The Poisoned Throne

Chapter 43

Evelyn

She certainly looked a Queen. Perhaps too much; perhaps it would lead to a misunderstanding. These days, it seemed almost anything could lead to misunderstandings.

The gown she had chosen to wear for court was one of her own, old ones that she had left behind when she fled the city years before. The bodice was tight around her now trained torso, yet it still fit. Her arms, too, had swelled with strength and the sleeves had to be adjusted. She had grown taller, too, but her handmaiden was very capable and managed to make the dress sweep over the floor.

And Evelyn was more than grateful for it; she remembered this particular dress as one of her favorites. It was made by some of the finest silk in all the world, and the richness of the burgundy was unlike anything she had seen. She remembered being fascinated by the intricacy of the embroideries; the twirls and shapes and tiny flowers that created the bold, rectangular panels of the skirts; the spider’s net of pearls and threat on the bodice, beneath the cascades of white from her underdress; the circles around her arms on the sleeves. 

Yes, she did look like a Queen. But then I always did, she thought.

The castle had filled in the past days, and so had every single tavern and inn in the city. With the end of war and coming of a new, long awaited reign, it seemed that the world gravitated towards the capital of Etheron. Lords and ladies of every rank flocked in the corridors of Westhall, speaking amongst themselves of what would possibly happen next. 

But on this day, this particular day, the hallways were eerily empty. Evelyn’s steps resonated in the walls as she walked to the throne room. However, when she reached the door - the back door; the door she had entered through the day she killed Elizabeth - she could hear the voices of a full court even through the thick wooded plank. 

For a moment, she just stood there. Her hand hovered in the air, like a held breath, a gesture for the servant to not yet open the door. She closed her eyes, remembering the last time she had been here. That had been the infamous trial where Elizabeth had taken the power of the throne into her own hands. When she rode under the ports of the capital city, she had sworn revenge; she had known in her heart that one day, she would have it, but she always imagine she would feel triumphant. There was triumph in this moment, but no feeling. 

She nodded her head, folding her hands before her, and then the doors opened. 

“Presenting Royal Princess Evelyn, of Houses Turell and Lamarck, representative of Her Grace, the Queen,” the presenter bellowed, and silence fell over the court - but only for a second, of course. Evelyn’s steps could be heard over the whispers as she walked up the stairs to stand in front of the throne. She never sat down; that was a line she, of all people, could not cross.

Below her, there was seemingly an ocean of faces. Her stomach tightened and tears rose to her eyes as she was reminded of the day of the executions. There was something so crippling about it, the memory of imminent death, and she felt starving and sick all at once. Her bones became weak and her limbs trembled. 

“My lords, my ladies,” she said, straightening her back so that her voice would carry despite the lump in her throat. “I carry a message from your gracious Queen, that she has traveled south to meet with her husband, who was sadly injured in the Battle at the Branches. She begs your forgiveness for her absence in these crucial hours, but assures that she will return soon. When she does, she will at once work for peace and united Etheron.”

She took a moment to breathe before continuing, “I know that the questions lingering on your tongue are all regarding one man. I did not, in person, know Ambassador Alfred Padille, but I know that he surprised my sister as much as he did the rest of you. Even his own sister was thrown in the dungeons. It is yet to be clear who, if anyone, knew of his schemes, and we will keep you informed.”