One of the younger maids, emboldened by curiosity, risked a quiet whisper to another. "The prince was seen leaving the palace late last night," she murmured, her words barely audible.
But Irene caught it. Her sharp eyes darted to the girl, and the room fell silent.
"Speak," she commanded, her tone cold and unyielding.
The maid’s face turned pale as she stamred, "I-I only heard that the prince was seen riding out of the gates last night, Your Highness. I don’t know where he went."
Irene’s lips pressed into a thin line. She dismissed the maid with a wave of her hand, her mind racing.
As the final touches were added to her attire—a delicate tiara set with eralds to match her dress—Irene felt a surge of emptiness.
The finery, the titles, the obligations—it all felt aningless without a partner who truly cared for her.
She had once dread of a marriage filled with love and companionship, but reality had been far less kind.
"Enough," she said abruptly, rising from her chair. The maids stepped back in unison, bowing their heads.
Clarisse approached her cautiously. "Your Highness, you look beautiful. The court will be envious of your grace today."
Irene forced a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "Let them envy," she replied. "It’s all I seem to have left to offer."
She turned toward the door, pausing briefly as if considering sothing.
Then, with a deep breath, she stepped out of the room, her head held high despite the heaviness in her chest.
Sowhere in the back of her mind, she wondered where Jaron was now—what sches he was plotting, or whose company he was keeping.
But she pushed the thought aside. She had no ti for weakness, not today.
At least she had her daughters, and that, she reminded herself, was enough for now.
~~{─────────
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
Here,
The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Young Ladies’ Chambers, casting a warm golden glow across the elegant room.
The chamber was a flurry of activity as maids bustled about, smoothing silks, fastening ribbons, and brushing glossy locks of hair in preparation for the king’s grand birthday celebration.
Seated near the vanity, Phillipa Spencer, the daughter of the second prince, exuded calm maturity.
Her pale blue gown, adorned with delicate lace, had been selected with care to complent her serene personality.
She watched her younger cousins with a patient smile, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Beside her stood Hazel Spencer, her sister, who was quite the opposite in deanor.
Hazel was all smiles and chatter, her green eyes sparkling as she lavished complints on everyone around her. "Oh, Anastasia, that dress is divine on you! And Madison, those pearls are simply elegant. Don’t you think Phillipa looks like a true princess today?"
Anastasia, the youngest of Prince Jaron’s daughters, sat on a velvet stool with her arms crossed and a pout firmly planted on her face.
Her long golden curls were being styled into an elaborate braid, but the process was not to her liking. "This is taking too long," she whined, her blue eyes narrowing. "Why do I have to sit still for so long? I’m the daughter of a prince! Can’t they just make look perfect already?"
The maids exchanged weary glances but continued their work, used to Anastasia’s spoiled temperant.
Madison, Anastasia’s older sister, was much quieter. She sat near the window, allowing the maids to dress her in a soft pink gown.
Her expression was subdued, her eyes downcast as she fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve.
One of the maids noticed her silence and gently asked, "Are you feeling alright, Lady Madison?"
Madison hesitated before softly murmuring, "I’m just... hungry."
Hazel, ever the cheerful one, clapped her hands together. "Oh, why didn’t you say so sooner, Madison? We can ask the kitchen to send sothing up. Perhaps so of those little honey cakes you like?"
Before Madison could respond, a high-pitched cry rang through the room.
All heads turned toward Little Rose, a small, cherubic girl sitting on the floor with her tiny fists rubbing her teary eyes.
She had been fussing since the morning, and now her cries had grown louder.
"Mama!" Rose wailed, her voice trembling with distress. "Mama, are you?" Her words weren’t smooth but it was clear.
The maids rushed to comfort her, one kneeling beside her and gently wiping her tears. "Hush, Little Rose. Your mama isn’t here, but we’ll take care of you. Co now, let’s get you ready for the celebration."
But Rose shook her head fiercely, her curls bouncing as fresh tears stread down her cheeks. "No! I want Mama! I want Mama!"
The maids looked at each other helplessly. One of them whispered to another, "She’s calling for Princess Salviana again. Ever since she t princess Salviana she wouldn’t stop calling her Mama, and as the lady visited her when she was ill, she’s insisted on calling her ’Mama.’"
The other maid nodded, her expression a mix of pity and concern. "Poor little thing. She doesn’t have a mother of her own, and Lady Salviana was so kind to her. She must have thought..."
Phillipa, who had been observing quietly, stood and approached Rose with a gentle smile.
She knelt beside the child and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Rose, why don’t you let the maids dress you up? You’ll look so pretty for the king’s birthday. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll see Princess Salviana later today. Wouldn’t that be nice?"
Rose sniffled, her cries subsiding slightly as she looked up at Phillipa with wide, watery eyes. "Really? I’ll see Mama?"
Phillipa hesitated but nodded softly. "Perhaps. But only if you’re a good girl and let the maids do their work, alright?"
Rose nodded reluctantly, allowing the maids to lift her and begin dressing her in a tiny gown of pale lavender.
anwhile, Anastasia huffed, crossing her arms again. "Why does she get all the attention? I’m the princess here, not her!"
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