It’d been mere days before the rumours started. Crafted by Lady Fabienne, no doubt. Buckley tried to sway the narrative in my favor, explaining to the other servants how cruel Fabienne had been, but the tale spun was far more exciting to eager ears.

According to Buckley, they said I, Princess Vivian, was haughty and ungrateful. That I had slighted poor Lady Fabienne despite her supposed kindness. 

I had hoped the whispers would fade, dissolve into something forgettable once a newer story came along, but they didn’t. Instead conversations dimmed when I passed by, footsteps quickened, and eyes lingered too long before darting away.

She’d done more than start a rumour, she had built something lasting. A prejudice that followed me through every corridor. Whether it was a noble who ‘forgot’ to bow or a servant who brought my food cold. There wasn’t a place in the castle untouched by it. 

So I stayed in my quarters more often than not, restless and stifled. Buckley tried to reassure me, insisting it would pass, but by the scrunch of her brow I could tell she didn’t think that herself. 

“Why don’t we go into town?” she suggested one morning. “A distraction might help. We could visit the dressmakers and start thinking about your gown for the next ball. That alone could takes hour.”

I agreed more out of restlessness than interest. 

Dressed in a green floral skirt and white blouse, I left the castle beside her, escorted by a knight who looked as though he’d drawn the short straw.

“Your name?” I asked while we waited for the gates to open.

“Quincy, Your Ladyship.” His gaze stayed firmly ahead.

“Her Highness,” Buckley corrected sharply.

“It’s alright,” I said. “I’m sure he meant no harm.”

Buckley muttered something under her breath, though she said no more.

The gates creaked open, and we stepped out from the dark, bridged castle into the city below. The path into town cut through trimmed woodland, broken by wood and stone houses, all draped in the kingdom’s banners.

Despite Buckley’s hopes, the quiet unease I’d felt in the castle followed us still. Even into the markets. 

The streets were crowded – stalls packed tightly together, fabrics draped in rich color, merchants shouted out their wares. Permanent shops spilled onto the street, their goods nearly overflowing onto the cobblestones. 

No one here looked as though they struggled for coin or payment: What that must be like.

We walked slowly through the crowd. Conversations dipped as we passed, not as sharply as in the castle, but enough for me to notice; A woman at a fruit stall paused mid-sentence, her eyes flicking toward me before she leaned closer to her companion. 

A man bowed as we passed, though it was shallow, too quick and reluctant.

“Not quite proper,” Buckley muttered.

“Still a bow,” I said quietly.

Further along, two young noblewomen stood near a ribbon stall. One whispered something behind her fan; the other gave a small, knowing smile in my direction.

I kept walking.

“They don’t know anything,” Buckley said under her breath.

“No,” I replied. “But they think they do. That’s enough.”

Quincy remained silent behind us, though I noticed his posture stiffen as the murmurs followed.

By the time we reached the dress shop, I tried to drop the weight of everything outside. Turning instead to the dressmaker's wares. 

Mannequins displayed some of the most elegant dresses I had ever seen. They didn’t spread out into a sea of layers – the sleeves didn’t have you flailing around extra cloth. The beauty came from the quality of fabric and intricate floral embroidery. Decorated by lace and enough room to dance in. 

“Don’t worry, My Lady,” Buckley said. “They’ll have something suited to your tastes as well.”

“Oh. Yes.”

I glanced toward the shopkeeper. He was occupied with a pair of noblewomen I didn’t recognize.

“Excuse me?” Buckley called.

He looked straight past her and addressed me instead. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

There was no bow. No title. He simply turned back to his customers. One of the women gave me a brief, dismissing glance.

Buckley leaned in. “Say the word and I’ll have Quincy teach him some manners.”

My head spun: It wasn’t only the castle, everyone believed it. 

I grabbed Buckley’s wrist and pulled her outside before she could argue, Quincy following as we slipped into a quieter alley. 

“What are the rumours, truly?” I asked. “They wouldn’t behave like this over arrogance alone.”

Buckley shifted uneasily. “Lady Fabienne’s story was only the beginning. The nobles… they added to it and the servants carried it further.”

She hesitated. “Everyone believes King Lionel despises you. That he sent you away, not out of duty, but rejection.”

My breath grew short. Of course it spread. Servants carry stories faster than couriers, and they take hold like a fire. 

Fabienne hadn’t simply lied. She had chosen the perfect story. If a princess is unwanted by her own father, what value does she have to anyone else? Respect erodes, and once it begins – it doesn’t stop at whispers.

“It doesn’t help,” Buckley added gently, “that he hasn’t written. There’s nothing to contradict her. If King Lionel were to show care publicly, it might quiet things. You should write to him.”

“Write to my father…? Take me to the nearest post.”

Buckley nodded and hurried me through the crowds, weaving between bodies and stalls until we reached a smaller building tucked between two larger shops. It was cluttered, but orderly. Shelves lined with parchment, ink, and neatly bundled letters.

She exchanged a coin with the keeper and returned with paper and a pen.

I slipped into a quiet corner and began to write.

Collins,

I fear I am already in need of your assistance. Against your wishes and advice, I’ve made an enemy of Lady Fabienne Wells. In return, she has spread rumours that continue to grow. In its most basic form, she says I have been all but disowned by King Lionel.

You understand as well as I do how dangerous rumours can become.

I trust you will know what to do. Please act quickly.

Princess Vivian Darnel of the Eastern Kingdom

I folded the letter carefully, writing his name across the back before sealing it with wax. Then, before Buckley could glance over, I handed it off to the postman.

Afterwards, we returned to the castle, where all I could do was wait…

The days that followed dragged on. Even in my own room, I felt watched. Footsteps lingered too long outside my door. Voices hushed just beyond it.

Finally, one afternoon, as I sat with tea untouched in my hands, Buckley broke the silence.

“Your father is taking his time. Perhaps we should speak to the king. Ask for his help.”

“Wulfric? No. If he so much as favors one side, it’ll spark an entirely new set of rumours.”

“What if your father doesn’t answer?”

Her red hair flowed around, loose with worry. 

“Then we find another way,” I said. “And if nothing else works…”

The thought settled heavily. I would apologize. Not that I wanted to, but I’d endure it like I’ve had to before. 

“...Do you hear that, My Lady?”

“What?”

From the open window came the sound of wheels over stone, voices calling, the shift of something large arriving.

I stood and crossed the room, looking out.

A caravan had entered the courtyard. Rich fabrics draped over polished wood. Metal gleamed in the light. And stamped across every visible surface was the sigil of the Eastern Kingdom.

“The king responded!” Buckley exclaimed. “Quickly, you have to be there when it arrives.”

She practically shoved me out the door before I could think. Down the halls and into the courtyard. 

It was the busiest hour of the day, nobles and advisors filling the space, all drawn toward the spectacle. Lady Fabienne herself was there. 

The gifts were in deliberate display, opulent, excessive, impossible to ignore. Not simply delivered, but displayed. 

Buckley cleared a path, guiding me forward until I stood at the front. And once he saw me; the royal courier stepped forward, letter in hand. At his presence the courtyard fell silent.

“To Her Highness, my beloved daughter, Princess Vivian L. Darnel. I ask your forgiveness for the delay of my gifts. My desire for perfection slowed their arrival – as did my anger. For I have heard rumours that distance has been mistaken for neglect.”

A pause.

“And as King Pembroke has assured me of your safety, I say this: should such talk trouble you, speak a word and whoever is responsible will be dealt with accordingly.”

No one spoke, but every ear waited.

“I see. You may tell my father I pay no mind to idle gossip.”

My gaze shifted, just briefly.

Lady Fabienne stood with her fan raised, her posture composed, but her eyes were sharper now, unsettled. Beside her stood her father.

I had seen him once before, on the bridge. Around him, the courtyard shifted, postures straightening, voices softening, but he didn’t move. Not even at the mention of the king’s anger.

His attention was fixed entirely on me, not on the gifts or the display. Even as our eyes met, his expression didn’t change. Even for a flicker. He had no curiosity in his gaze, rather assessment. As though he were measuring something he had already begun to suspect.

And the way he looked at me – through me – to Winslet. 

A chill ran through me. I broke the gaze first, yet as I turned away, I caught it, just barely, the faintest incline of his head. Not a bow, an acknowledgment.

Turning, I walked from the courtyard. Behind me, silence cracked into murmurs then into a swell of voices. This time, no one hesitated to move aside. They bowed and curtsied with haste. One man nearly stumbled over himself opening the door for me.

Respect had returned. Or something that looked like it.

The courier followed with the gifts, carrying them to my chambers where each piece was laid out in careful display.

When they finally left, and the door closed, I exhaled deeply, sinking into a chair.

“That should quiet things, for now,” Buckley said, eyeing the collection. “Oh, there’s another letter.”

She handed it to me, and I broke the seal.

Your Royal Highness,

I apologize again for the delay. Certain parties were… uncooperative in my attempts to assist you.

Rest assured, letters will continue to arrive from your father, along with the occasional gift.

As for Lady Fabienne and her father, Fervent Wells, I do not know the full extent of your dealings, but their family is both powerful and dangerous. For your safety, I advise making amends and keeping your distance.

—Collins

As I set down the letter, I could only picture one thing – Fervent. He’d seen through the display. Perhaps… even through me.