Blueprint

9: Hungover in a City of Idiots

Morning sunlight made its way cheerfully into her room, through the windows, through the curtains — she was certain it might've even been coming from the floorboards.

"Your highness! Are you nearly awake, madame?"

Jharvelle groaned, rolling over in her expensive bedding and throwing her arms out to the side. It wasn't every morning that she was woken by servants, but each morning they did wake her, she was less than pleased.

"What is it?" She yelled, sounding hardly royal as a mild headache pushed itself into her brain.

"His Majesty would like to speak with you," the servant went on, "I'm to escort you to the throne room."

"I don't need any escorting," Jharvelle grumbled, but not loudly enough for the servant to hear through the door, and slid carefully out of bed. She threw open her wardrobe with far less care, eyes glancing over each beautifully green dress before she landed on the one that would take the least time to put on.

It was a beautiful dress, if simple compared to the rest of her wardrobe. It was meant to be paired with a shawl, but she liked having her shoulders exposed, especially in the warmer months, so she left it as it was after pulling it on.

"Your high— oh," the servant began, her hand curled into a fist inches away from where the door would've been. "Are you certain you want to... wear... that?"

"Why?" Jharvelle crossed her arms, "Is there an issue?"

"Of course not," the woman replied, stumbling over her words - and her skirt - while she hurriedly turned around.

Jharvelle huffed quietly before setting off after the servant.

She didn't know what time it was - somewhere between 8 in the morning and 2 in the evening would be her guess - but it still felt far too early to be meandering about the castle. She'd been under the impression that it would be a lazy day, what with her mother being somewhere else on the Isle and her father occupying himself with the goings-on of Wallendia. And yet, there she was, trotting after some servant girl with a decidedly angered look on her face.

The throne room was not foreign to her, and yet, it made her uncomfortable. She never had liked it much. It made her parents out to be gods with how each seat was positioned. Today only one of the two thrones was filled - that one by her father - and the strange absence of a second god only added to the rooms eeriness.

"You wanted to see me?" She asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning as the servant made her way out the door.

"I did," her father replied, resting his head on a large, burly hand. "Jharvelle, darling, do you happen to recall the very clear statement I made a week ago?"

"You're going to boil the inventor alive if he doesn't get a move on with your air boats?" She tried, resting her hands on her hips.

Her father blinked before clearing his throat. "No. In regards to you, Jharvelle."

"Oh! You want me to sit and rot in my room."

The king sighed and pressed his hand against his brow. "Jharvelle, you know I only care for your safety. I'm very glad for Astrid and her guards, but not every Wallendian spy gets weeded out. You could get hurt."

"Sure," Jharvelle replied, "it's not fair. Not a single one's gotten anywhere near the castle."

"Jharvelle," he said in a firm tone, "do you have any clue what happened to inventor Alantar last night?"

Jharvelle felt her heart skip a beat.

She didn't know what happened to Amari last night.

She hadn't blacked out - fuzzy and drunk, sure, but she could still remember the whole of the night - and yet, somehow, she had no clue what he was talking about.