43
Camilla of Severna
I t’s been a nightmare since the king died.
Right after, urgent meetings were set. Everyone involved—a lot more than I would ever expect possible—showed up. Many were doubting the veracity of my lineage and wanted all the proof they could get. Once that was cleared out, the real difficulties started…I can barely get a glimpse of Primrose throughout the day, only seeing her late at night in my bedroom.
“You need to pay attention to this,” Joshua grumbles, laying all sorts of documents on the desk. “You are the queen now, and while Charles has left everything set, we will need your input soon.”
The number of things I need to learn about the Crown’s business is driving me crazy. On top of all the wood exportation and the nutmeg, now this…Why the hell did they remember to explore this rock? Oh, no. Wait…It’s glass.
Instead, I focus on something that sounds more interesting to my ears.
“Charles?” I question, quirking my eyebrow.
This is the one thing I haven’t been able to understand. The interaction between the king and Joshua had always given me the impression they were more intimate than they were in front of people, but the nature of their relationship still is unclear to me. Not that it matters, but it’s weird because it’s visible how important King Charles was to Joshua, but he acts like nothing has changed.
“The king,” he grits out, “had a huge breakthrough. He was a science enthusiast, and with the help of experts, he finally found a way to extract obsidian safely from those massive deposit areas.”
“I’m sorry,” I question. “Isn’t Devil’s Eye a deserted island of our archipelago?”
“Exactly,” Joshua confirms, bringing a specific green paper forward. “That’s exactly why the environmental evaluation was accepted by the National Institute for Environmental Health. There’s no towns or settlements it would affect.”
“What about the animals?” I question, taking the paper away from his hand. “Did the National Institute for Environmental Health consider the wildlife of the island?”
“According to them, it’s only birds. Since it’s a tiny volcanic island, besides a few visiting seals, it was never inhabited. No rodents or mammals whatsoever.”
“Is the extraction clean? And the waste?”
“I have all of the documentation here, according to King Charles, it would be one of the cleanest and most revolutionary ways to do it.”
“Leave it there. I’ll read it all during the next few days. Is that alright?” It’s not like I have time to learn years’ worth of research in a day. Is it?
“Yes.” He nods eagerly. “Especially because we need to get Your Majesty ready for the coronation.”
“How could I forget,” I whine.
My body’s been jittery all day long, alongside the uncomfortable, sweaty hands and a rebellious, racy heart.
It all feels unreal like an out-of-body experience that has no end. The artificial lights have been eating at my eyes, giving me intense headaches. Not to mention the foreign hands that have been prodding everywhere: my hair, face, and body.
Measures have been taken, all kinds of medical tests have been made, and every day, a team of professionals has come for make-up and fitting trials. I feel like these people know me better than I know myself at this point.
After organising the paperwork, Joshua nods before bowing. With his disappearance behind the door, a group of four girls arrive—my ladies-in-waiting.
We’re in the twenty-first century. I thought these didn’t exist anymore.
“Your Majesty,” they greet, curtsying. I nod and go to stand on the round structure.
They start organising all the clothes, jewellery, and tools they will need to get me ready. I’m like a damn plastic doll being manoeuvred by an enthusiastic child. Ridiculous.
“Almost ready for tonight, Your Majes–”
“Please,” I cut off one of the girls helping me dress. “When it’s just us…” I point to the three girls fussing around me. “Call me Camilla.”
All three sets of eyes widen, and they all look between themselves before hesitantly nodding. It must be hard, going from one ruler and the same kind of routine to another in the blink of an eye. Everyone’s being extremely nice and respectful, which makes the experience slightly easier, but still. Are they this way because they truly respect me or out of uncertainty?
Are they only afraid of losing their jobs?
“So,” I start, trying to make small talk. “How are you girls enjoying work since...Well...I stepped up?”
King Charles was right. It is lonely.
Other than Edgar, everyone thinks at least four times before they speak. It’s all so impersonal…Nothing has spontaneity anymore, but I guess I knew. I knew this had a price—a high one.
Then there’s Rachel. She was hysterical when she found out, flooding my phone. I’ve got her up to date, but Joshua still hasn’t allowed me to visit her due to safety reasons. Thankfully, she’s been invited to the coronation celebration party. I’ll see her soon.
“It’s been amazing, Your–”
“Camilla,” I insist. “Please, if there is any trouble, don’t hesitate to come to me and ask me to fix it.”
They all nod eagerly and hastily go back to work in silence. With a long and defeated sigh, I give up trying to make conversation.
Half the day has gone by in all these preparations. I have barely left my bedroom, but I’ve seen from the number of stressed voices and rustling on the outside to know that the entire palace has chaos mode on.
My waist is tightened with a corset, my hair is pulled tightly into a low bun, and my fingernails are trimmed and painted in a transparent polish. Hours pass as the make-up is done, and finally— finally —I am allowed to get dressed.
A beautiful pearly white dress is hanging in front of me until Jane brings it to me with Dina’s help. They lower it down so I can step inside, and once I do, they raise it back up, getting it in place and easily zipping it up.
I turn around to face the mirror. I have never been this dolled up in my entire life, not even during the proclamation. As I look at myself, I can barely recognise the person on the other side of the glass—poker face, perfect posture, and confidence.
Everything I am not feeling on the inside, but I am faking it very well. Fake it until you make it. The gown is outstanding, though . It has these thin golden threads embroidered into the fabric, just below the sweetheart cleavage, descending through my waist and hips. There are a few more on the long, puffy skirt but this one is not as wide as Cinderella’s gown in her fantasy story. The embroideries are floral motifs and are just beautiful. It doesn’t have long sleeves but straps instead. Those are thick, falling over the sides onto my arms.
“You are stunning, Your Majes–” Jane cuts herself off. “Camilla.”
Somehow, her tone was reassuring, and the fact she just called me by my first name also settled some of the nerves inside.
“Thank you, Jane. Alright,” I say, determination present in my voice. “Let’s do this.”
“I am surprised they haven’t found you yet,” Edgar’s voice whispers from behind me, annoying me more than ever before.
We’re hiding. Well, I am hiding. He is just here, taunting me and trying to get me out there, which I know I’ll have to...eventually. A lady is knocking on the door every ten seconds, asking me if I am ready because everything and everyone is ready for the coronation.
Usually, this event would happen about a year after the death of the previous ruler, but Charles left it clear that he wanted me to have absolute recognition as soon as possible.
“I don’t think I can do this.” The trembling voice coming out of my mouth is barely recognisable.
“Camilla, look at me.” He tugs my hand, forcing me to face him. When my gaze refuses to meet his, his hands cup my cheeks, warming them and forcing me to look into his brown eyes. There’s a slight frown between his brows, showing me the concern underneath his relaxed stance. “You may not have been updated on the latest gossip…but newsflash, you are the queen.” He chuckles. “You can have anyone beheaded for treason; all they need to do is look at you wrong.”
I scoff.
First, because everyone knows I would never do such a thing. Second, before our founding queen, Clara, made the first constitutional monarchy in the world when founding Monera in 1415. As the first realm with that kind of politics, the death penalty was the first one to be abolished, as well as any kind of slavery.
I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
Still, I can’t help the small smile that finds its way to my lips. Edgar does know how to deflect stress. Or, at least, how to hype someone up.
“You deserve this, and you’ll be a better queen than anyone else ever could.” His words make me smile. They’re more consequential than they sound, and that’s because I know the hidden meaning in them.
I am so thankful to all the company and advice he has given me during this. Without him, I wouldn’t be able to go through this transition.
More than that, it’s a tradition for the whole nobility to bend the knee, and I am not ready to face any of them. More accurately, I am not ready to face one of them.
“I just want it to get over and done with. I don’t want to face all those people,” I mumble.
“They’ll only be able to approach you after you’re crowned anyway when they come to you to pay their respects and loyalty. And it’s a heavily controlled interaction…” His lips stretch in a devious smirk, and his eyes glint with a mischievous glow. “I can’t wait until it’s my brother’s turn to bow before you.”
“I honestly wish it could be you instead of him,” I admit.
“You know,” he singsongs. “I wouldn’t need a coronation ceremony to be on my knees for you—ouch!”
“Shut up,” I scold after smacking the back of his head, trying not to smile. “You and your dirty mouth can get out and meet everyone else in the chapel.”
Thankfully, he does as I order, not before smiling deviously at me. When I am finally by myself, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I can do this.
Knock. Knock.
The same lady knocks the thousandth time on the door, and this time around, I straighten my spine and square my shoulders, getting ready for what’s to come.
Exiting the small room, I head out and walk one of the long corridors into the private chapel of Livia’s Palace, where all the guests of honour await to witness my coronation.
Before I can get ready for the big moment, the wide wooden doors are pushed open, and the slight murmuring ceases completely. The side aisles are filled with people, sitting down on the benches, but I avoid looking around me. I focus on the main altar at the opposite end of the building.
Up there lies the gilded throne, with the red velvet upholstering, waiting for me. By its side is a pillowed table, where the Sovereign’s Orb and Sceptre are carefully placed, as well as St Anne’s Crown. My slow and hesitant steps are the only things that can be heard, echoing through this holy building.
This abbey has been here, witnessing rulers in and out of their duty since the thirteenth century. It has been part of our history—had had an integrated role in it—for longer than everyone sitting down inside it. It shows how fleeting human life is, and how short and insignificant it is compared to the legacies left behind.
Focusing on the stone-carved dome above me, I ignore everything else as I walk closer to the altar. It is beautifully sculpted in this flamboyant gothic, making it look like it was embroidered instead, and yet, such beauty is not enough to ease my nerves.
When I reach the steps, I stop for a second, watching the prime minister and all the people follow him into view. Once he stops, strategically positioned close to the throne, I slowly climb the steps—one by one—until I reach the front of the throne, standing still until the next step.
“Everyone, stand up to welcome her Royal Highness, Camilla of Severna,” the prime minister’s voice reverberates through the thick walls, and with my back still turned to the aisles, I listen to everyone standing.
Only when it becomes silent again, as I was instructed to, do I turn around.
The four current knights of the realm stand, waiting by the back, as the prime minister starts his speech. The words are important, for sure, to everyone else, now me, who has read it at least twenty times by now. Five long minutes—or more—pass by before he is done and finally turns to me. “Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of Monera according to its respective law and customs?”
“I solemnly promise,” I answer.
“Will you, to your power, allow law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?”
“I will.”
With a final nod towards me, he motions for the knights to walk further with the canopy that shall cover me for the holy ointment. As soon as it surrounds us, protecting us from prying eyes, I sit down. Prime Minister Levine receives a box and walks back to the front, facing me.
“You’re doing well so far, Your Majesty,” he whispers in encouragement and then restarts his role, talking loudly, echoing the holy words through the chapel as he opens the box of the ointments and pours a few drops into the coronation spoon.
I raise mine, palms up, facing him and wait. His movements are accompanied, once again, by his words as they oint my hands, upper chest, and head.
Then, he bows, starting the silent moment that will give way to the next step of the ceremony. The moment passes, and he straightens up, the knights picking up the canopy again and retreating to the background.
Now, sitting down, I finally will myself to look around. All the foreign faces look at me intently, excruciating every flaw that might be visible, and it makes me feel naked. Vulnerable. I wasn’t thinking it through when I set myself to be on the front cover of every media in the country—in the world.
Noticing Prime Minister Levine picking up Sovereign’s Orb and Sceptre, I, once again, raise my hands, receiving them. He turns back to the table, picks up the crown and places himself behind me as he speaks, “As god’s will and direct order, I crown you queen. The Sovereign of Monera and all of your possessions.” His strong and slow-paced voice leaves no space for questions and raises goosebumps on my skin. His voice is steady as his hands lower down St Anne’s Crown over my head.
“ God save the queen !” he yells.
“ God save the queen !”
As everyone else shouts in response, I find the only pair of brown eyes I was hoping to avoid. He’s looking straight at me as his mouth moves in accordance with the praise shouting everyone is doing.
When everyone stops, he stops, never moving his gaze from me.
My breath hitches for a second as I realise he doesn’t look resentful or angry. But he does look miserable.
He looks like what I feel inside.
Wretched.