If Amalia had any doubts about the veracity of her vision, they had melted away. The scene before her was just the same as it had been in the novel. Margaret standing tall, looking down upon the woman who had so hurt her. Amalia’s brother Eberhard, standing just beside her. Did anyone else see how stiff he looked? This execution was being carried out under his authority, but it was clear that he wished he was anywhere else, staring out into nothing, his red eyes dull and distant.

And then there was Euphemie. 

She lay on the ground like a discarded doll, her limbs, scraped and filthy, spread about her like a bird’s broken wings. Her hair, which in the novel had been described as bright and blond, luminous as the moon, lay about her like tattered rags. Her face was pale and sallow, her body wasted away. Even so, there was a beauty to her, drawing Amalia in. Something inviting in the joyful madness that had overtaken her face, something stunning about the smile spread across her lips. Her rasping laughter would be burned in Amalia’s mind for a long time. And despite Amalia’s cry, she did not stop.

But she would not die today. Amalia strode up to the platform, certain she looked a mess. Her black hair had been tangled by the wind as she had ridden overnight. Her clothing was still yesterday’s, and her boots were caked with mud.

“You must stop this,” Amalia said, not in the voice she used to reason with others, but the booming roar she had used to make demands as a general.

“Why?” asked Lady Margaret, her gentle lips pursed. “She tried to kill me, and I may do what I like with her. Prince Leopold said so.”

“Well,” said Amalia.

All night, she had thought of how she was going to handle this. How she was going to save Euphemie. It would only take one sign from Margaret or Eberhard to send the horses running. She had to convince them quickly.

“Is this truly punishment?” Amalia asked.

“Explain,” said Margaret.

“In one moment, Euphemie will be dead.”

“Yes,” said Margaret. “That is the point.”

“She will be dead,” Amalia explained, “and then she will not be able to learn anything anymore. She will not be able to understand what she did wrong.”

“Is teaching a criminal really my responsibility, Lady...”

“Amalia,” Amalia reminded her. “Amalia von Mondlicht. Your fiance is my brother. Surely you can see the resemblance?”

Eberhard, who had been dissociating the past few moments, finally snapped out of it. His eyes met Amalia’s. His hands were trembling.

There was a reason Amalia had inherited the Duchy, had led the army, and held the border now, even though she was a woman and her brother a man. Eberhard von Mondlicht had too soft a heart. His love had lain in his books. In the novel, he had been written as a badass who could protect his wife. But how much interiority had it truly given him? There was not a violent bone in his body that had not been placed there artificially by his upbringing. He was much happier living further south, in Silberwald, with Margaret, where he could patronize the arts and take up gardening.

There was no way he was happy to be leading an execution.

“Sister,” said Eberhard. “Why have you come here?”

Amalia looked at him, and curtseyed. “I do not think you want to see anyone die today.”

Pursing his lips, he looked away. Amalia returned her focus to Margaret.

“I do not expect you to be in charge of instructing her, Lady Margaret,” said Amalia. “That is why I propose you give her to me. Mondlicht is too far north for her to ever bother you again.”

“Or I could simply have peace of mind right now,” Margaret huffed.

“Is it peace of mind you wish for, or revenge?” Amalia asked.

“Is there a difference?” Margaret said.

“Yes,” said Amalia. “The first satisfies. The second haunts.”

“I doubt I’ll feel any guilt for this,” Lady Margaret snipped. “She’s a slave, in the end. And she has already done so much.” 

“Suit yourself,” Amalia said, and hoped the calm of her voice did not give way how much her heart was racing. “But if you kill Euphemie now, you’ll never see what I have planned for her.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” said Amalia. “But it must be said. If she dies now, she won’t be able to suffer any longer. And wouldn’t that be more satisfying?” Careful as she could, Amalia dropped to one knee. “Lady Margaret von Silberwald. Allow me to carry out Euphemie’s punishment in my brother’s stead, so the two of you may be unstained by her blood, and live peacefully.”

Margaret’s eyes were sharp, considering. 

Eberhard spoke. “It would be a brutal death. Lady Margaret, let my sister intervene.”

Margaret sighed. “Fine. This is too much trouble for a slave. Do what you will with her.”

With that she turned and strode from the platform. Eberhard took one last look at his older sister, then followed.  The reporters began to chatter, the ladies with their tea to gossip. Amalia ignored them all. Twisting around, she walked on steady feet to where Euphemie lay.

She had gone quiet, now. Despite the brightness of the sky above, she stared up with wide eyes, her pink lips curled into a frown. They had forgotten to give Amalia the keys to the shackles, but that didn’t particularly matter. Finding the hinge of one, she tore it in two with her hands, continuing until all her limbs were free.

Would it look too tender to carry her away?

“Get up,” Amalia said.

Euphemie’s face had gone pale, but her eyes were glassy and distant. Yet such a sharply barked order got her moving, curling up from the earth, and dragging herself onto unsteady feet.

“You’re too slow,” Amalia said, as though she was annoyed. She grabbed Euphemie by the waist, then, hoisting her over her shoulder. Really, she ought to be princess carrying her, but that might look too tender for the bloodthirsty crowd. Any inclination that Amalia had ulterior motives might bring Euphemie back to the proverbial chopping block.

At the very least, she did not struggle. She barely seemed to be breathing at all. How long had she spent in the dark?

It was a question that Amalia continued to ask herself as she procured a carriage back to Mondlicht and draped Euphemie inside of it.

Sitting across from her, Amalia discovered a new problem.

In this life, and her other, Amalia had a bit of a soft spot for pathetic things. Broken toys that no other child would buy decorated her shelves. She had a habit of adopting abandoned animals off the street, taking care of them as best she could. 

Now Euphemie sat across from her, doe-eyes staring out at nothing, frail body trembling, hunched forward. All of this was the product of Euphemie’s own contempt. All of this was the product of Amalia’s participation in war. Whatever the reason, it did not matter. She was perhaps the most pathetic thing Amalia had ever seen in her life.

Oh no, thought Amalia, I’m screwed.

Her initial plan had been thus: rescue Euphemie, take care of her until she got better, then send her to a kingdom far away from the empire where she would never be hurt or hurt another again. In theory, it made sense. Unfortunately, it was no longer satisfying.

She must have really loved this character in her other life. The affection was there already. Nobody else in the novel had been so entertaining. Nobody else in the novel had lived such a tragic life (one most readers seemed unwilling to acknowledge). Perhaps it had been spite that kept Amalia enjoying the character to the end. Now those feelings mixed with her guilt as a general, as a fang in the Holy Empire’s maw, as the Lioness of the North. 

Regardless, the best she could do now was give her a soft bed, good clothes, and three meals and a bath every day. As Amalia watched Euphemie tremble across from her, she wondered if she was cold. Ah, she would need a heavy coat! Perhaps two. And sturdy boots to protect from snow, and soft slippers for when she walked through the manor’s cold hallways. Did she have a favorite food? Amalia would make it for her. Did she have a book she liked? Amalia would get it.

Perhaps Margaret wouldn’t like this, but Amalia did not give two shits about Margaret. The Lady of Silberwald would be fine! If the novel went as planned (if Amalia’s world continued as depicted in the novel), then she would end up Empress, with Eberhard her prince consort. Amalia would probably have to move at that point, but she could take Euphemie with her. 

The fact of the matter was this:

She did not want to send Euphemie away. She wanted to pamper Euphemie herself.