Page 110 of Hawthorne

“Yes,” I answer instead.

My hand tightens on Edgar’s elbow, giving away my discomfort. He looks down at my hand before looking back at the royal couple with a poker face.

“That’s curious,” the king comments, pensive.

“Not really,” Edgar chimes in finally. “Camilla’s grandfather was Monerian, while her grandmother was the one from Asia,so naturally she inherited the Monerian surname. A rather common one at that.”

“That’s lovely.” The queen pats my shoulder. “You’re almost a true Monerian.”

With that, Edgar chokes. Probably on his spit as a reaction to her subtle racist comment.

“I am going to beg your royal majesties to excuse us,” I beg of them, making a curtsey while Edgar makes his cough dramatically stronger.Filthy liar. “As it seems, His Grace needs some water.”

They both nod, not even sparing us an extra minute, turning their back on us, and I rush him to a hidden corner. Edgar suddenly stops coughing and starts to straighten his tux, as if nothing has just happened.

“Almost a true Monerian,” he scoffs.

“Shhh. Don’t make a scene out of it. It’s the queen. What do you want? To be hanged for treason?” I hiss.

“Darling, this isn’t the mediaeval period anymore. We’re entitled to freedom of speech.” I roll my eyes. “And according to the Monerian Constitution, we no longer have death sentences, so no hanging convictions anymore.”

“Still, shut up.”

“Uh, feisty.” He smirks, pushing a short lock of my short hair from my face, placing it behind my ear.

“Behave, Edgar, or I’ll break one of those million-dollar hands of yours.”

“Ugh,” he groans, stepping back. “My brother is such a lucky bastard. Why does he get to take all the best of this world for himself?”

“Get a hold of yourselves. You spoiled brats have it easy and still complain.” I sigh in exhaustion. “I need to go to the restrooms. I’ll find you later.”

With a naughty smirk, Edgar nods and turns, heading to the bar. My hand finds the doorknob behind me, leading me to a long, wide hall. I walk across it in hopes of finding an open door that leads me to the restrooms. Fear keeps me from opening any of the closed ones, knowing they might take me to forbidden areas of the palace.

My steps halt when I find something intriguing placed on the wall. A big rectangular frame holds a giant painting of the royal family. King Charles is the visible one, sporting the best outfit among all the royal kids with a tiny Crown on his head, signalling him as the heir of the Crown. He is sided by an older boy, both in front of the late King Unwor, already a widower.

However, what catches my attention is not the healthy baby face of King Charles, contrasting with the one he has now, nor his father, completely dressed in black after the death of his queen. It’s the older boy right by King Charles’ side. In this depiction, he should not be older than nine or ten, with a serious face and a stiff pose.

I recognise him, even though he’s changed a lot from the pictures I grew up seeing. I can still see the same kindness in his eyes, the same shape in his eyebrows, and the same hair colour. It’s Aunt Lizzie’s husband...Joseph Gotta. What shocks me the most is that the usual small scar he used to have on his face doesn’t exist.…Instead, there is a little heart-shaped blemish above his left eyebrow. The exact same spot with something that doesn’t exist in any of the pictures and paintings in the manor back in Gamia.

I have never seen it on anyone else. My body shudders at the sight of it, and instantly, my shaky hand finds my hip. The pads of my fingers caress my skin over the dress’ fabric.

Right above the spot where lies a bigger version of the same heart-shaped birthmark.

33

Camilla White

My heart is beating wildly while my shaky hands turn sweaty. If only I could press them against my thighs to get rid of it. This bloody dress and this bloody party. Why did I come here?

My mind is a jumbled mess, trying to find a reasonable enough explanation as to why we have the same shaped mark.

Probably just a coincidence.

But is it? How much of a coincidence could it be that my first boss’s late husband has the same birthmark as I do? I have learned in this kind of society that nothing happens by chance.

This is just what I needed on top of being at a party I don’t belong at, where people keep giving me the stink eye. Others would think of themselves as lucky to be in my situation.

To have befriended people in high places who can provide me the kind of experiences others can’t, not even once.

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