Gisela stepped down from the carriage, her dress brushing the stone of the palace courtyard. Lines of guards stood stiffly on either side, their armor gleaming dully in the overcast light. The palace rose ahead—a mass of pale stone, high arches, and tall windows reflecting the grey sky. It felt less like a home and more like a fortress, ancient and cold.
Behind her, Hilda climbed out of the simpler second carriage, looking small beside the ornate royal one with its gold leaf and carvings.
"Welcome to England, my dear."
The voice belonged to Queen Caroline, widow of the late king. She stood waiting, poised and perfect in a deep blue gown embroidered with silver. A white fur wrap draped her shoulders, and her pale hair was pinned up with pearls. She looked every inch the queen—polished, graceful, and utterly untouchable.
She reached out and laid her hand lightly over Gisela's. Her touch was soft, almost kind.
Gisela didn't speak. She stayed still, face carefully blank.
The Queen's lips twitched—almost a scoff—before settling into a smooth, practiced smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Your eyes are quite unusual," she said, studying Gisela closely. "A rare color."
Gisela dipped her head slightly but said nothing.
"And you carry yourself well. There's a strength in your posture. I expect you'll manage the duties of queen adequately." Her words were pleasant, but underneath ran a current of something else—assessment, maybe judgment.
Gisela felt a faint tightness in her chest but kept her expression neutral.
"I'm sure my son will be pleased," the Queen added, her tone wistful yet hollow.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Gisela replied, her voice low but clear.
The Queen turned toward her attendants. "Show the Princess around the grounds," she said, the order polite but dismissive.
As the maids approached, Gisela glanced back at Hilda. Her companion met her eyes and gave a small, reassuring nod.
Then Gisela followed the maids into the vast, echoing palace.
---
They left her eventually, but two guards fell into step behind her, their boots tapping a steady rhythm on the marble floor. She could feel them there—a constant, silent presence at her back.
"Leave me. I'd like to walk alone," Gisela said, not turning around.
"My lady, we're meant to accompany—"
"No," she cut in, her voice firm. "Go. I want to be alone."
They hesitated, then bowed and retreated, their footsteps fading down the hall.
She let out a slow breath, the sound loud in the sudden quiet.
Alone at last, she wandered deeper into the older part of the palace. The walls were lined with portraits—stern-faced men and stiff-looking women staring out from another time. She paused and ran her fingers over the frame of one painting, tracing the fine cracks in the varnish. For a moment, she almost smiled, wondering about the lives trapped under that layer of oil and dust.
She moved on. The air grew still and cool, smelling of old stone and wax. Then she heard it—a soft, rhythmic sound, like skin on skin, and a low gasp, quickly muffled. It was unmistakable. Curiosity, sharp and sudden, pulled her forward.
The sound led her to a heavy oak door, slightly open. Beyond it was the palace library, tall shelves disappearing into shadow. She pushed the door a little wider; the hinge groaned softly.
Inside, in a slant of dusty light from a high window, two people were tangled together on a large reading table. A woman, her face hidden by a fall of brown hair, was bent forward, gripping the edge. A man moved behind her with a rough, urgent rhythm, his hands gripping her hips. Books were shoved aside, lying forgotten.
"Ahhh," the woman cried out, her voice rough.
"Please… don't stop," she gasped, the words breaking into soft, ragged moans.
He didn't. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, and moved harder, faster. Sweat glistened on his back. Then his hand went to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her struggle for air as he drove into her, relentless.
Gisela jerked back, heart pounding. But the image was already burned into her mind—the man's strained face, the woman's choked sounds. It felt too vivid, too raw.
She leaned against the cold stone wall in the corridor, her cheeks hot with disgust.
"Disgusting," she whispered into the quiet. " Servants...Acting like animals. No shame, no decency." Her voice hardened. "Even here. In a place meant for quiet and thought."
She straightened her dress, lifting her chin as if readying herself for something unseen. "When I'm Queen," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone, "I won't allow this. Not anywhere."
She walked away quickly, her slippers whispering against the stone. She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to move, to put distance between herself and that vulgar, breathing memory. A hot, restless anger pulsed through her, sharp and confusing. Why did it bother her so much? She didn't know, but her feet carried her on, faster, through archways and past silent suits of armor, their hollow gazes seeming to mock her turmoil.
"Gisela… Gisela!"
The voice cut through the haze in her mind, pulling her out like a hand reaching into dark water. She blinked, startled.
"Yes?" she stammered, turning to find Hilda standing before her, concern etched on her familiar face.
"The wedding," Hilda said, her voice low but urgent. "It's time. We must get you ready. Come quickly."
Wordlessly, Gisela followed, letting herself be led back through the maze of corridors, the phantom sounds slowly fading beneath the beat of her own heart.
---
They entered a grand bedroom fit for a royal bride. The room was vast, with ceilings painted with faded scenes of cherubs and clouds. Heavy velvet drapes the color of dried blood hung around a canopied bed, and a large fireplace stood cold and dark on one wall. The air smelled of rosewater and beeswax, too sweet and too still.
Lying across the bed was the wedding gown—a spectacle of white silk so flawless it seemed to glow. It was slashed with delicate golden strips that caught the grey light from the tall windows. On the marble floor beside it lay the kirtle, a structured under-layer meant to shape and confine.
A flock of maids descended upon her the moment she entered, their hands fluttering like moths. They were everywhere—undoing her day dress, brushing her hair, their touches quick and impersonal. Their silence felt heavy, their efficient movements unsettling, as if she were a doll being prepared for display.
They guided her to stand before a tall, gold-framed mirror. The reflection that stared back was a stranger. A pale, sharp-boned face crowned with elaborately braided hair. The white kirtle was laced tight around her torso, a rigid cage.
Then came the dress. The heavy silk settled over her, cool and suffocating. She felt Hilda's hands at her back, pulling the laces.
Tighter.
Then tighter still.
The breath left her lungs in a shallow gasp. The bodice compressed her ribs, squeezing until her vision spotted at the edges. Her breasts were forced upward, half-spilling over the neckline in a way that felt indecent, exposed.
"E-enough," she struggled to say, the words thin and airless. "Stop."
But Hilda gave one final, firm tug, the lace biting deep. "It must be perfect," Hilda murmured, her voice close to Gisela's ear, devoid of its usual warmth. "They are waiting."
In the mirror, the stranger's eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed from lack of air. She was no longer a woman—she was an artifact,laced and packaged, ready for the ceremony.