The room was quiet now. 

Noémie lay on the rug for what felt like hours. He struggles to breathe, with her ribs aching. Thankfully, her dress wasn’t torn—getting dressed again would be more of a chore.

A soft knock comes from the door.

“Come…come in, Maxi.”

Maximilienne .

“Mie, I heard yelling,” Maximilienne said. “Are you—?” 

“I’m fine,” Noémie replied, taking some effort to gather herself to her feet, only to collapse onto her bed.

She stares at her sister, who has her hair pinned up with lilies—she was just a baby, but they had her dressed up like they were sending her off to be married. Her rosy cheeks were still plump, her eyes still sparkled with hope.

Maximilienne plops down beside her, 

“Big sister, they announced it today,” the girl said softly. “My engagement. To the Duke of Bellefleur.”

Noémie froze. This early? It had not even been a year since Maxi had her debutante.

Maximilienne smiled, sad, hopeful. “They say he’s monstrous. But maybe he’ll take me far from here. Maybe…” She looked down at her hands, which were entwined with her sister’s. “Maybe I’ll finally be free from Father.”

Noémie knew the story. She knew Maximilienne would die. In ten years, her funeral would be the beginning of the real romance. 

“Is that so?” Noémie felt her voice close to a whisper. “Even if you get married to him in seven years, you’re still much too young for a fiancé. And he’s not…he’s not safe.”

. “No one is, sister,” Maximilienne said simply, frankly. Her sparkling gaze drifted towards the window. “Do you remember Maman’s Garden?”

Noémie nodded. On their maternal family’s territory, farther north, coincidentally where the Bellefleur’s territory resided as well, was their mother’s garden. It was one gift to their mother on her 18th birthday, and much to their father’s dismay, she often went there to 

It was also where she was buried after her death, per her wishes, saying vehemently that she would not allow her body to enter the du Cœur tomb. 

“If I die, will you bury me next to her?”

Noémie sat up—perhaps too quickly—and looked at her sister with a frown.

“Don’t say that.”

“Please, promise me, sister.”

Noémie swallowed. She looked into her sister’s eyes. She held her hand to her face before ultimately relenting.

“I promise.”

Maximilienne grinned and kissed her sister’s temple. “You always keep your promises.”

She left the room, skipping away as she hummed a soft lullaby.

Then once again, Noémie was by herself.

….

….

Noémie was accustomed to taking a different carriage from the rest of her family; she wondered if it was their way of isolating her. As usual, when she arrives, she approaches the grand halls alone. She needed a tall flute of champagne and whatever pastry they had on hand. 

 The chandeliers above her dripped with light. 

As usual, Maximilienne was the light of the party, speaking to young ladies of society. She’s always been like that, even before her debut. Nymphette, that’s what they called her—the prize and treasure of the Isaac family. 

Everyone looked at Maximilienne, not the way that she did, but as if she were something to possess. She was so young, but she was revered as something desirable, not someone. A person would look at another human being the way they did Maximilienne.

Noémie recalled what her sister told her during their brief meeting at the entrance of the palace, surrounded by guards. Her sister stood beside her in a white gown, holding her hands.

“I hope you have lots of fun, big sister. I can manage on my own.”

Noémie frowned.

“You are a child, our family’s child. How can I not look after you?”

“Mie, you can’t look after me every second. Go on, enjoy yourself as much as you can. I’ll see you when we arrive back home.”

Noémie watched her enter the ball; she could already hear other nobles greet her.

Like vision, like a Botticelli angel.

One of the footmen bows at her before she herself enters. “Your father won’t be escorting you to the royal receiving line. He’s occupied with other matters.”

Yes, those other manners must be sucking up to much richer noblemen.

Noémie continued as she descended the stairs slowly, watching her baby sister being swallowed by the cluster of ladies and simpering lords. The exact opposite of Noémie, the cynical outsider. The Spinster, that’s what they called her in all-too-loud whispers that she’d hear within earshot. 

“A wild animal in a gown, it’s almost like watching a comedy in the opera house!” 

“A woman, no, a slave like her, would be suited for a zoo, perhaps?”

Women barely cover their gossiping sneers with brisé fans, men with snide, vile comments, and vulgar stares. Their voices were soft, but not soft enough. One girl in particular, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen years old, Noémie, locked eyes with her as she slowly turned. She had short, greying hair that seemed too early for her age, dark brown eyes, and a pale blue dress.

She scurried away quickly. 

Noémie frowns. 

Maximilienne was particularly overwhelmed, although she knew if she stepped in, she might make things worse. But Maxi does much better than she expected. Maximilienne smiled, curtsied, her blonde curls bouncing as she laughed at comments. She looked back, eyes seeking Noémie’s before she smiled at her, gently, mouth closed and eyes curving. In turn, Maximilienne gives her a grin that squeezes her heart. waves and disappeared into the crowd. Noémie’s stared at Maximilienne’s back as she trudged through the crowd of perfume-soaked nobles, and she could feel her heart squeeze. Her baby sister, her youngest pride.

Ah, that feeling. 

That miserable feeling she had in her chest; she reached for a glass of champagne from a passing tray to calm her nerves, knocking it back whole. She didn’t bother approaching the royal dais—there was no point. Her father probably would introduce her to her sister later; her brother was at home because powder simply couldn’t cover up a busted cheek. They would not mind if the adoptive daughter of a Marquis family didn’t pay her respects.

But she did glance, once.

The Emperor Val-De-Lys sat, upright like a statue hewn from pale marble—his dark hair streaked with silver from age, hawkish grey eyes glazed over the crowd of people. The empress sat beside him, dressed up in ivory lace, face soft and distant. Their son, Prince Henri, who looked like an angrier, younger version of his father, scowled instead.

And then, beside them, like a rose in a bed of thorns—Princess Charlotte Val-de-Lys.

 Copper-gold curls. Her father’s grey eyes. A dress the color of moonlight. A darling of the empire, her parents’ favored child. The heroine of the story, Noémie, read in another life. She smiled at everyone, even as her eyes flickered. Noémie felt something cold beyond her thick, curled lashes—that couldn’t be the sweet, innocent princess she remembered reading about. 

 Of course, not.

She was being silly.