The Plan (EDITING)

CHAPTER FIVE

Drizzles of rain spurt out of the clouds, the sun rising up in the sky. Birds and butterflies fly into the trees. Raindrops on Anastasia's head, one by one, each feeling like a rock.

"I wish to speak with my daughter in private," the King says.

Alfonso nods his head, standing and walking away inside the palace. A nearby footman runs to the two, holding an umbrella over their heads. Each second, more water pours down, overflowing the fountain.

No words are exchanged. His plain dark eyes have an inner spark in them, an inner motivation– rippled by darkness and disgus. The side of the letter is poisoned with his touch.

"Father, we should travel inside. We shall not catch an illness if–"

"I did not ask you to speak." Gray hairs in the front of his head capture droplets of rain. She narrows her gaze at his dark brown loafers as she tightens her shawl around her shoulders. "I forbid anymore correspondence with him."

"No," she mumbles. Anastasia stands from the edge of the fountain, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Water leaks in her eyes, blinding her. Shall she advocate for herself? Perhaps she should not– simply because he is her father and he is her king.

"You do not say no to me," he yells, the paper crushing in his fist. "You are to be married and have no reason to be communicating with Leopold. Or the Allen's for that matter."

Anastasia walks away, staring at the open field across from the fences of the garden. There will never be a time where informing him of her feelings, her emotions, and her circumstances will be appropriate. Never. But what if there can be?

"You pain me!" She takes her chignon down, massaging her hair. "I love Leo– Mr. Allen. I adore him with my heart and you cannot take it away from me."

He turns his attention to Anastasia, telling the footman to leave them. Sweat or tears or rain dribbles down her wrist. Her legs electrify and quake, screaming at her to run. The wide glass doors at the top of the steps deem appealing and dream-like.

The base of her hair becomes victim to her hands as she lightly combs through the small knots, her sight staring at her soaked dress.

"Father, I am sorry. I did not..." her voice whispers into the air.

"You are not sorry, Anastasia!" His yell bounces across the garden. He throws the letter at her, watching it bounce off her shoulder. "You are despicable– I despise you!"

Oh, that is not true. He could not despise his own daughter– his own creation. Anasasia rarely did anything. Anything at all. It is not her fault that she is to be married against her will. It is not her fault that the one she loves is the one she desires to spend her time with.

He steps closer to her. "I pray for the day you are carried away to Spain, never to set foot in my country again–"

"What?" The shawl wraps deeper into her flesh, her shoulders and teeth shivering in the cold wind. "I am not a fish in your political pond and I belie–"

He picks a nearby rock up, throwing it right above her shoulder. She jumps away, her lungs trying to retrieve oxygen from the eaky air around her. Trees behind her sway and hide her father's presence. "Leave my garden before I destroy it."

It is not his garden, she thinks. Chlorophyll-hugged leaves scrape along her fingers. The swinging doors rush open from her nearby servants and lady's-maids, all curtsying to her– looks of concern and worry across their faces.

"Princess," Charlotte, one of her lady's maids, says. "Would you like me to start a bath?"

She confirms, practically running to the drawing room to alert her brothers of their fathers actions.

Caspen and Lucas sit near the fireplace with a novel in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Stanley lies on the couch, scanning a novel as well. As the heavy-gold doors shut, they all look at Anastasia. Her pale skin and shivering body causes Caspen to stand immediately, walking up to her.

"What ever has happened?" He guides her to the fireplace, grabbing an empty cup of tea and filling it.

Stanley shuts his book, laying it on the table and sitting up on the couch. "She was in the rain, brother. Is that not evident? My goodness, how are you going to be king one day?"" He stands and lights another candle with the pre-existing one on the side table. "And Ani, you are not five– should you not know any better? You are going to fall ill and die."

Orange and yellow sparks fly away into nothing, the burn of wood engulfing her nose. Hot tea shocks the base of her hand. The fire adds to the tears forming in her eyes. Her bodice sticks to her arms.

"I shall give you all privacy," Lucas says. Soon, the doors shut.

Those raging eyes back in the garden– they were ready to murder. He tried so hard to ruin every inch in her– to crush her into nothing. Muffles of questions and banters from her brothers create ringing in her ears. And a thought. What if he's gone? Never able to ruin or hurt her again.

She turns around, looking at Caspen. "I want to kill him. Father."