Chapter 5 – The Library Incident
The Grand Library of Saintess Lilia Academy was supposed to be neutral ground.
Three storeys of mahogany and gold, ladders on brass rails, air that smelled of dust and old spells. No blades allowed past the marble threshold (wards hummed against steel the way cats hiss at dogs). Even the nobility left their ornamental swords at the door.
Which made it the perfect stage for a public execution without blood.
I knew it the moment Evelyn's schedule appeared on the notice board:
"Afternoon tea and joint study session with Saintess Lilia and selected ladies, hosted by His Highness Prince Cedric."
Translation: a second, slower crucifixion, this time with books instead of nails.
Evelyn read the notice without expression, then folded it once and slipped it into her sleeve like a death warrant.
"Do you wish to refuse?" I asked quietly in the corridor.
She gave a tiny, bitter smile. "Refusal would be taken as admission of guilt. We go."
So we went.
The library's central atrium had been rearranged: one long table draped in white damask, silver candelabras, crystal vases overflowing with white lilies (Lilia's signature flower). Twenty noble daughters already seated, eyes bright with anticipation.
Prince Cedric stood at the head like a benevolent god in pale blue velvet, golden hair catching the light from the stained-glass dome. Saintess Lilia sat at his right, soft blonde curls, watery blue eyes, hands folded in her lap like a painting titled Innocence Betrayed.
When Evelyn entered, every head turned. The silence was absolute.
Cedric's smile was warm, regal, and utterly poisonous.
"Lady Evelyn, we are honored. Please, take the seat we saved for you."
Directly across from Lilia. In the centre of the table. Nowhere to hide.
I took my place standing behind Evelyn's chair (close enough to catch her if she fell, far enough that protocol was satisfied).
Tea was served. Tiny sandwiches no one touched.
Cedric lifted a leather-bound book (The Chronicles of Saintess Lysithea the First) and began to read aloud a passage about kindness and forgiveness.
While he read, Lilia dabbed at completely dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.
When Cedric closed the book, he looked straight at Evelyn.
"Perhaps, Lady Evelyn, you might share with us how the saintess's teachings have guided you in your recent… difficulties."
Every gaze pinned her like butterflies to cork.
I felt Evelyn's shoulders stiffen under the black lace of her dress.
She opened her mouth (I braced for the cutting reply that would damn her further).
Before a word left her lips, Lilia rose with a tiny gasp.
"Oh no—my inkwell!"
She bumped the table deliberately. The crystal inkwell toppled, rolled, and spilled a thick river of black across the white cloth—straight toward Evelyn's lap.
Time slowed.
In the original novel this was the moment: Evelyn shoves Lilia away "in a fit of rage," ink splashes the saintess's white dress, witnesses scream, the final nail is hammered into the coffin of her reputation.
I moved before thought.
I stepped forward, caught the inkwell mid-roll with my left hand, and let the entire contents pour across my chest instead.
Black ink soaked through the grey maid's dress in a blooming stain.
I did not flinch.
Then (because I am, at heart, a bastard), I bowed low.
"Clumsy me," I said, voice soft and apologetic. "How dreadful. Please forgive this worthless servant for getting in the way of the saintess's accident."
Lilia's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
The entire table stared.
Cedric's mask slipped for the first time (a flicker of genuine irritation).
Evelyn's hand, hidden beneath the table, found my skirt and gripped hard enough to bruise.
I remained bowed, ink dripping from my apron onto the priceless carpet.
One of the ladies whispered, "Did the maid just… call it an accident on purpose?"
Another: "She took the ink meant for Lady Evelyn…"
Cedric recovered first, smile snapping back into place.
"How devoted," he said lightly. "Though perhaps Lady Evelyn might teach her servants not to interrupt noble gatherings."
Evelyn rose slowly. Ink still dripped from my sleeves, but her voice was winter steel.
"On the contrary, Your Highness. I find my maid's timing impeccable."
She turned to Lilia, eyes glittering like broken glass.
"Tell me, saintess, do your hands always tremble so when you hold an inkwell? Or only when you aim for someone's future?"
Lilia burst into tears (perfect, crystalline, theatrical tears).
Cedric stood at once, the very picture of chivalrous outrage.
"Lady Evelyn, that is enough. You will apologise to the saintess at once."
Evelyn smiled (small, terrible, beautiful).
"Certainly, Your Highness. When she apologises for murdering my father."
The library went dead silent.
Cedric's face drained of colour.
Because he understood, in that moment, that Evelyn had just said it aloud (the thing no one in six years had dared).
Six years ago the prince had needed the northern duchies' support for his claim to the throne. Duke Aldric de Clermont had proof that Cedric's mother, the queen, was poisoning rivals. Aldric threatened to expose it unless Cedric broke the northern alliances and kept the empire at bay.
So Cedric arranged a storm, a tower, and a fourteen-year-old girl who watched her father fall four storeys while her fiancé held her hand and whispered, "It is for the good of the kingdom."
And when she screamed, he told the court she was hysterical with grief.
That was the beginning.
The rest (the slow campaign to paint Evelyn as cruel, unstable, unworthy) was simply insurance.
Insurance that now had ink on its hands and a maid standing in the way.
I straightened, ink dripping from my chin, and met Cedric's eyes for the first time.
He saw what I was.
Not a maid.
A loaded crossbow pointed directly at his heart.
Evelyn sat down again, calm as a queen.
"Shall we continue the reading, Your Highness?" she asked sweetly. "I believe the next chapter is about wolves in shepherd's clothing."
Cedric's fingers twitched toward the sword he wasn't allowed to wear.
I smiled (small, polite, promising murder).
The library's silence stretched until it screamed.
Round three, Your Highness.
Check.