Philomel the Fake
Chapter 3

* * *

What... What do I do?

Philomel turned her head listlessly, noticing a pair of red eyes watching her from a few paces away.

“Your Highness...”

It was Philomel’s fiancé, who was one year older than her—Nasar Abridon.

“Nasar, this is not a good time. Let’s return home for now.”

His father, Duke Abridon, pulled him away.

“But Father...”

“Hurry, now,” the duke said firmly. The boy hesitated but followed his father. Unlike his fiancée, he was completely untouched by the rain as he walked away.

Philomel was soon shuffled back to her quarters by her maids. Even though she took a warm bath to thaw her frozen limbs, her heart still felt icy and barren. All she could think of was the way her father had turned from her.

“What? What were all of you doing while Her Highness behaved in such a manner?” the nanny shouted angrily after hearing about what had happened. She hadn’t come along because she suffered from back pain.

Philomel didn’t notice, so deep was she in her thoughts. The moment she stepped out of the bathroom, she found the nanny waiting outside, a cane in her hand.

“I can’t let you off with just a warning this time. I didn’t want to go this far, but you need to be taught a proper lesson.”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

The thin cane was brought down on Philomel’s pale calves over and over again.

It hurts. It hurts so much. She shed a few tears disguised as a reaction to the pain in her legs—but it wasn’t her legs that were causing her pain though. Truly, there was no one who would lend her an ear for her troubles.

After she was done caning Philomel, the nanny grumbled for everyone in the room to hear, “What a hopeless child! She didn’t utter so much as a single apology.” Then she added, “Being confined to your quarters is obviously not enough. I’ll have to take further measures. You’d better ready yourself for what’s coming.”

“Okay...”

“Do you understand me? I’ll be watching you very closely from now on, Your Highness!” The nanny only left after she’d repeated this sentiment several times, leaving Philomel with the maids.

“Oh, Your Highness. Why did you do such a thing?”

“You should beg the nanny for mercy. Then she might go easy on all of us.”

Philomel stared silently at the floor as the maids applied ointment to her legs. The maids glanced at one another with confusion seeing that she wasn’t responding, then began trying to console her.

“Please don’t be too upset. The nanny’s got a temper, but her anger will pass soon enough.”

“And I heard from the grand chamberlain earlier that the Founding Day event will be delayed until next week. I’m sure the nanny will allow you to attend by then, Your Highness.”

“A week?” Philomel asked.

“Yes, a week. The high priest apparently collapsed during the carriage ride back.”

“Isn’t that too late? It should just be held three or four days from now,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“I don’t know. This has never happened before, but the high priest was probably deeply shocked that a sacred event such as this was postponed because of the weather while he was in office.”

Another maid added, “Some people are saying that the god who watches over the empire has withdrawn his favor.”

The House of Belerov’s legitimacy stemmed from the power of the sun god. Suggesting that the god’s favor had been withdrawn could constitute treason against the imperial family.

“Hey! Watch your mouth! You can’t talk like that to the princess!” the first maid snapped, and the woman who’d spoken stammered an excuse.

“Well... I didn’t mean it that way! It’s just what the ignorant have been saying, is all...”

Philomel waved them away weakly. “That’s enough. You can go.”

After everyone had left, Philomel limped over to her desk. In the drawer was the brown-covered book Ellensia, the Imperial Princess, just where she’d left it.

What were the chances that the Founding Day celebration would be delayed this year, of all years, when such a thing had never happened in the history of the empire? And what were the chances the novel would accurately predict such an incident?

Even the events that followed the postponement were exactly as the book had described. Not only had the high priest fainted, but the celebration had been delayed by exactly a week. A painful realization crept through her like ink spreading on a page. On the surface, the book was just like any other romance novel, but this was not the case.

It’s a book of prophecy. Her hands shook as they gripped the book tightly. The emperor was not Philomel’s father.

She was a fake.

* * *

The next morning, perhaps because she’d been out in the rain, Philomel awoke with a terrible cold.

“Your Highness, it’s time you woke up,” the nanny called, shaking her awake.

“Nanny... I can’t get up. I’m ill. I must have a cold,” Philomel said in a quiet voice, trying not to cough. Her head was spinning, and her throat burned so badly that it was hard to swallow.

The nanny wasn’t moved by her murmured protests. “You’re pretending again, aren’t you? I won’t let you get away with it today. His Majesty has asked to see you about yesterday. If you’re so afraid of him, perhaps you should have thought of that before you acted.”

Sick of the various classes she was forced to attend and finding them too difficult, Philomel had pretended to be ill a few times in the past.

“I’m not pretending... I’m really unwell,” she replied in a subdued voice. She’d been wrong to pretend before, she knew that, but it felt awful to be accused of lying now that she was actually ill

“Get up already, please— Huh? You really do have a fever.” The nanny’s eyes went wide after she put a hand on Philomel’s arm, feeling her temperature.

It wasn’t long before the palace doctor arrived, summoned by the nanny, and diagnosed her with a simple cold. The prescribed treatment was some medicine and sleep. Philomel had no appetite, and it was difficult to swallow anything. She struggled to get down a few mouthfuls of broth.

After she’d taken her medicine and lay down in bed again, the nanny said, “I’ve informed His Majesty that you have a cold. But you know he won’t show you any leniency just because you’re sick, don’t you?”

Philomel didn’t reply.

“Just think about how many people you disappointed with your behavior yesterday. I can’t raise my head when I’m in public for shame! It’s just a festival, after all.”

People seemed to think that Philomel’s behavior had been motivated by the whims of a child. If only that were the case, she thought morosely.

“You get some rest for now. Call the maids in the next room if you need anything,” the nanny said before leaving.

Philomel fell asleep quickly, thanks to the medicine’s effects. But her eyes opened of their own accord before long, cold sweat drenching her body. She’d had a nightmare. In it, she’d been executed, and Eustis had watched her die—completely emotionless, his real daughter by his side.

Her tiny frame shook with fear. She wanted to live. She didn’t want to die, no matter what happened.

Would my father really kill me? Philomel already knew the answer to that question, though she wanted to deny it so badly. What if she changed her ways, and became the daughter he wanted her to be?

Perhaps she could change her future that way. Even if she were fake, and he’d never really thought of her as his daughter for the past nine years—maybe there was a tiny seed of affection for her in his heart still. She wanted to find out right now, to go and ask him herself.

“I need to go...” her body still felt sluggish and her head ached, but she could walk.

Philomel snuck from her room. It was already close to noon. The nanny had told her that lunch would be served two hours later than usual to allow her to sleep uninterrupted. If she left her room briefly no one would even notice that she was gone.

She was tiptoeing down the hall, anxious to avoid detection, when she heard voices coming from the next room. It was where the maids were gathered.

“Why do we have to suffer because of the princess?” said an irritated voice. Before she had really even thought about it, Philomel had paused and pressed her ear against the door. There were four or five people speaking.

“Shh. Someone will hear you.”

“We’re the only ones here. And the princess is asleep after taking her medicine.”

“She’s not wrong, you know. Our pay wouldn’t have been reduced so much if she didn’t keep making trouble like this every day.”

She recognized the man who had just spoken by his voice. It was Philomel’s personal knight, Martin, who was in charge of protecting her. He was killing time with the maids while on duty—clear negligence of his responsibilities.

Another maid responded, “He has a point.”

“Why does the nanny have to take all her anger out on us, anyway?”

“The princess is the one making all the trouble, but we’re the ones who suffer for it.”

Martin chuckled. “Such is our lot. If you’re unhappy with it, pray you’re born as His Majesty’s daughter in your next life.”

One of the maids who had a louder voice than the others cried, “Augh! If only that were possible! If I were the princess, I’d have done all I could to please His Majesty in order to become his favorite!”

“Oh, listen to you talk nonsense. Well, one can dream.”

A loud round of laughter came from within the room. They all seemed to be having a good time.

“I truly hate Philomel,” someone spat, and the words buried themselves in Philomel’s heart like a dagger.

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t just say that out loud!”

“Why not? Because she’s the princess? The emperor doesn’t even treat her like she’s his daughter. Can we even call her a real princess?”

“Even so...”

“And from what I hear, Philomel doesn’t even have any divine powers—the symbol of the imperial family.”

“She’s the first direct descendant to be born that way. It’s never happened except for distant relatives.”

“So she’s of imperial blood only in name.”

Philomel hunched over timidly.

“Still, I envy her. We get slapped on the cheek for not tending to her properly, but she gets to sleep comfortably in her bed.”

“Did you see the way she made a fuss in front of all those nobles just because she wanted to go to the festival?”

“Who knows? Maybe House Abridon will request for the engagement to be called off at this rate.”

“His son is already making a name for himself thanks to his intellect. He deserves better.”

“Oh, did you see his face that time the princess shoved some cake in his mouth?”

“He didn’t even bother to hide his frown. The princess didn’t even notice, the poor thing.”

“If she had wits enough to notice that sort of thing, do you think the emperor would despise her as much as he does?”

“You have a point. Let me tell you about this other time...”

She’d heard enough. Philomel backed away from the door, not wanting to hear any more. These same people had pretended to be concerned for her health not all that long ago. Tears filled her eyes.

There was no one on her side.