POV: Celeste
The gardens do not love me.
I learn this slowly, the way you learn a bruise exists only after touching it again and again. I step onto the gravel path with my hands folded tight in front of me, my shoes polished, my dress freshly pressed, and the roses nearest the fountain pull inward as if a breath has been sucked from them. Petals tremble. Leaves shiver. The air feels wrong—thick and watchful.
“Princess,” the gardener murmurs, bowing too quickly. His eyes flick to my feet and then away, like he expects the stones themselves to bite him.
I smile because that is what I am taught to do. “Good morning.”
He nods, already backing away.
The birds leave first.
“I didn’t do anything,” I whisper, though no one is close enough to hear.
I take another step.
The swan by the pond hisses.
It snaps its beak and beats its wings against the water, sending ripples racing outward. A court lady gasps and drops her parasol. Guards move immediately, stepping between me and the pond as if I have drawn a blade instead of taken a walk.
“Enough,” one of them says, not unkindly. “Perhaps we should return inside.”
I nod. I always nod.
***
The riding lesson is supposed to make things better.
That is what my governess says, her voice tight with effort. “Fresh air will do you good, Your Highness. You mustn’t spend all your time indoors.”
The stable smells like hay and leather and warm animals. I like it here. I always have. Horses used to let me brush them, their great heads dipping patiently while I worked through their manes. Today, the stable boys watch me with pale faces and stiff postures, their hands hovering near the reins.
The horse chosen for me is small and gentle, a chestnut mare with dark eyes. I step closer slowly, holding out my hand the way I was taught.
She snorts.
Her ears pin back. She shies sideways, bumping into the stall wall with a dull thud. A groom grabs the reins, murmuring urgently.
“It’s all right,” I say, my voice trembling. “I won’t—”
The air tightens.
I feel it before anything happens, the same sensation I felt at breakfast days ago. A pulling, like something inside me is being stretched too thin. My chest feels hot. My ears ring.
The mare screams.
She rears suddenly, hooves striking the air. The groom shouts, losing his grip. The horse bolts out of the stall, knocking into another stable hand and sending him sprawling. The mare charges for the open doors, wild-eyed, foam flecking her mouth.
“Get out of the way!” someone yells.
I don’t move. I can’t. I am frozen, my heart hammering so hard I think it might break my ribs.
The horse veers at the last moment, crashing into a post instead of trampling me. The impact is sickening. Wood splinters. The groom cries out as he hits the ground, clutching his leg.
Chaos erupts.
Guards rush in. Stable hands shout orders. The mare is subdued after a frantic struggle, her sides heaving, her eyes rolling white.
Someone grabs my arm.
“Princess, inside. Now.”
I am pulled away before I can speak, before I can apologize, before I can breathe.
As they drag me down the corridor, I hear the groom’s cries behind me. I twist in their grip, panic flooding my veins.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say. “Please, I didn’t—”
“It’s all right,” one of them says, though his voice is tight. “Just keep walking.”
***
They do not let me ride again.
They do not let me walk in the gardens.
They do not let me eat in the great hall.
“It is for your safety,” my mother says, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She sits across from me in the small sitting room, her posture perfect, her eyes shadowed. “We don’t want you getting hurt.”
I stare at the floor. “I didn’t get hurt.”
She flinches.
“We don’t want others getting hurt either,” she corrects gently.
The words settle between us like dust.
From that day on, my world shrinks.
I am allowed in certain rooms at certain times. Always with someone watching. Always with guards positioned just far enough away to pretend they aren’t guarding me. Doors close softly when I approach. Conversations stop mid-sentence.
Even Maximilian is quieter now.
He still comes to see me when he can, still sits beside me and talks about his lessons, but there is something new in his eyes. Worry. Anger. A sharp, helpless edge I have never seen before.
“They’re overreacting,” he says one afternoon, pacing my sitting room. “A horse bolting isn’t your fault.”
“They all say it is,” I reply.
He stops pacing. “Who?”
“Everyone,” I say simply.
He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. His fists clench at his sides.
“I’ll talk to Father,” he says.
I shake my head quickly. “Don’t.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Because it won’t help,” I say.
I don’t know how I know that. I just do.
***
At night, I lie awake and listen to the palace breathe.
Footsteps echo in distant halls. Guards change shifts.
I try holding my breath. I try counting. I try praying the way the priests taught me. Nothing works. The warmth only grows, pulsing like a second heart.
One night, a mouse scurries across my floor.
I sit up, startled, watching it dart toward the wall. It freezes when it senses me, tiny body trembling. For a moment, we stare at each other.
Then it squeaks and runs. The warmth surges. The mouse collapses.
I scream.
Guards burst in, swords half-drawn, eyes scanning the room. They find nothing but me, curled on my bed, shaking, and the small, still body on the floor.
One of them steps back instinctively.
The other closes the door quietly behind them.
The next morning, my governess does not come.
Instead, a court lady I have never met arrives, her smile fixed too tightly in place. She does not touch me when she guides me through the day. She keeps a careful distance at all times.
I watch her hands. I watch her eyes. I learn how to sit very still. I learn how to speak softly. I learn how to disappear while standing in the middle of a palace built for me.
When I catch my reflection in a windowpane, I barely recognize the girl staring back. Her eyes look too old. Her shoulders are always tense, as if she expects the world to strike her at any moment.
I press my palm against the glass. It does not break.