The Duke's Estate — Birna's Chamber
Birna's wide eyes swam with bitter resentment. She had come seeking solace, yet her mother offered only reproach.
"Grandmother seized what was rightfully mine and pressed it into that creature's hands. How can you possibly take her side?"
Catherine pressed slender fingers against her throbbing temples. Forging understanding in her daughter's stubborn little mind seemed a labor more Herculean than orchestrating the conspiracy itself.
"And now Grandmother decrees I must address her as 'Princess Medea'—not 'sister'! Can you fathom such absurdity? Am I to bow and scrape before some half-blood whelp?"
"Why is a display of deference in public so onerous? It is merely temporary."
Catherine softened her tone, attempting to soothe.
"You will become this nation's Princess in due course. How long can Medea possibly cling to that seat?"
"Precisely!"
Birna's voice pitched upward, shrill as a cracked bell.
"It is mine by right! When Father ascends to the throne, why should that lowborn girl presume to claim what belongs to me? Why should I—"
"Birna!"
Catherine's shout cracked through the room like a lash.
"You will never utter such words beyond these walls. Do you understand me?"
"Mother...?"
"Have you spoken thus before? To anyone? Even within the palace?"
Birna's eyes flew wide with alarm; she shook her head in frantic denial.
"One careless syllable from your lips could bring everything we have built crashing down around us."
Catherine's fingers bit into her daughter's shoulders, hard enough to bruise.
"Do precisely as I instruct, and I shall deliver all of it into your hands. Everything. Do you comprehend?"
Her mother's gaze blazed with a predator's intensity—a hawk fixed upon its prey.
"Well? Answer me, Birna!"
Birna's teeth sank into her lower lip. She nodded. Only then did Catherine's iron grip relent.
"Retire early. Tomorrow, the moment the palace gates part, you will prostrate yourself before your grandmother and beg her forgiveness."
The door swung shut with the finality of a tomb sealing.
Left alone, Birna clenched her fists until her nails carved crescents into her palms.
Duke Claudio's Study
Exiting Birna's chamber, Catherine released a long, weary breath. She had concluded that stitching her daughter's pretty mouth closed would prove swifter than reasoning with that petulant, unyielding mind.
She found her husband in his study, crumpling parchment in white-knuckled fists.
"What has occurred?"
"Mother has summoned Montega to the capital."
"The Margrave of Montega?"
Catherine's brow creased.
Count Montega was Claudio's distant cousin—related in the third degree—and a long-established pillar of the extended royal family, wielding considerable influence within the palace's inner circles.
"Mother grows ever more suspicious of us. She seeks reinforcements."
"Montega always favored your brother over you."
More than favor—he had shown the late Crown Prince a respect and loyalty he never extended to his living cousin.
Duke Claudio's jaw tightened at the memory, old wounds reopening.
"Then his daughter will champion Medea's cause as well. My love, if the Count lends that girl his support, our position grows vastly more precarious."
Because Medea would no longer stand alone—a candle guttering in the dark. She would have a shield.
"Damn it all! Public sentiment already rallies behind her!"
He hurled the bundle of parchment across the study; pages scattered like startled doves.
"Darling, calm yourself."
"Since Quiggin's death, the whispers in the streets have shifted like wind. They pity Medea as though their own child had been persecuted!"
This tide could not be permitted to rise.
To the populace, Medea must remain a witch who drained the lifeblood of her subjects and squandered the kingdom's coffers on frivolity. The harm wrought by the Princess must appear so grievous that rebellion became not merely justified, but inevitable.
Only then could Claudio emerge as the savior who rescued a crumbling realm—and rightfully claimed Valdina's throne.
She must exist solely as the spark that ignited the powder keg of revolution.
"What if they discover Medea bore no responsibility for the corruption?"
The people could never learn that the kingdom's rot stemmed not from a young Princess, but from venal officials nestled in Claudio's own camp.
"This is intolerable. If matters continue on this course—"
Duke Claudio paced the room like a caged lion, muscles coiled with barely contained fury.
"Do not fret, my love. Your power remains formidable."
Catherine glided to his side, her hands working the knotted tension from his shoulders.
"The Minister of the Court stands with you. So long as the palace remains firmly in your grasp, victory is assured."
Her voice flowed like warmed honey; her touch gentled his frayed nerves by slow degrees.
"If public opinion troubles you, redirect their gaze. As ever, the dull and witless masses believe only what is paraded before their eyes."
Catherine's tone was silk over steel.
"As for Count Montega—dismiss him from your thoughts. We shall move before he arrives."
"How?"
"If he wishes to champion Medea's cause, we need only demonstrate that she is unworthy of his allegiance."
He studied his wife's face, still lovely despite the passage of years. Theirs had been an arranged union, yet she had been society's most coveted bloom in her season—beauty, lineage, breeding, all in perfect alignment.
He had never doubted that, unlike his elder brother who squandered his heart on a wandering dancer, he had chosen the superior match.
"What do you propose?"
Catherine's smile unfurled, radiant and razor-edged.
"A banquet to celebrate Medea's recovery. The poor child has suffered such misfortune of late."
A celebration so grand, so dazzlingly extravagant, that it seared itself into every watching eye—ensuring such tragedy never befell her again.
"Ah, brilliant."
The Duke's gaze kindled with comprehension.
"It honors Medea. Mother cannot possibly object."
The starving populace, even Count Montega racing from the frontier—all would witness the Princess reveling in splendor, draped in gold and obscene luxury, while their bellies gnawed with hunger.
"You are beyond compare."
Catherine rested her head against the Duke's shoulder, her profile exquisite in the candlelight.
"Whatever would you do without me? As always, I shall be your shield."
Her expression remained flawlessly composed—the perfect mask of noble breeding, smooth as porcelain and just as cold.
Count Etienne's Estate
Raised voices and the crash of shattering porcelain echoed from behind the sealed study door. At last, a servant emerged.
Those who had been hovering anxiously outside surged forward.
"Umberto, are you unharmed?"
"Good heavens, your clothes are soaked through! The Minister again... Here, dry yourself quickly."
Crimson wine stains spread across his chest in ugly blossoms, soaking the fox badge pinned above his heart.
Umberto, Count Etienne's personal attendant, was a young man with shrewd, narrow eyes that missed little.
"I am well enough. The master is merely out of temper today."
Umberto dabbed at his brow with a proffered napkin, though every soul present knew Etienne's black moods were hardly confined to a single afternoon.
Among the Count's rapidly revolving staff, Umberto alone had survived dismissal and remained at his master's side—a feat that invited whispered speculation.
"I cannot fathom this recent frenzy. He was always self-indulgent, but of late it seems demons have burrowed into his skull."
One of the maids muttered.
The servants shook their heads in weary commiseration. Umberto suppressed a bitter smile.
"Umberto, return to your quarters and rest. I shall manage matters from here."
Only the butler, privy to the household's darker secrets, dismissed him with a knowing nod.
Once alone in his small chamber, Umberto hurled the wine-stained handkerchief away in disgust.
Of course he rages. He has no outlet for his appetites.
Since the death of former Head Maid Quiggin, the Minister had been confined to his estate, avoiding the watchful gaze of her successor, Pinatelli.
Unable to frequent the pleasure districts or procure his usual "diversions," he had taken to venting his fury upon the staff like a beast denied its prey.
"How much longer must I endure this degradation?"
Umberto froze.
A small slip of paper protruded from the warped window frame.
[ Umberto, I know your secret. ]
He spun, gaze raking every corner of the room.
Dust lay undisturbed upon the sill. No marks scarred the exterior walls. The sun had not yet dipped below the horizon, and with no other soul in the servants' wing, the silence pressed against his ears like a held breath...
"What fool would stage so pointless a jest?"
He crumpled the note and flung it through the window into the evening air.
But the following day—
[ Red Fox. Will you continue to ignore me? ]
Umberto could not discard this new missive, wedged beneath his door like a knife slipped between ribs.
"Who has been entering my room? I expressly stated I would see to my own cleaning!"
The head maid regarded him with mingled surprise and bewilderment at his uncharacteristic agitation.
"What nonsense is this? Every hand has been occupied scrubbing the mansion from cellar to attic to soothe the master's temper. No one possesses leisure for the servants' quarters."
"I am telling you someone was here! If you doubt me, post a guard outside my door—day and night!"
Security at Count Etienne's residence was exceptionally stringent. With the Count's sordid secrets concealed throughout, unauthorized entry was all but impossible.
To breach such defenses and deposit messages at will meant the intruder was no common trespasser.
Umberto grew so consumed by paranoia that he claimed illness, spending his days in feverish pursuit of the note's origin. But to his mounting dread, he unearthed nothing—no clues, no trails, no shadows out of place.
"It must be coincidence. There is no conceivable way they could know who I truly am..."
His fingers worried the fox badge at his breast.
"Umberto, have you recovered? The Minister inquired after you repeatedly during your absence."
Several days later, having discovered nothing of substance, Umberto returned to the palace. Though not formally counted among palace staff, as Etienne's personal servant he was obliged to accompany his master within those gilded walls.
Yet when he arrived at the minister's office, an identical note lay centered upon the desk, waiting like a patient spider.
This one was scrawled with a chaotic tangle of letters, numerals, and cryptic symbols—a cipher, or a taunt, or both.
Umberto seized the parchment with trembling, bloodless fingers.
How? How is this possible within the palace itself...?
Someone wasn't merely watching.
They were already inside.
The Hunt Begins Plots within plots.
Traps within traps.
Cannot Hide
To Be Continued
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