Chapter 14 Joy
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JOY
Amemory unfolded like a flower blooming in spring—explosive in its sudden beauty, colors saturating my mind’s eye until I could almost feel the warmth of that long-ago sun on my skin.
I was no longer in my cell but standing on a gravel path that wound through the royal gardens of Vareth, my eight-year-old feet shifting nervously in slippers that pinched my toes.
The air smelled of roses and freshly cut grass, so different from the dankness of my prison that for a moment I felt dizzy with the sensory abundance, even though I knew it wasn’t real.
A precious recollection I’d preserved like an insect in amber, perfect and unchanging.
The gardens had always been my refuge, the one place in the palace where I could escape the sideways glances and hushed whispers that followed me through corridors. Here, the flowers didn’t care who my mother was or why my eyes reflected silver in certain lights. Here, I could pretend I belonged.
I moved deeper into the memory, surrendering to its pull. The gravel crunched beneath my feet, a sound so distinct and tactile that it anchored me in this moment from the past.
That particular day had dawned bright and clear, the sky an impossible blue that seemed to mock the gray stone walls of the palace.
I had escaped my tutors, slipping away during the changing of lessons, when no one quite remembered whose responsibility I was.
It happened often—these small gaps in supervision—as though the palace itself conspired to forget me.
Usually, I welcomed these moments of freedom, but they came with their own particular ache, a reminder that my absence went unnoticed, unmourned.
The royal gardens were divided into sections, each more elaborate than the last. Nearest the palace stood the formal gardens with their geometric patterns and carefully pruned hedges, a physical manifestation of court life with its rigid structures and boundaries.
Beyond lay the rose garden where blooms in every shade from palest pink to deepest crimson nodded in the summer air.
And farther still, my favorite place… the wild garden, where native plants grew in carefully cultivated chaos, a controlled wilderness that reminded me of the stories my nurse had told me about my mother and the forest where my father had found her.
I wandered toward that wilder section now, my younger self moving with the careful deliberation of someone trying to remain unnoticed.
I’d worn a plain blue dress that day, its simplicity a stark contrast to the elaborate gowns of the court ladies who occasionally strolled the gardens on a nobleman’s arm.
My dark hair had been plaited tightly against my scalp in the severe style my father’s attendants insisted upon.
“A king’s daughter must not appear wild,” they’d say, tugging until my eyes watered.
But that day, a single dark strand had escaped, dancing across my face in the gentle breeze, and for once, I didn’t tuck it away.
I loved my garden. The towering foxgloves nodding their spotted bells, the lazy drift of bumblebees drunk on nectar, the secret spaces between bushes where small creatures rustled.
This was a place of life, vibrant and persistent.
I could smell the rich earth and growing things, a scent my body remembered even when my mind grew foggy with despair.
As I rounded a bend in the path, I came upon a small clearing where a stone bench sat beneath a weeping willow.
Its branches created a curtain of green, a hidden chamber that had always felt like my own private sanctuary.
I slipped between the trailing limbs, ready to claim my usual spot… and found it already occupied.
A child sat on my bench, small legs swinging freely, not quite reaching the ground.
The sun caught in hair the color of honey, arranged in elaborate curls and adorned with a circlet of braided silver.
The child wore a tunic of pale green silk, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that suggested vines and leaves.
A visiting noble’s offspring, surely. The children of Vareth’s court never played alone in the gardens.
I hesitated, preparing to retreat before being noticed.
Intrusions led to questions, questions led to revelations, and revelations inevitably led to that moment of realization when friendliness turned to distance, when easy smiles tightened into politeness too practiced for a child’s face.
I’d experienced it often enough to anticipate the pattern.
But before I could step back, the child turned and saw me. Eyes the color of autumn leaves widened with interest rather than alarm.
“Hello!” The greeting came easily, accompanied by a smile that revealed a missing front tooth. “Are you hiding too?”
The question took me by surprise. “I’m not hiding,” I said automatically, though of course I was, in my way. “I come here sometimes. This is my—“ I stopped myself from claiming the space. Even at eight, I knew better than to assert ownership of anything in the palace.
“Your hiding place?” The child’s head tilted to one side, curious rather than judgmental. “I’m sorry. I can find somewhere else, if you’d prefer to be alone.”
The offer, so simple and genuine, caught me fully surprised. I wasn’t accustomed to consideration, particularly from those who clearly outranked me socially. The child’s clothing alone was worth more than everything in my chambers combined.
“You can stay,” I said, the words emerging haltingly. “There’s room for both of us.”
The smile that answered me was radiant, unrestrained in a way that made me acutely aware of my own carefully measured expressions. The child scooted to one side of the bench, making space with an expansive gesture that managed to seem both regal and entirely unselfconscious.
“I’m visiting with my mother,” the child explained as I perched tentatively on the opposite end of the bench.
“She’s meeting with the king about boring things, and my nurse has a headache, so I slipped away.
” A conspiratorial grin followed this admission.
“No one ever looks for me in gardens. They always check libraries first, because I like books. But it’s too beautiful outside to be indoors today, don’t you think? ”
I nodded, unsure how to navigate this torrent of friendly chatter.
Court children rarely spoke to me at all, and when they did, it was with the stilted politeness their parents had taught them for addressing those of uncertain standing.
This easy conversation felt like being offered a sweet when I’d expected medicine.
“Do you live in the palace?” the child asked, swinging legs in soft leather boots.
“Yes.” I hesitated, then added, “Always.” It seemed safer than explaining my position.
“Always? That must be wonderful. We live in three different places, depending on the season. I like our summer estate best because it has a lake, and my father lets me swim when my mother isn’t watching.
” The child leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
“She thinks I’ll drown, but I’m actually very good at swimming. Father says I’m like an otter.”
The comparison made me smile despite myself. “I’ve never seen an otter,” I admitted.
“Never?” The child’s expression shifted to one of astonishment.
“But they’re marvelous! They hold hands when they sleep in the water, so they don’t drift apart from each other.
And they have special pockets in their skin where they keep their favorite stones.
” A pause. “At least, that’s what my tutor told me. Have you ever been to a lake?”
I shook my head. My world consisted of the palace and its grounds, occasionally extended to include the temple on holy days, when I was permitted to attend services if I sat quietly in the back and drew no attention to myself.
Instead of pity, the child’s face lit with excitement. “Then I shall have to describe it to you! The water looks solid from a distance, like glass, but when you touch it, it parts around your fingers. And when the sun hits it just right, it’s like the whole world is made of light...”
And so began the strangest hour of my young life.
The noble child described lakes and forests, mountains and seaside cliffs, each detail offered as a gift rather than a boast. Questions followed—what did I like to do, what were my favorite stories, did I prefer mornings or evenings?
My answers came hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as I realized the child truly wanted to know, with no hidden purpose behind the curiosity.
We moved from the bench to the grass beneath the willow, where my companion showed me how to weave the trailing branches into simple crowns. My fingers were clumsy compared to her smaller, practiced hands, but there was no mockery in the gentle corrections I received.
“There,” the child said at last, placing a completed circlet atop my dark hair. “Now you look like a dryad princess from the stories.”
I touched the woven branches gingerly, something warm and unfamiliar expanding in my chest. “What’s a dryad?”
“A tree spirit. Pretty and wild and powerful.” The child adjusted my crown with gentle fingers. “My nurse says they can’t be tamed, not even by kings.”
I thought about this, about being something that even my father couldn’t control. The idea was terrifying and wonderful all at once.
“What about you?” I asked, beginning to weave a crown of my own, tongue caught between my teeth in concentration. “What do you want to be?”
The child considered this with surprising gravity. “Happy, I think. And brave.” A pause. “And taller.”
The unexpected answer startled a laugh from me, a real laugh, not the polite smile I’d been taught was appropriate for a king’s daughter, even one born on the wrong side of the marriage bed. The sound echoed in our green sanctuary, unfamiliar to my own ears.
We continued talking, about everything and nothing.
Favorite colors—purple for me, green for my companion.
Best foods—honey cakes for us both. Whether clouds had feelings-–the child thought yes, I remained skeptical.
All the inconsequential topics that children discuss when left to their own devices, unbound by social hierarchies and family histories.
For that one perfect hour, I was not Princess Mireille, the king’s bastard with the strange eyes. I was just another girl in a garden.
And then reality intruded, as it always did.
“There you are!” The woman’s voice cut through our sanctuary like a blade, parting the willow branches with bejeweled hands. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
She was beautiful in the way of court ladies, her golden hair arranged in elaborate coils, her gown the same shade of green as the child’s tunic. Her eyes, the same autumn brown as her child’s, widened when they fell on me.
Recognition dawned in her face. Not of me personally, but of what I was. The king’s shame, the living reminder of his indiscretion. The girl with her mother’s uncanny eyes.
“Come away at once,” she said, her voice tight. She seized the child’s hand, pulling with enough force that the willow crown fell to the grass. “You should not be here.”
“But we were playing,” the child protested, resisting. “This is my new friend. We were making crowns and—“
My breath hitched. Friend. No one had ever called me that before.
“That is enough.” The woman’s tone left no room for argument. She glanced at me, her expression a complex mixture of distaste and something that might have been pity. “We depart tomorrow, at first light. Playtime is over.”
My friend looked back at me, confusion and disappointment warring on her open face. “But I didn’t even ask her name—“
“It matters not,” the woman said, already pulling my friend away. “Come along now.”
I remained seated on the grass, my half-finished crown forgotten in my lap.
I kept my expression carefully blank, the mask sliding into place with practiced ease.
I did not call after them. Did not allow my eyes to fill with tears.
Did not react at all, even as my friend was led away, casting backward glances until the willow branches fell back into place, sealing me once more in solitude.
Only when I was certain I was alone did I pick up the fallen crown, its woven branches already beginning to wilt. I placed it carefully beside me on the bench before leaving, unable to bring myself to keep it, equally unable to discard it.
The next I saw my friend, she did not look my way. Her eyes passed over me as if I was no one at all, as if we hadn’t laughed under the willow or shared our hopes and dreams. As if we were no longer friends.
No, she ignored me, the same as all others, and I learned how quickly joy could turn to sorrow.