Gisela stepped down from the carriage, the hem of her travelling dress whispering against the worn stone of the palace courtyard. Lines of royal guards stood at stiff attention on either side, their polished armor catching the flat, grey light of the English sky. Before her, the palace ascended—a formidable expanse of pale stone, its high arches and tall, leaded windows holding reflections of the clouds. It did not invite; it loomed. An ancient fortress, not a home.
From the simpler carriage behind, Hilda emerged, her figure diminutive beside the ornate royal coach adorned with gilded filigree and carved emblems of lions and lilies.
"Welcome to England, my dear."
The voice was composed, elegant. Queen Caroline, Dowager of the realm, stood waiting. She was a vision of cultivated power: a gown of deep sapphire silk, intricately embroidered with silver thread, a mantle of pristine white ermine draped over her shoulders. Her pale hair, woven with strands of dignified silver, was arranged in an elaborate coiffure secured by pearls and a slender gold circlet. She was polished to an impossible sheen, graceful, and utterly remote.
She extended a hand, laying it lightly over Gisela's. The touch was soft, ostensibly kind.
Gisela did not speak. She remained perfectly still, her face a serene, unreadable mask.
The Queen's lips twitched—the ghost of a scoff—before settling into a smooth, practiced smile that never touched her cool eyes.
"Your eyes are quite unusual," she remarked, her gaze conducting a slow, thorough inspection. "A most singular color."
Gisela inclined her head a fraction, offering no reply.
"And you carry yourself well," the Queen continued, the pleasant tone laced with an undercurrent of sharp appraisal. "There is a certain… fortitude in your posture. I expect you will manage the duties of queen adequately."
A faint tightness coiled beneath Gisela's ribs, but her expression did not waver.
"I am sure my son will be… pleased," the Queen added, her tone dipping into a wistfulness that rang hollow.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Gisela replied, her voice low but clear.
Queen Caroline turned with a rustle of heavy silk toward her attendants. "Show the Princess the grounds," she instructed, the order polite, final, and utterly dismissive.
As the maids curtsied and approached, Gisela cast one swift glance back at Hilda. Her companion met her eyes and gave a single, slight nod.
Then, Gisela turned and followed the maids into the vast, echoing heart of the English palace.
---
They left her eventually, but two guards immediately fell into step behind her, their boot heels striking the marble floor in a synchronized tap that echoed through the corridor. She could feel their presence like a weight between her shoulder blades.
"Leave me. I wish to walk alone," Gisela said, not bothering to turn.
"My lady, our orders are to accompany—"
"No," she interrupted, her voice firm. "Go. I require solitude."
They hesitated, then bowed in unison and retreated, their footsteps fading into the labyrinth of halls.
She released a slow breath, the sound disproportionately loud in the newfound quiet.
Alone at last, she wandered deeper into the older, more silent wing. The walls were lined with portraits—stern-faced men and severe women staring from centuries past. She paused, her fingertips drifting over the gilded frame of one painting, tracing the fine, spider-webbed cracks in the ancient varnish. For a fleeting moment, something like a smile touched her lips as she wondered about the lives sealed beneath the layers of oil and dust.
She moved on. The air grew still and cool, carrying the venerable scent of cold stone and old beeswax. Then she heard it—a soft, rhythmic slap of skin, a low gasp bitten short. It was unmistakable. A sharp, unwelcome curiosity drew her forward.
The sounds led her to a heavy oak door, left slightly ajar. Beyond lay the palace library, a cavernous space where towering shelves vanished into shadow. She pushed the door wider; the hinge uttered a low, groaning protest.
Inside, in a slant of mote-filled light from a high window, two bodies were entangled across a massive reading table. A woman, her face obscured by a tumble of brown hair, was bent forward, her knuckles white where she gripped the table's edge. A man moved behind her with a rough, driving rhythm, his hands locked on her hips. Leather-bound volumes and unrolled scrolls lay shoved aside, forgotten.
"Ahhh," the woman cried out, the sound raw and unguarded.
"Please… don't stop," she gasped, the plea fragmenting into soft, ragged moans.
He did not stop. He fisted a hand in her hair, wrenching her head back, and drove into her with renewed force. Sweat gleamed along the muscles of his back. Then his other hand shifted, closing around her throat, squeezing just enough to steal her breath. Her body tensed, a choked struggle, as he pistoned into her, relentless.
Gisela jerked backward, her heart hammering against her sternum. But the image was already seared into her mind: the stark strain on the man's face, the woman's suffocated sounds. It was violently, disgustingly vivid.
She leaned against the cold stone of the corridor wall, her cheeks burning with a flush of profound revulsion.
"Disgusting," she whispered into the stillness. "Servants… acting like animals in the field. No shame. No decency." Her voice hardened, turning to ice. "Even here. In a place meant for quiet and thought."
She straightened her dress, lifting her chin as if donning invisible armor. "When I am Queen," she vowed quietly, the words for herself alone, "I will not permit this. Not anywhere."
She walked away quickly, her slippers whispering over the stone. She did not know where she was going—only that she had to move, to put distance between herself and that crude, breathing memory. A hot, restless anger, sharp and confusing, pulsed through her veins. Her feet carried her faster, through archways and past silent suits of armor whose hollow gazes seemed to mock her turmoil.
"Gisela… Gisela!"
The voice cut through the haze in her mind, pulling her back as if from deep water. She blinked, startled.
"Yes?" she stammered, turning to find Hilda before her, concern etched into her familiar features.
"The wedding," Hilda said, her voice low but urgent. "It is time. We must get you ready. Come quickly."
Wordlessly, Gisela followed, allowing herself to be led back through the maze of corridors, the phantom sounds slowly receding beneath the steady drum of her own heartbeat.
---
They entered a grand bedroom appointed for a royal bride. The chamber was vast, with a ceiling painted with faded scenes of cherubs adrift in cloudy skies. Heavy velvet drapes, the color of clotted blood, framed a canopied bed, and a large fireplace of blackened stone stood cold and empty on one wall. The air hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of rosewater and beeswax.
Lying across the bed like a fallen cloud was the wedding gown—a cascade of white silk so flawless it seemed to emit its own light. Delicate golden strips, like captured sunbeams, were slashed across the fabric. On the marble floor beside it lay the kirtle, a boned and structured under-layer designed to mold and confine.
A flock of maids descended the moment she entered, their hands fluttering around her like unsettled birds. They were everywhere—unpinning her day dress, brushing her hair with brisk strokes, their touches efficient and impersonal. Their collective silence was oppressive, their movements unsettling in their clinical precision, as if she were a mannequin being assembled for display.
They guided her before a tall, gold-framed mirror. The reflection that stared back was a stranger: a pale, sharp-boned face framed by elaborately braided hair, the white kirtle already laced tightly around her torso like a sculpted cage.
Then came the dress. The heavy silk whispered over her skin, cool and suffocating. She felt Hilda's hands at her back, grasping the laces.
Tighter.
Then tighter still.
The breath fled her lungs in a shallow, desperate gasp. The bodice compressed her ribs, squeezing until dark spots danced at the edges of her vision. Her breasts were forced upward and together, half-spilling over the constructed neckline in a manner that felt brazen and exposed.
"E-enough," she struggled to utter, the words thin and airless. "Stop."
But Hilda gave one final, firm tug, the lace biting viciously into her flesh. "It must be perfect," Hilda murmured, her voice close to Gisela's ear, stripped of its customary warmth. "They are waiting."
In the mirror, the stranger's eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed from the lack of air. She was no longer a woman. She was an artifact—laced, packaged, and presented, ready for the ceremony.