Chapter 20
Vidalia knocked softly on the door before entering without waiting for an answer.
The room was bathed in light, the curtains drawn wide to let in the golden rays of morning. At the center, Angela reigned—gauze skirt wrapped around her waist, hair loose—surrounded by her devoted attendants. Three young noblewomen, their smiles sharp as blades.
Clara, the eldest, leaned forward slightly to admire her mistress.
"Miss, you would look absolutely radiant in sun-yellow… Or perhaps sky blue? It would make your eyes shine like jewels."
Angela smiled, satisfied, then turned her face slightly toward Lynn, another young lady whose eyes glimmered with adoration.
"Oh, and that ivory dress!" Lynn exclaimed, hands clasped. "You look like an angel descended from the heavens… One would think even the clouds would fight to carry you."
Behind her veil, Vidalia rolled her eyes. Another one polishing boots all the way to the ankle.
Angela giggled, pleased, like a queen before her mirror.
"I am an angel, Lynn. An angel with a title."
Then her gaze finally snagged on Vidalia, as though she had been nothing more than forgotten furniture in a corner.
"You. Find me some accessories. Quickly. Something that sparkles, but not too much. Refined. Like me."
Vidalia inclined her head slightly, without a word, and moved toward the vanity. Her left foot already throbbed—a dull pain she had ignored since dawn. But she walked calmly, as though nothing could touch her.
She opened the jewelry box and selected a pair of fine pearl earrings, along with a necklace set with a ruby encircled in gold. Then, carefully, she took a wide hair ribbon: ivory tulle delicately embroidered with flowers in gold, green, and copper thread. The bow was airy and generous, its long trailing ends falling like hand-stitched wings.
She presented it to Angela in silence.
Angela raised an eyebrow, brushing her fingers over the fabric.
"Hm… acceptable. At least it's graceful. For once, you don't embarrass me. Tie it. Gently. If you pull my hair, I'll tear out yours."
The sun had barely reached its zenith when the manor gates swung open with ceremonial grandeur. Before the building stood the count and countess, rigid as if on parade, surrounded by servants lined up like statues. Angela stood tall between them, her smile gentle, her eyes bright with anticipation.
Hooves clattered against the cobblestones.
A carriage bearing the royal crest came to a halt before the steps. The coachman dismounted first, then opened the door in a smooth motion. The First Prince, Edgar, stepped out with effortless grace, dressed in a midnight-blue jacket embroidered with silver thread, his golden insignia gleaming on his chest.
He barely glanced at the surroundings, as though they already belonged to him.
The count bowed deeply, followed by a collective murmur from the household.
"Your Highness, it is an immeasurable honor to welcome you to our humble home."
The countess, all curtsies and affected charm, added with a practiced laugh,
"We hope the journey was not too taxing on Your Grace."
Edgar did not answer immediately. He surveyed the manor, the garden, then the faces. His gaze paused briefly on Angela.
And he smiled.
"The journey was long, yes… but the sight awaiting me here was well worth every road in the kingdom," he said, his voice velvety, perfectly measured.
Angela dipped her head, feigning modesty.
"Your Highness is too kind. We are merely servants of the Crown."
"Then your loyalty deserves reward."
The count, already melting under the flattery, nodded enthusiastically.
"You may rest assured, my lord, of our unwavering allegiance. And if a formal oath would reassure you, allow our house to swear it this very day."
Edgar waved a hand, dismissive yet polite.
"I am not here for oaths… but for a walk… and pleasant company."
He turned his attention back to Angela.
"Miss Angela. You are even more beautiful than I remember."
Angela lowered her gaze, false shyness carefully practiced.
"Your Highness flatters me… I am nothing extraordinary."
"Allow me to be the sole judge of that," he replied softly.
The count preened like a peacock.
Angela blushed. The implication made the countess glow with pride.
They were invited into the count's study, where a low table had been prepared with light refreshments.
Vidalia lingered discreetly behind the door, careful not to be seen—unable to resist the curiosity of a devoted reader watching her favorite story unfold.
The study, richly decorated with tapestries and portraits of ancestors no one had ever loved, was suffocating with provincial nobility.
Edgar settled into the main armchair, legs crossed elegantly, posture regal.
The count, stiff as a board, began in a falsely confident tone:
"Your Highness, if I may—our domain was once known for its magical crystals. A wealth now depleted, alas, but—"
Edgar raised a hand, courteous but sharp.
"No need to go so far back, Count. I am here to look toward the future."
His eyes returned to Angela, and he added with an ambiguous smile,
"And it appears most radiant."
Angela lowered her gaze, cheeks flushed, her smile victorious.
Vidalia silently suppressed a sigh. Everything was unfolding exactly as in the novel. The prince already ensnared by Angela's charms. Flattery. Performance. Hypocrisy.
The study bored Edgar to no end. Too much gold, too much faded pride, too much hollow chatter. He maintained a polite smile, but he had stopped listening. The count rambled on about former mining glories, about lands once enriched by crystals now thought lost.
None of it mattered.
But Angela…
Angela was the opposite of that tired décor. She stood poised in her ivory dress, a pastel ribbon carefully tied behind her bluish hair, pearls chiming softly at her ears and throat. She listened attentively, occasionally glancing at the prince, as if to ensure he wasn't bored.
He found her exquisite.
When they finally left the study, Edgar felt discreet relief. Angela, as though reading his thoughts, immediately suggested a tour of the manor. The prince agreed with a nod.
She led the way—gentle, compliant, yet lively in her remarks. She knew how to flatter without seeming to. She asked questions, laughed at his jokes—not too loudly, just enough to make him feel amusing.
Edgar forgot Camélia. Forgot duty. Forgot his engagement.
Camélia always had that sharp tone, that superior gaze, that way of correcting him halfway through a sentence… Nothing like Angela's charming softness. How could a man destined to marry a thorned rose not prefer a silk flower?
And Camélia had been cruel, they said. Cruel to Angela.
Unacceptable.
That alone was enough to tip the scales.
They arrived beneath the belvedere. The inner garden was elegant, fragrant, carefully maintained. A small round table draped in embroidered ivory cloth awaited them. Fine porcelain, scented tea, candied fruit—everything had been prepared.
Angela sat. Edgar followed suit. Guards lingered at a respectful distance; servants moved silently.
Among them… one.
She did not move. She did not speak. She simply stood behind Angela, like a faithful shadow.
Edgar joked about a royal hunting mishap. Angela laughed softly, tilting her head slightly, pearls catching the light.
And then—he looked away.
And saw her.
A veiled girl, excessively discreet. A fine lace cloth hid her face, yet Edgar felt his gaze snag on her silhouette like a hook. He did not know why. She was just a servant. A silent child. Nothing compared to Angela.
And yet… she was there.
Still. Like an image placed amid the living.
Then the wind stirred—light, almost playful. The veil lifted—just barely.
Enough.
He glimpsed pale lips, delicately tinted, a fine chin, the curve of a cheek too soft to ignore.
His heart skipped.
He looked away at once. Ridiculous.
Angela was still speaking. Her voice pulled him back.
But he only half listened.
Later, as the sun dipped and golden light filled the corridors, Angela withdrew to prepare for dinner, escorted by her mother, their dresses whispering over ancient carpets.
Edgar lingered, hands clasped behind his back, walking aimlessly.
And that was when he saw her again.
She crossed the corridor slowly, an empty tray in her hands. The veil was back in place. This time, he did not hesitate.
"You."
She stopped short, startled, then bowed immediately.
"Your Highness."
A gentle voice. Steady. Measured. Perfect.
"What is your name?"
She hesitated, then answered,
"Vida, Your Highness."
Vida… The name sounded right. Discreet. Modest.
He stepped closer—softly. Not from curiosity. From whim.
"How long have you worked here?"
"A few years, Your Highness," Vida replied, hesitating slightly, perplexed.
She spoke without imposing herself. He liked that.
"You limp. An injury?"
She lowered her gaze, almost embarrassed.
"An old accident. Nothing serious, Your Grace."
He observed her for a moment. She sought neither pity nor attention. Rare.
"You do your work well."
She blinked, slightly taken aback.
"Thank you… Your Grace."
He did not reply. He studied her briefly, then gestured curtly.
"You may go."
She bowed again and departed with quiet steps.
Edgar remained alone, staring at nothing.
He stood there in the corridor, one hand in his hair, irritated without knowing why.
The grand hall rang with crystal, polite voices, and delicate cutlery. Service flowed flawlessly, each dish carried with grace. Angela shone beneath the chandeliers like a perfectly cut jewel, responding charmingly to the prince's anecdotes, offering well-placed wit.
But Edgar was not entirely present.
His gaze wandered over glasses, candles, shadows. He searched… without admitting it.
Then he saw her.
Discreet, standing at the back of the room. Always at the proper distance. Always invisible to those who did not know how to look. She poured wine, brought bread, brushed tablecloths like a feather.
She did nothing remarkable. She did not raise her eyes. And yet her presence irritated his thoughts.
Why was she there? Why did her barely glimpsed, veiled face haunt him so?
She was only a servant.
He looked away, speared his meat, forced a smile at Angela. She spoke of the capital, of balls, of her dream of being invited there.
He promised to take her someday.
Perhaps he lied. Perhaps not. He no longer knew.
Later, in the garden.
He had refused to stay the night. Citing urgent matters in the capital. A summons from the king. The truth was murkier.
He could not bear to remain. Not like this.
As the household prepared his departure, he slipped away.
The garden was quiet. Fragrant. Silvered by moonlight.
And there—behind a bush of dwarf roses—he saw her.
Seated on the grass, legs tucked beneath her, a modest loaf of bread in her hands. She ate slowly, savoring each bite. Her veil had slipped slightly, but she didn't care. He still couldn't see her face. But moonlight traced the curve of her neck, her dark hair, her calm.
She seemed… happy. Peaceful. In chosen solitude.
A striking contrast to Angela's studied smiles, to society, to politeness, to calculated glances.
She was alone—and yet complete.
Edgar stood frozen.
What if…
What if he seduced her? Just enough to drive her from his thoughts? A fancy. A distraction. He would offer her a necklace, a position in the city, lodgings. That was how pretty servants were treated in noble circles.
She would say yes. Of course.
Then he would forget her.
And he could marry Angela. A silk flower. A safe choice.
Yes. That was what he would do.
He left.
Before the manor, ready to depart.
The horses stamped. The coachman waited. The count and countess were elated. Angela radiant.
He approached her, took her hand gently, and placed a light kiss upon it.
"I will return very soon. You have my word."
Angela blushed, lowered her gaze. The countess nearly fainted with joy.
But Edgar, as he stepped into his carriage, looked at no one.
He was thinking of a lace veil, of moonlight, of a nameless girl who did not laugh at his jokes.
And of that strange unease in his chest—
something he called a whim,
but which burned like foreboding.