Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The gentle folds of the roses were reflected keenly in my teacup. Unsaturated shapes shone on the surface, undisturbed by the passing of time around me and the regal woman I was sitting across from. In her silk lilac gowns with their swirling rose appliques and gem colored embroidery, Queen Esfilde was a diva in her private gardens. The verdant leaves and ruby colored petals shying away from comparison.

Her time as the highest woman in the kingdom had been kind to her, the pearl powder dusting her skin and the gold dust at the tip of her fingers laying testament to the dedication and care she has placed in maintaining herself. Simply balancing a teacup on her palm, she remained the most beautiful woman in the court – uncontested and unchallenged.

We had sat like this, intimately, across a table of untouched sweets and cooling teacups weekly for the past eight years I had trained in the court. The Queen was a woman of few words, and I, in her presence, bore the humble heart of a student. It has always been my simple wish to accompany her like this, to bask in the low of her grace and to better our relationship.

“Dear,” she called to me, her sharp green eyes taking me in. The sharpness of her tone pierced through the air causing me to I sit up, tugging at the pooled lace of my sleeves on my lap.

“Your Majesty,” I reply quietly, putting down the near-empty teacup. The click sounding awkward and harsh in my ears.

“Do you love Arman?”

She said it with such finality that I could not help but bite my lip. It was too easy for me to proclaim my undying love for her son, to call out the wonderful ways in which his every attention fills me with great satisfaction. Had this question been posed in different circumstances, under the light of a different sky, I would have taken it as an opportunity to sing of the fire in my heart.

But I found myself mute. Despite my lowered head, I could feel her pointed gazed. She must be turning the cup in her palm now, elbow rested on the armrest of the garden chair, the lilac dress crumpled where it met the upholstered fabric.

Time passed slowly, trudging like a young lad in the infantry made to bear the weight of the world’s expectations. Like gunfire, the clink of a lowered teacup cut through my hesitation.

A cold hand, reached over the table, pulling my clenched fingers into it. It pried open the fist I did not even noticed I made. Rosy fingers traced the crescent traces on my palm, she applied pressure trying to rub out the traces of the inner turmoil brewing inside me.

 “I kissed your brow,” she whispered, not meeting my eyes,” the day your father brought you to the court. You were so small, so tiny you fit into the palm of my hand, little thing.” Her reminisce brought a smile to her usually stiff brow, the memory of the tiny bundle in her arms still so clear despite the passing of the years. The little baby is now old enough to consider marriage, to consider the life she has ahead of her.

“My Queen,” I grasped her fingers in mine, the sharpness of the stones on her rings biting against my skin. It did not sound right. Now, she was not addressing me as a ruler to her commons but an elder filled with great concern. “Aunt,” I crooned, holding back the tears that threatened with grave force to spill out and drown us both.

“I know you love my son but, she paused gravely,” I love you.” She was murmuring, her voice smaller than the twittering of a hummingbird in the throes of spring rain. The green eyes that had always bordered on steely indifference met mine – like pools of warm mossy spring found in the mountain, they sung of  tender resolution and the memories of lives long past.

“I love you, little dear Claribella.” The words came out softer still as she held my hand to her chest. “Think twice before answering.”

We spent the rest of the time in silence. She did not speak to me nor addressed me yet my palm was clutched tightly in hers. She excused me past the time the fading sun reflected in the now cool tea. I did not even remember how I had left her side or garden. By the time I had found myself in my own carriage, I could not help but look to the monstrous shadow fading in the horizon.

Did it feel like running? Looking at the beginning embers in the distance, I could not help but wondering if those magic lights warmed the corner of that rose garden. Would its reflection glow as keenly as the setting sun did in the teacup this afternoon?

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