1.III :

“You. . . we, Walter and I, found you hunched over your desk, unconscious. When Walter went to move you, blood had stained his fingers. He examined the body, and I looked for clues. He found the giant gash across your chest, and I found the bloodied dagger.” 

Ingrid sighed and shook her head. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you survived—a miracle from Isadora herself, I daresay.” 

A gash across the chest? 

I rushed out of bed, tripping over my own two feet. Were Ingrid’s words true? In the vanity mirror, I examined the inconceivable, absurd spectacle. The realization sunk in, sitting heavy in my stomach—this really was me. I was a man with short caramel-colored hair, peridot-colored eyes, and a gaping, gnarly scar that ran straight across the chest, right over the heart. It was a miracle this man, Albert, survived!—though, was that not an untruth? 

There was not a shred of that man left, courtesy of the amnesia. I—Gabrielle—was now Albert, would have to become Albert. What would he say, and what would he do? I didn’t have the faintest idea—all I knew was that he was some “beloved King”. At least I wasn’t a tyrant.

“So this is. . . it? Does anyone know. . .” I paused and turned around, looking Ingrid in the eye. 

She shook her head. “Walter insists it was Catherine—you and she were speaking earlier that evening—but there’s no concrete evidence. I doubt she would do such a heinous act. You two were. . . nevermind. It would be unbecoming of me to gossip about your private affairs.” 

I turned back towards the mirror, running my fingers over the patch of skin—hard, undoubtedly still in the process of healing. No one should be able to survive a dagger to the heart, yet here I was standing.

Thump. Thump. Thump. My headache was becoming worse. When I woke, the pain had peaked, plateaued, then perished into a dull ache but, gradually, it had turned into continuous, sharp throbbing. I looked downward, closed my eyes, and began rubbing at my temples. Two gigantic hands were squeezing my skull, trying to crack it like a walnut.

“Sir? Are you alright? You look pale. Do you want me to⸺”

A sudden dizzy spell sent me tumbling towards the vanity. So much for standing.

In the knick of time, I slammed my hands onto the vanity table. My knuckles turned a pale white as I clutched onto the edge. In my daze, Ingrid had rushed behind me. Thank goodness, she lived up to her title; she did not scream or flail around in panic.

Ingrid laid her hand on my shoulder. “Sir, you need to rest. I shall order Walter to clear your schedule.” 

I stood straight, shaking my head. Countless times I’ve worked through headaches, migraines, cramps, common colds, whatever I had to do to make money. Kings had it easy. Didn’t they? If all Walter planned for me was a ride through the Kingdom, I could do it. I would plaster a fake smile on my face and wave to the masses as I was chauffeured in a million-dollar carriage.

“I can do it. I can, so just. . .”— give me two pain pills. I couldn’t say that!— “Um. . .Give me some tea?” 

My eyebrow twitched as I lowered my head—now, for reasons other than my headache. Could I sound any more cringey?—Kings weren’t unsure of themselves; they spoke with conviction; at least the ones I fawned over, the fictional ones, did. Ingrid stepped back. A solemn smile settled upon her lips before she curtsied.

“Okay. I shall ensure a cup of Chamomile tea is prepared, and I will tell the maids preparing your bath to add extra oils. Though, please, I beseech you, rest till your bath is prepared.”

Ingrid opened the door but halted in the doorway. She peered back.

“Welcome back, Albert. I—no—everyone in the palace is delighted you’ve returned.” 

The door shut; for the first time since I woke, I was alone. 

I drifted towards the canopy bed. My piteous twin-sized bed was a far cry from this beauty. It had to be the King of King-sized beds! The towering frame was made of wood, perhaps crafted by famous artisans—I would bet the sheer canopy was made of real silk too! I flopped on top of the mound of covers. Every room must’ve been decked to the nines: diamond chandeliers, marble floors, ornate vases, famous paintings, the list went on and on. All of it was mine! Mine! Paying rent?—I would never have to worry about it ever again or any money for that matter! And, on top of it all, if Walter and Ingrid’s words rang true, people loved me! All I had to do was become Albert; I could have everything at the tip of my fingers—everything I had always wanted. 

I couldn’t give a damn about that Catherine chic, the ugly scar, or my new genitalia. The chance to grasp all that I wished for laid right before me.