Chapter 3

“This way, Your Holiness,” said a man in a black uniform. He had emerged from within the palace to guide Violet and Fynn down from the carriage.

The gold embroidery on his suit was so dazzling that Violet felt like she would be blinded if she looked up to meet his eyes. She tried to clamber out of the carriage with her head down and almost tripped over the long hem of her dress.

“Good luck, Your Holiness.” Violet looked back to see Fynn waving at her. It seemed that the maid was not allowed any further.

Violet headed inside the palace, holding back her tears as she trembled. Afraid that she might meet someone else’s eyes, she kept hers fixed on the marble floor. But even the floors, decorated with delicate carvings of wolves, seemed to be telling her that she did not belong.

“This way,” said the man in the elaborate suit as he guided her to a door. Violet, however, could not bring herself to approach it. Beyond the door, she heard shouting, though she couldn’t parse the meaning of the words.

“How could you do such a thing, Your Majesty?”

“Marquess Ermengart, please, explain!”

“This is ridiculous! His Holiness will not stand for it.”

Whatever was going on, it was a mystery to Violet.

“Her Holiness has arrived,” announced the man, rendering the room silent in an instant.

Violet felt her knees go weak. Unfortunately, the man pulled her along, even as she tried to dig her feet into the ground. Wherever they were going, it was starkly different from anything she was familiar with. The little girl shuddered.

She heard a man sigh deeply. The crowd, as if they agreed with his mocking sigh, began to click their tongues disapprovingly as she entered the room.

Violet looked up, wondering what to do. Many people were staring at her. She felt as though she would break down in tears at any moment.

“Please, kneel. You’re standing before His Majesty,” whispered the man who had escorted her.

“How could you expect the saint to kneel before a king?” shouted a high priest.

But Violet had already knelt as soon as she heard the man’s instructions. After all, she was standing before the king, the most powerful man in existence. They were calling her a saint, but she feared what would happen to her if they turned out to be wrong.

They might beat me to death for not bowing before the king. Violet was sure their beatings would be crueler than Madam Goethe’s.

Nothing about the situation seemed real except for her fear. Her lips trembled.

“You may raise your head.”

Violet tearfully lifted her eyes to see an expanse of red carpet, then a platform, a throne, and a pair of legs swathed in red velvet trousers. A man’s hands, adorned in rings, rested on the throne’s finely carved armrests. When the man flicked one of his hands, she dropped her head again.

“You may raise your head, Dear Saint,” the voice said coldly.

Trembling, Violet forced herself to completely raise her head. In front of her sat a red-headed man wearing a severe expression. He had a jeweled crown of gold on his head, the likes of which she had only ever heard about in stories. His eyes, as golden as the crown, gleamed as they focused on her like a predator. Violet wished she could avert her eyes again, but feared that the king might grow angry.

“You may stand,” said the black-suited man by her side. Violet, however, did not realize that he was speaking to her and remained kneeling.

The king descended from the platform, his golden eyes fixed on her. As he looked at her dispassionately, Violet could feel instinctively that he was not fond of her.

“Since we seem unable to reach an agreement, why not ask her to make the decision for herself?” The king took Violet’s hand and tugged her to her feet. It was like she’d forgotten how to breathe as the crowd of men in the room focused on her. “Stand, Marquess,” the king said.

A tall man approached and knelt. “It’s my honor to meet the Agent of the Goddess. I am Marquess Beorn Ermengart, Your Holiness.”

Violet trembled as she stared at the man kneeling before her. Suddenly, a group of priests in white robes rushed forward to kneel as well.

“Your Holiness, Your Holiness!” they cried in unison.

She staggered backward in fear when she recognized one of them as the man who always tortured Lydia. He, however, seemed not to recognize Violet in return. He only called out to her sweetly as if she were the radiant sun itself. Violet could not fathom that such an awful and crooked man was kneeling before her.

“Now, choose your abode, Dear Saint,” the king’s voice boomed. “Will you enter House Ermengart as their foster daughter, or will you go to the temple?”

“Of course, she should be at the temple. She’s a messenger of the Goddess!” one of the priests cried.

“How dare a mere priest interrupt me?” the king snapped, prompting the high priest to hang his head. “Come, Dear Saint. Nobody can sway you. Will you learn about the world from House Ermengart, or will you go to the temple where you belong?”

Not only had Violet suddenly been declared the new saint, but she now also had to choose where she would live. If the choice was between living with the marquess and going with the priests, the answer was obvious. Still, she could not speak easily, knowing that her life was about to change dramatically.

The old priest at the head of the group looked at her pleadingly. Violet realized that whatever her life might become, she did not want to go with him. She finally pointed at the man kneeling before her. She would become the marquess’s foster daughter.

A saint gave power to the pope’s faction, so all they had to do was persuade her to come to their side. But most saints had come from noble families, so they were already well-educated and sophisticated by the time they entered the temple as adults. Violet would have to be coached, and a noble’s household would provide a far better environment for such an education than the temple. While the pope’s faction had Duke Tygernan on their side, he had not yet arrived at the capital.

Marquess Ermengart recognized that he had every right to anyone who hailed from his land, and realized that he could assert that right to take in the young girl. He had thus made the suggestion as a gamble. After all, wasn’t it better to accept the chance of rejection than to just hand the saint over to the temple without a word of protest? If they got hold of her, the pope would use her to expand his influence. Of course, that would threaten the king’s authority. But fortunately for the Marquess, it had all worked out.

Faced with a historically unprecedented situation, the high priests fumed. It was ridiculous enough that a girl from Flower Street had emerged as a saint, but it was even more outlandish for a noble to claim her as his foster child.

Marquess Ermengart, however, was unfazed. “If my order caused the girl harm, it is only right that I take her in as my daughter and pay for my sins. You asked me how I would take responsibility, Priest Dublin. You have my answer here.”

Duke Tygernan had yet to arrive, whether it be from the Papal Territory or his own estate. The marquess was resolute, knowing that the duke would take the saint by any means necessary, even if he had to resort to military force. Asserting his right over his people, Ermengart declared that he would not hand the girl over to the temple.

It was a fight between noble right and divine authority. The nobles of the pope’s faction knew that they would only be hurting themselves if they voted in favor of the temple. So they retreated from the fight, leaving the priests who had no land to lose to fend for themselves.

Meanwhile, the king called in the saint, hoping that the marquess’s gambit would work out. He wasn’t counting on using the girl to knock down the pope’s influence, but he knew it was better to control her than allow her to fall into his opposition’s hands. To him, she was at best a deterrent, but he couldn’t let his opposition take her as a valuable asset.

But seeing the new saint’s timid presence, he wondered if she’d be of any use to anyone at all. Neither he, the nobles, nor any of the priests could stifle their laughter as they watched the little girl stagger in awkwardly in her dress. She couldn’t even look up, hunching her shoulders with her eyes downcast. Had it not been for the stigma and her distinctive appearance, they would never have imagined that she could be the saint.

Violet, however, chose Ermengart without any hesitation. Anyone with a shred of intelligence would have placed the saint at the temple, but she chose the marquess as if she had been somehow ordered to do so.

Now, nobody in the kingdom stood above her. So if this was her choice, even the pope was powerless to go against it. The naive commoner had sided with the king.

***

They had returned to the marquess’s mansion.

Violet glanced up, then quickly looked down again, unable to face the man in front of her. Suddenly asked to choose where she wanted to live, she’d made her decision firmly. However, she had the sinking feeling that neither option would really be comfortable.

“It must have been exhausting for you to come all the way to the capital, Your Holiness.” Violet looked up in shock upon hearing him speak. The middle-aged marquess had dark navy-colored hair and a sturdy, bear-like build. His deep eyes reminded her of the winter sea. They radiated authority as he observed her, but she could not sense a hint of affection in them.

“There are no women in my house,” he said, his voice flat.

Violet wondered what he meant. “No women? But I met your maids.”

The marquess looked at her with pity and sighed. Fearing that she had misspoken, Violet glanced at him with worry. “I mean that my family has no adult women. The only grown women in the household are the maids,” he said.

Violet, unfortunately, still did not understand. She stared past him in wide-eyed confusion before her eyes settled back on his face. His expression suggested he was struggling with what to say.

“But I will make sure that you’re comfortable,” he finally said as Violet looked down somberly.

His kind words, however, did nothing to soothe her anxiety. He would never have dared to look upon her back when she lived on Flower Street, but he was now claiming to be at her service.

In some ways, Violet knew exactly what was going on. She had just been thrust into a position she did not deserve. Not knowing what she could or could not do, she felt deeply unsettled. She wished she could say something, but her fear prevented her from doing so.

The marquess stared at her for a while before finally turning and walking into the mansion. Violet followed, and they headed to the little girl’s room.

Since they were now back at the marquess’s estate, Violet quickly looked around for Fynn. The marquess watched the little girl run to the maid and clutch her hand, then he gestured to the butler.

“I think you should take care of Her Holiness,” the butler said to Fynn.

“Did you hear that, Your Holiness? From now on, I will be watching over you,” she said kindly, bowing.

Violet nodded silently with a slight smile, as if comforted.

The marquess was watching their interaction silently. “Should we introduce her to the young lords?” Fynn asked him.

“We can do that tomorrow morning,” he said curtly before turning to walk away.

Violet bowed to bid him goodnight.

“Do not do that, Your Holiness!” the butler shouted.

Violet jumped.

Realizing what must have happened based on the butler’s reaction alone, the marquess returned to explain. “Your Holiness,” he said. “You’re the most precious individual in the entire kingdom. The only people who rival you in position are His Majesty the King and His Holiness the Pope. You must not bow before me.”

Despite fearing that she had made an irrevocable mistake, Violet decided to speak up. Her voice was as quiet as that of a whimpering puppy, but as focused on her as they were, everyone could hear her clearly. “But… are you not my father now?” she asked.

The marquess seemed taken aback.

“Is it wrong to bid one’s father goodnight?” she continued.

The question was innocent. The marquess seemed dumbstruck for a moment, then averted his gaze before finally admitting, “No, it is not wrong. Good night, Your Holiness.”

He stared down at her, raising his large hand to pat her head. As he did, Violet flinched, thinking that she was about to be hit. The marquess quickly withdrew his hand and turned around without a word.

Once in the hallway, the marquess stared at the door he had closed behind him. The little girl was right. It was normal for a daughter to bid her father goodnight.

While he had decided to take her in, he did not actually know what to do with her. But when he realized that she had meant him when the word “Father” fell from her lips, the reality dawned on him—this little girl was now his foster daughter.

“Now, Your Holiness, let’s get changed,” Fynn said.

The maid helped Violet take off the stuffy dress and help her into a comfortable nightgown in its place. The little girl silently looked up at Fynn as the woman smiled and smoothed down her long hair.

“It’s so strange, isn’t it? You were covered in wounds when you arrived here, yet we can’t find even a blemish anymore. Is this the power of the saint?” the maid asked.

Madam Goethe’s beatings were so severe that Violet would often collapse. Yet the little girl’s forearms, previously covered in bruises from trying to shield herself against the old woman’s thick cane, were completely healed.

Violet pulled up her loose sleeves to check, then tugged up the skirt of her dress and looked at her thighs. Her once bruised body now looked as if she had never been hurt in the first place. The pain that used to accompany every movement was gone as well.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Fynn murmured. She stroked Violet’s hair and helped her into bed.

Despite being tucked securely in the comfortable bed, Violet looked around anxiously. She was unable to comprehend how her life had flipped upside down overnight.

In her mind, she could still see Rose and Lina’s headless bodies. She desperately wished the two women were still alive. They would never have believed that she’d met His Majesty himself.

“Good night,” Fynn said. After patting Violet’s head gently once more, she headed out. The candle was blown out and darkness descended in the room. Moonlight trickled in to bathe the bedsheets in blue light.

Violet knew that she owed her new life to the Goddess. Compared to her past of many nights spent curled up in the house’s attic, this felt like a fever dream.

For the first time, she could really reflect on what had happened to her. She thought about how Flower Street had burned down and how she would never be able to go back. She thought about how she had nobody to rely on in this foreign place. She also thought about what a mistake it was that the Goddess had chosen her. She should have picked another girl. This is all wrong.

The lonely bedroom Violet found herself in was too cavernous and quiet. Tears trickled down her cheeks. One after another, they fell, but she could not weep too openly. If she cried, she would get angry looks again.

Nobody was there to soothe her. Violet missed her mother and the young Flower Street women who always comforted her no matter how hard she was beaten. The room was too large and frightening. Scared and lonely, the little girl trembled and quietly wept.

“Oh my, Your Holiness! Have you been crying?” Fynn asked when she saw Violet’s puffy face in the morning.

She had not gotten very much sleep. The night had a knack for inviting dark thoughts, and Violet had fallen victim to them.

Her biggest fear was that she was here because of a terrible mistake. Whether it was the marquess or the king—or even the Goddess—someone had made an error. Before she could even mourn the deaths of her companions, she had been whisked away to somewhere unknown. As she lay in bed alone, the sinking feeling that someone might come after her had overwhelmed her. She’d wept and wept until her face was red and puffy.

Fynn would have to spend some time cooling her face so the swelling would go down. When something cold touched her red cheek, Violet jumped.

“Shh, Your Holiness, it’s just ice.” The maid’s kindness distracted Violet from the cold and foreign sensation.

Violet had never imagined that something as expensive as ice could be used just to cool her face. Ice was something that one only got to see in winter. It was unfathomable to be encountering it in warm spring.

They just use this to soothe their faces? Even as the cool substance massaged her face, Violet could not stifle a confused look.

“You can’t show up with an ugly face when you’re meeting the young lords, can you?” Fynn said.

Young lords? Who did she mean?

Violet froze. The young noble lords who visited Flower Street were always picky, violent, and arrogant. One of them had beaten her legs black and blue for spilling his drink. There was no way she would be able to survive such people.

Violet looked at Fynn pleadingly, but the maid was firm. The girl knew no amount of desperation in her face would be enough to escape this.

She tried to walk as slowly as possible down the hall, but when Fynn said something about the young lords being kept waiting, she quickened her steps, fearing she might be held responsible for being late. She shuddered, just imagining how violent the young men might get if their breakfast was delayed because of her.

The first thing she saw through the doors of the dining hall was a long table. She trembled as she entered the room. At the head of the table was an empty chair, probably meant for the marquess. On the right side was another empty chair, and across from it sat a row of boys looking up at her curiously.

“What’s with her? Her hair is as white as a ghost,” commented the boy sitting in the farthest seat, who seemed to be about Violet’s age. With a frown, he scanned her from head to toe, prompting her to look at her feet in fear. He looked every bit the arrogant young noble that she’d imagined.