Living in royalty can't be so bad, right? But... what if you're not technically royal?
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In late eighteenth century Europe, nestled in eastern France, is a peaceful kingdom called Totresia. A carriage wreck disturbs that peace when found by Totr...
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To say she never expected to be Queen would be a lie.
She never anticipated beating the beloved Marguerite to thiscrown, but Adelaide had a sense of royalty. It coursed in her veins—the poise, the grace, the vocabulary. She always knew someday, she'd have rubies on her head and jewels falling down her milky neck; maids and ladies at her beck-and-call, men to fawn over her beauty. A wondrous throne to sit upon.
Alone in her quarters, she sucked in a deep breath of the vanilla-scented candles burning on her dresser. Red threads dripped from her shoulders, her fingertips, her hips. Shimmering satins and soft velvets covered her from head to toe, concealing constricting bustiers and wide hoops. Her wedding dress blanketed her figure like the most decadent fur glove—fit for a Queen, its patterns elaborate, and its decolletage sure to attract heaps of ogling courtiers.
She twirled, admiring her figure in the floor-to-ceiling mirror—the onlything in the demure, understated room that she'd keep. The depressing navies and dreary slates would become bright crimsons and boisterous scarlets, and she'd switch out the faded water-color landscapes for canvases of French Kings and heroes. And that dreadful portrait of former King Edouard—oh, that had to go. She'd already enlisted a handful of page-boys to transport it to her dear King's rooms where it would be better suited.
She sighed, shoulders drooping as she realized she had little to decorate her new quarters, aside from the belongings her father permitted her to bring. Her chambers on the guest floor were more modest, and though she had a myriad of gowns—which would fit in all the wardrobes, thank the Heavens—she had few items she treasured. Few possessions, few admirers, few friends.
"You are too vain, Adelaide," a lady in her father's entourage once told her. She was twelve at the time, young and vulnerable and throwing tantrums to get what she wanted. Some thought it to be due to the shock of losing her mother that same year; others called her spoiled rotten.
That ladies' words haunted her for years to come, but she did nothing to change her attitude; instead, she intensifiedit. She used her vanity to win favors and entice nobles to invite her to private aristocratic parties.
"Cease your narcissism!" her father said more than once, impatient with the complaints several in his staff had made of her. "Quit the bratty performances, would you? I love you, I do; but you cannot presume to live your life like this!"
Such comments from him only worsened her desire to act out. As an only child, she received no punishment when she rebelled. And she didn't later, when she frolicked with foreign dignitaries and ambassadors visiting her father. Or when she scampered off on night-outings with daughters of her father's business associates. She never hesitated to steal from the mansion's alcohol reserves, to entertain the guests she snuck home.
Yet despite his yelling, her father, the knighted Lord of Avignon, respected by Général Napoléon himself let her get away with everything.
At least, until her eighteenth birthday. When he started alliances with new men who had grand ideas to transform Avignon into something bigger, more noticeable by the Versailles court. When he received different advice: stop spoiling his daughter and put her to good use.
