1.IV :
Talk about a bathtub!—more like a miniature hot tub, not that I was complaining.
I laid back against the edge of the tub, my hands resting beneath my head and my legs sprawled across the tub’s bottom. The sunken tub sat in a semi-hexagonal window bay, and the view—oh, the picturesque view! Below a city lay, built on a decline, stretching far and wide. The palace must’ve stood atop the peak of the hill, proud and tall.
The city reminded me of those well-preserved, historical cities you always see on Social Media—Siena or Dubrovnik—the ones influencers go to to take aesthetic photos.
I could pick out the tops of cathedrals, clock towers, and, what seemed to be, a maintained temple, resting on a hillock outside the outskirts of the city. Nevertheless, the magnificent architecture hardly kept my eyes from peeling away. Stone! Stone! And lots of stone!—you could only look at so many duplicated buildings before becoming bored.
Instead, the mountains in the far, far-off distance had captivated me. I had tried focusing on the floating rose petals—the maids had prepared me a rose petal bubble bath—the scent of lavender, the bathroom’s furnishings, or even the meticulously sculpted ceiling, but it was all futile.
That mountain range, for whatever reason, enchanted my eyes. What lies beyond it?
I tore my eyes away and picked up my cup of tea. No one had ever made me tea before or prepared me a luxury bath; it was foreign, unreal. Could this be a twisted wish-fulfillment fantasy made up by my mind? Was I in a coma?
No. I wasn’t dreaming. Every nook and groove of the pink, fleshy scar felt genuine, and I highly doubt my mind could recreate such a monstrosity. The scar was surreal—there must’ve been a long tale behind it. For being a supposedly loved King, who would dare attempt taking this man’s life amidst his own quarters—and in such an odd manner? He wasn’t stabbed. The scar was reminiscent of a cut like those seen in cult rituals—not that I’ve ever been in a cult! I’ve cut myself a few times, picking up broken glass.
“Um⸺your majesty?”
I could ask Walter about it later, alongside Catherine. Catherine. . .
“Your Majesty!”
I shot straight up. Over time, I had become a master at listening for my mother’s red pumps, marching up the steps. How did I let this maid walk in, unnoticed?
“Excuse me. I was thinking—did you say something?
“Y-Yes.” The maid said. Her eyes were half-lidded, cast to the floor, nearly covered by long, brown bangs, and her lips bent in a frown. It was ill-fit against her delicate features; she was a flower, reluctant to bloom. She bowed her head and lifted her apron. Her curtsey lacked finesse, unlike Ingrid’s; nonetheless, she charmed me. “Please, excuse me, your Majesty, for yelling. Your garments are prepared.”
“What’s your name?”
“M-my name?” She dropped her apron, bringing her hands to her face. Her eyes flickered across the room. “I don't believe it’s of any importance, your Majesty. I-I am merely a humble servant of this palace.”
“But is it not important?”—my parents had named me after the angel, Gabriel—"I say it’s important. Tell me. I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
“Your Majesty, excuse me for my rudeness, once again, but it is impolite to egg women on in such ways. And, afterward, I’m sure you wouldn’t remember my name anyway.”
I looked at her and tilted my head. By “egg women on”, did she mean. . . oh. Oh. She must’ve thought I was flirting! My cheeks reddened, and I could only hope my face wasn’t as red as a chili pepper—it sure felt like a deadly, flaming California Reaper. Now, I am Albert! What King gets flustered at a trifling remark?
I straightened myself. “Ah-Ahem. That was not my intention, but I cannot address you without a name. So, speak your name.”
With her lips pulled inward, she stared at me before her gaze dropped to the floor. “A⸺Astrid, your Majesty.”
“Astrid. . . I will be sure to keep your name in my thoughts—in a platonic way, I mean.”
Delayed, Astrid peered back up, chuckling. At first, as she tried to restrain herself, she was quiet, her lips quivering, but the chuckle soon turned into boisterous, unrestrained laughter. Despite this, her voice retained a hint of softness. Cute—though I had no idea what was so funny. Was it the word choice? Was it unsuitable for a King—for Albert? My to-do list began: look through Albert’s writings and learn Albert’s speech patterns.
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