thankfully, some men are desperate. Thankfully, some men will take even the foul. Tomorrow, we leave for Vertsea. Upon our return home, you will meet with a man named Sir Harold Lennox. He will be, should all go according to plan, your new suitor.
You will carry the baby to term. Upon its birth, a wonderful family in Zeria will take him as their own. The news will be made aware of your miscarriage. You will be distraught, and you will hide away for as long as we can manage.
After a year, you and Harold will have a child of your own. This one, should your behavior have been rectified, you will raise as your own. As per our arrangements, you will wait two years and have another child.
Harold requests very little from you. As he knows and understands your proclivities, I have no problems agreeing to the few things he does want, among which are three sons and at least one daughter. You should have no problems meeting those requests.
I can only imagine this arrangement will work just fine for you. It is far less respectable than having a single crown heir, but I do not see that you are capable of reigning yourself in, so this will have to do.
Gabriella
The note isn't even signed Mother, and that might be almost worse than the note itself. Everything is happening so fast—too fast—and a sudden wave of dizziness washes over the young princess. Victoria sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, next to the suitcases. She stares at the note, reading it again.
On the third pass, her gaze goes to certain lines and certain phrases.
Harold requests very little from you. As he knows and understands your proclivities, I have no problems agreeing to the few things he does want, among which are three sons and at least one daughter. You should have no problems meeting those requests.
I do not see that you are capable of reigning yourself in, so this will have to do.
We will be returning to Vertsea ahead of schedule.
You will carry the baby to term. Upon its birth, a wonderful family in Zeria will take him as their own.
As per our arrangements, you will wait two years and have another child.
This seemed even worse than just a simple arranged marriage to the Duke of Cambridge. This, to her, seemed like the end of everything. Victoria's reality hinged on her parents’ love and respect for they had the power to set her life on an easy path or a hard one, just like what was written in the note.
And that is the thing about being royalty that most people don't understand. Children cry out to their parents about how they want to be a princess, and young teenagers lament their homely lives, and widows sit in their rocking chairs and wonder what life would have been like if only they had the crown.
But the truth of the matter is this: all that glitters is not gold.
Being royalty is hard. Being the crown heir? That's even worse than the title of a queen or king. As the daughter to the leading monarchs of Vertsea, Victoria has very little freewill of her own. She is a glorified slave, with gowns and bracelets serving as her shackles and a country serving as her cell.
What is written on that paper, no matter how much she wishes otherwise, will come to pass. That is her life. That is her burden to bear, and it is also the burden of every princess around the world. Their riches come at a price, and their souls were sold off at birth.
Victoria, simply put, has no choice in the matter.
She will go home to Vertsea. She will marry Sir Harold Lennox. She will have three sons and one daughter.
She will give her life up for the crown, as her parents gave their lives up for the crown.
The difference is, that choice doesn't belong to her.
The reality is, that choice belongs to no princess.
# # #
Eventually, Victoria has no choice but to get up and pack. It's strange. Someone usually packs her luggage for her. It seems, though, everyone has been told of her wrongdoings. It seems she is being punished by doing these remedial tasks.
Normally, Victoria would relish in the chance to do something on her own. Today, though, it is nothing more than a reminder that her parents have, for all intents and purposes, given up on her. And so she packs the room in silence, though she occasionally hums something under her breath.
The song is tuneless. It's wordless but not always. She hums the lullaby that Queen Gabriella used to sing when the princess was young and sick. She remembers wrapping her arms about her mother's waist and crying into the folds of her velvet gown. She remembers ring-clad fingers running through her golden hair and that tuneless song.
Pick a pack
of laughter
Pick a pack
of cheer
Live and laugh
forever
Live and laugh
right here
The palace walls are homely
Even late at night
The palace walls are homely
And they'll hold you tight
Listen to the bells ring
From the churchyard near
Listen to the bells ring
Know home is always here
Pick a pack
of laughter
Pick a pack
of cheer
Live and laugh
forever
Live and laugh
right here
Victoria pulls out each dress, each blouse, and each skirt. She shakes them out and folds them up as best she can. It's hard getting everything to look neat. It's even more difficult to get the clothing to fit in her suitcases like it's supposed to.
And then, of course, comes everything else. Victoria must gather her shoes, her purses, and her makeup. She has to pick up her bathroom belongings, and empty out the dresser drawers, and locate all the chargers for her various gadgets.
She is very careful about collecting everything because she's not sure how much her parents are going to be willing to give her after this. They don't come by. They let a server bring her food, and they refuse to speak to her when they pass in the hallways, and Victoria finds that each lack of a comment makes her chest hurt that much more.
She tries to remind herself that her mother is being cruel. Victoria reads the letter that Queen Gabriella left her over and over again that night, just to remind herself that aren't all right. It's not her fault. She isn't the reason this has happened.
It's her mother.
The Queen made this decision. The Queen made things so horrible.
“It's not my fault,” says Victoria firmly. She sits down on the couch and turns on pay-per-view. There's nothing interesting on. She watches parts of three different movies in the span of a half hour. Eventually, she just gives up on the television.
She leans back, folding her arms over her chest. It's hard to turn her mind off. There's too much happening. There is always too much happening.
She just wants things to go back to normal.
Except, no, that's a lie. Normal wasn't any better than this. In fact, normal might have been just as bad. One way or another, she has never had the chance to be herself. One way or another, she has always just been a slave to the crown.