Lady Death's Diary: Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Chapter Two: 

It was my fourteenth birthday. Again.

I touched the nape of my neck, shuddering as I recalled the sharp kiss of metal and the hiss of its descent. My hair fell in loose waves past my shoulders. Another three years wasted, trying to survive past age seventeen. This last life, I’d truly believed that I would be able to marry Loren and escape my destined doom. Future queens were much harder to kill. After all, who wanted to deal with the political repercussions of murdering a monarch? I’d thought my method for of removing Letty to be foolproof, but once again, I had failed, this time thanks to an illegal tome of spells that I had never read yet had somehow found its way atop my nightstand in perfect time to be discovered by the cleaning staff. If nothing else, I had to applaud my murderer for ingenuity. They had framed me before, but never for illegal sorcery. The fact that I actually had planned on poisoning Letty must have come as a delightful bonus for them.

I had failed, and I had died, for the . . . I took mental tally. . . seventh time.

Seven times, I’d perished before turning eighteen, only to be transported back to the day of my fourteenth birthday after each death. The experience had been traumatizing the first time, when I’d expected my death to be permanent. Most deaths were, I assumed. But somehow, I’d been cursed (or blessed, if one insisted on optimism) to repeat the last three years of my life, presumably until I prevented people from killing me. Thus far, I’d failed abysmally.

Enough. Dwelling on my failures wouldn’t prevent another.

My memories would only be vivid for the next few days. Within a month, I’d only recall the vaguest sequence of events, as if my last life had been naught but a dream. I needed a plan to protect myself. Being subjected to multiple executions and assassinations had taught me that my actual innocence was irrelevant, and that I needed to be proactive in order to avoid being entrapped. My priorities had shifted several lifetimes ago from being a merciful and wise queen, who lived happily ever after with her handsome king, to simply staying alive by any means necessary. Unfortunately, my father’s ambitions meant that my betrothal was the only thing preventing civil war between Kothe and the rest of Verdan, which was the only reason I didn’t knot my bedsheets into a ladder and escape out the window.

I hurried across my childhood bedroom, which like my hair had reverted to its state of three years before my death. The ironwood credenza in the corner had been a gift from my father when I’d turned twelve and finally become, in his judgement,old enough to manage Rhys household affairs and ignore the ledger discrepancies that marked his less-than-legal expenditures. I opened the top drawer and took out a blank sheet of parchment. A proper journal would come later, with the chapter of this most recent death added to my faithfully memorized account of demises prior.

I dipped a silver pen in the inkwell and wrote, in the loose scrawl of my younger hand:

1. Executed

2. Ambushed

3. Executed

4. Shot

5. Pushed

6. Poisoned

7. Executed

Reading over the list of my endings, it was difficult not to feel bitter. At least bitterness tasted better than despair, an emotion I’d become intimately acquainted with during my first death. And my second. The events leading to my third end had been so horrific that to start over had come as a relief. Death six had inspired Plan Poisoned Apple, although in retrospect attempting to poison my romantic rival may not have been my most brilliant scheme. But nothing else had worked. Unless I did something drastically different, my prognosis of living to eighteen this time around looked grim.

I sometimes wondered my former timelines continued, after my deaths. The thought of my corpse lingering in another world disturbed me, and I shook my head to clear it of the gruesome image. My actions had either saved Emilia, or she’d reverted to her younger self along with everyone else and I’d allowed that bull-faced guard to bludgeon me for no reason. What had his name been? Regardless, I’d done all I could, and now needed to focus on my own survival.

I locked my list back inside the drawer and slid the desk key into my slipper. Its edges dug through my silk stocking into my sole. There was no time for wallowing, no matter how well-deserved. I’d bemoan fate’s cruelty over pots of hot chocolate when my continued existence was less precarious.

I sighed, forced a smile, and opened the door.

Theo stood in the hall with his fist poised pre-knock. My older brother wore the same russet coat today that he had my seven other fourteenth birthdays. The silver cufflink on his left wrist, emblazoned with the Rhys falcon, had already come half unclasped. Three years my senior, he was markedly handsome in the unfinished way of young men. He shared my wavy dark hair and pale gray eyes but whereas our similar sharp features caused me to appear stern and humorless, he looked authoritative and dashing. Life, as always, was unjust.

So too was death.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said before Theo could compliment me on my new dress. Younger me had adored the ruffled confection, which required four petticoats to maintain its flounce and left my legs hot and sticky after dancing. I’d decidedly aged past the style—mentally, if not physically. Some soured part of me wondered if it would be preferable to die permanently rather than relive my teenage years ad perpetuam.

I grabbed Theo’s wrist, tightened his cufflink so he didn’t lose it this time, and dragged him down the hallway to the top of the open stairwell, its gilded railing polished to high sheen in honor of the occasion. In the ballroom below, high-ranking guests from all over Verdan traded inanities and stifled yawns. They paced around the edges of the grand room, convention dictating it impolite to dance before my arrival. Only good manners prevented them from tapping their toes on the marble floor.

Their moods had been livelier at my execution. Theo, noticing my frown, patted the top of my head. (Triad, how I couldn’t wait until my growth spurt in a year!)

“Don’t worry, Tru,” he said. “All you need to do is nod and look pretty.”

My tight-lipped smile was more a grimace. “Onward, then, to certain doom.”

He laughed, assuming I spoke in jest. “That’s the spirit! Shall we then, princess?”

Eager for your crowning, princess?

“Don’t call me that,” I said. “Don’t ever call me that.”

Theo just chuckled again and proffered his arm. I laid my hand in its crook, and together we descended the stairs. Our feet had not even alighted the last step before my father blockaded us. With his silver hair and matching eyes, he looked like an older, sterner version of Theo. Duke of Kothe was more than a title for my father: it informed his entire personality.

“You’re late,” he hissed through his smile. “Vitrula, you know today’s importance.”

“Apologies for ruining my birthday for you, Father.”

His eyebrows rose fractionally, though he was too well-disciplined to advertise an emotion as gauche as shock. Initially, it had taken me until age sixteen to fully master the art of sarcasm. I’d gained a streak of defiance following my third death, after my father’s attempt to secede Kothe from Verdan had resulted in us both being hanged for high treason.

Father grasped my shoulder in what no doubt came across as a doting gesture to the surrounding guests. But his hold was too tight to be affectionate, reminiscent of my recent executioner’s iron grip.

“Prince Loren arrived five minutes ago,” he said in a low voice. “You will make a good impression. He will offer for your hand and gain Kothe’s support for his future reign. Do not fail me.”

I fluttered my lashes in exaggerated sweetness. “Unless you remove your hand from my person, I shall burst into tears, prostrate myself at your feet, and loudly beg for your blessing to marry a stable hand named Garrett. Why, my reputation might never recover.”

Father’s arm fell to his side, and for once his stagnant grin dropped with indignation. “What in Aelium is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Who is Garrett?”

“Nothing is wrong with me, Father.” My own polite smile never faltered. Congeniality was the best mask to keep Court vultures at bay and not provide fodder for their gossip. “But I highly doubt King Eldin will permit his only son to wed a girl whose affections are so improperly otherwise engaged.”

His frown deepened into an outright scowl. “Your affections are not engaged. This stable boy will be let go of his position immediately.”

“He doesn’t exist,” I informed him calmly. “But imagined scandals are as effective as real ones. I’ll play your game—I’ll flatter Prince Loren and be the perfect lady. Only remember: our family’s reputation depends as much upon my behavior as it does your own.”

Theo snorted at my proclamation of Garrett’s nonexistence. Garret had not only worked at our estate; he’d personally taught both my brother and me to ride. I’d insisted that he retire from the stables when his arthritis had begun to make caring for the horses difficult. Because, in addition to not being the recipient of my romantic affection, Garrett was not a day younger than seventy. He now served as the honorary caretaker for one of the Rhys family’s unused hunting lodges.

Luckily, my father had always been disinterested in knowing those in his employ, whereas my control over the estate books let me easily provide placements for staff who aged out of service. And then utilize their names for blackmail.

“I’d listen to her, Father,” said Theo. “She’s becoming more and more like Mother every day.”

The harsh planes of my father’s face softened, and for the first time he gazed at me with an expression almost resembling approval. My mother had died four years ago while travelling to Anterdon to oversee trade negotiations on behalf of the Crown. In my hazy recollection of her, she’d been colder and more aloof than even her husband. Theo claimed our parents’ union had been a love match, proving truth to the saying that there was someone out there for everyone. Most everyone. Love was a luxury I couldn’t afford when my only chance of survival hinged upon marrying Loren.

“I know you won’t embarrass me.” This was as close as Father ever came to expressing pride.

“I’m feeling thirsty,” I announced rather than respond to his sentiment.

My family didn’t need to know that refreshments were located on the opposite side of the ballroom from the prince I was supposed to be pursuing. Usually, I didn’t delay in finding my future fiancé, but Loren’s easy nonchalance at my recent beheading had rendered me uncharacteristically avoidant. It was one thing to know your betrothed had never loved you; it was quite another to witness him flirting during your execution.

As amusing as it was to imagine the guests’ reactions if had I entered the ballroom cradling my own decapitated head (half the nobles, I estimated, would be too polite to comment), injuries from my deaths vanished immediately upon my return to age fourteen. Emotional wounds faded less easily. My practiced façade of composure already felt fragile; confronting Loren might shatter it completely.

Dying had gotten progressively easier with each life. The day after never did.

Theo and I elbowed our way through a crowd of well-wishers who bobbed like floating ducks as they bowed and curtsied. Most I hadn’t yet met, but all were effusive in wishing me the happiest of birthdays in hopes of a breadcrumb of approval: my father wasn’t alone in anticipating my imminent engagement to Verdan’s Crown Prince.

“Lady Vitrula, you look positively radiant today!” exclaimed an older gentleman.

“Like a princess, one might say,” agreed his young wife pointedly. I recognized the beauty mark on her left cheek. Lady Gwendolyn—she would be a widow within a year. Or was it two years? Already, inconsequential details were beginning to fade from memory. I needed to return to my room and record the particulars of my deaths before they slipped away entirely.

The rest of the crowd parroted Lady Gwendolyn’s compliment. I nodded in cool acceptance of their praise, torn between amusement and anger by the obsequiousness of those who had so recently celebrated my execution. By the time Theo and I reached the refreshment table, only a few slices of birthday cake survived.

I glared at the platter in disgust. “Lemon.” I’d forgotten that detail.

“Isn’t lemon cake your favorite?” asked Theo.

It had been, until death number six. Being poisoned had a way of ruining one’s favorite dessert.

“I’m craving chocolate today,” I lied.

“Then chocolate you shall have! I’ll head to the kitchens and have Cook whip you up the most decadent cake in existence.”

“You could ask a footman to go,” I said, but Theo had already seized his opportunity to escape. I couldn’t blame him: the kitchens held infinitely more appeal than an overcrowded ballroom. Cook ruled her domain with a fist firmer than King Eldin’s own, but she had a weakness for my brother’s mischievous charm and willingly catered to his most outlandish midnight demands. No doubt a chocolate cake would soon be forthcoming.

But I didn’t to wait for a different dessert. I’d indulged my weakness long enough. The sooner I faced Loren, the sooner I could return to my room, rewrite my diary of deaths, and identify what to do differently in this life. Even if the mere thought of seeing him again made me want to start running and not stop until I reached Anterdon. Without being waylaid by the highwaymen, this time.

A woman’s dulcet voice interrupted my encroaching panic attack. “If you’re plotting an escape route, might I suggest the far east window? It’s blocked by a particularly garish floral display. The foliage matches your dress, so no one will spot your departure.”

I turned. Lady Delphine, Bellcrest’s Court Sorceress, sauntered close with a bemused smirk on her painted lips. She must have arrived as part of Loren’s retinue, though I’d never had the chance to interact with her much in any of my past lives. Her beauty was the sort that demanded attention: sunset auburn waves that fell to her waist and grass green eyes, her coloring almost too vivid for her pale complexion. Instead of a ballgown, she wore a deep-cut robe that clung to lush curves I was now too young to possess and would (to be blunt with myself) never fully develop.

She was also one of the few authorized sorcerers in all of Verdan. Most magic had been banned over a century ago, after rebels had razed half of Bellcrest with magefire during the Northern Uprising. Now, only a handful of practitioners were licensed, all of whom were noble-born and employed directly by the Crown. Lady Delphine’s leadership of these mages, as well as her rumored relationship with the widowed king, made her one of the most, if not the most, powerful women in the kingdom. Even my father, whose distrust of magic rivaled only his distrust of the opposite gender, refrained from insulting the sorceress directly.

“Crowds make me uneasy.” My words weren’t quite a lie. Large groups of people unfailingly reminded me of my various public executions.

Lady Delphine regarded me shrewdly. “I suspect that very little makes you nervous, Lady Vitrula. Still, I’m not surprised that you feel out of place. It’s an expected consequence.”