Page 143 of Hawthorne

“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.

44

Camilla of Severna

“Isolemnly pledge my complete and unwavering loyalty to Her Majesty, Queen Camilla and her heirs and successors. I will support the Monerian constitution, by her defended as is according to law and swear to perform my duties, whatever they require, to the best of my abilities. So help me god.”

His voice tears through me, rotting me from the inside-out as I manage to keep my stone-faced stance on the outside. Watching Vincent on one knee, completely bent on it with his eyes glued to the floor, pledging his loyalty to me through a shaky voice and trembling body is not as satisfying as I thought it would be.

And even though I am now queen, it’s not like I can say fuck it and leave all the ceremonies behind. Those who thought that occupying this place would be easy, just to boss everyone else around, were wrong. I am the one being bossed around like a ragdoll.

As soon as his head rises, my eyes change direction, landing directly on Edgar in the background. I can recognise the pityfrom here, swirling in his eyes, and while I hate it, it’s my only refuge for now and the only way of avoiding Vincent’s gaze.

I can see his face, unfocused from the bottom of my eyes, and I can feel the heat of his gaze on me. He might be pondering what to do next, and it doesn’t seem to be standing up and letting the ceremony continue—as everyone else did.

No, the highest-ranking nobleman was left for last, making this event more agonising. I had to go through all the faces, from lords to viscounts to counts and dukes, all the while dreading this moment.

It ended up being very anti-climax.

Vincent’s mother is around somewhere, keeping her distance—thankfully—and he has been nothing but a prime example of what a duke should be. Yet, I can see from a distance how robotic his movements were. How he was programmed into what was expected from him, as usual.

“Thank you.” My voice comes out strained, on the edge of shaky.

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