Engagement Offer

The next morning, Rosella woke up early. The sun had yet to rise. Her room was still dark. She got down from the bed before opening the curtain just a bit, enough to allow the light from the lamps outside to penetrate into her room. It did not make her room bright, but this way, at least she wouldn’t trip when walking around.

She returned to her bed, sitting while hugging her pillow. She did not go anywhere. She did not call her maid. She just stared, looking around her slightly dim room. She did not realize it yesterday—regaining her memories in the middle of working hours prevented her from thinking about it carefully. She had not had the chance to be deeply introspective before, to pay close attention to herself, but now, it all came crashing down on her. She truly returned to the past, to the time when she was just seventeen. To the bedroom in the palace that she had left behind. To the role of lady-in-waiting she had given up.

She left the bed again after a while, slowly approaching the furniture inside her room. She looked at them one by one, touching what she could, feeling them on her skin. The queen-sized bed with the familiar soft sheet and warm blanket. The soft, patterned rug cushioning her feet. A wooden tea table set where she used to spend her tea time with her maid and other ladies-in-waiting, basking in warmth and jokes. A painting of a sunflower field above the fireplace, beckoning her to come closer every time she felt cold and down. The vanity her maid always kept tidy, its mirror showing her a younger and more innocent face of hers.

Everything was the same. Only she was different.

Or maybe everything looked the same, but they were all different. Only she was the same (alternate reality, her thoughts whispered in her head).

She pressed her lips tight, upset. Her thoughts betrayed her. Alternate reality. Again with that horrifying theory. She wished her mind was not so creative as to come up with such nonsense—

(Was it?​)

Was it really nonsense?

“It was,” she hissed stubbornly. She did not want to believe it, did not want to accept it. She did not have to. No one could say with certainty that an alternate reality existed. Nobody could say to her face that she was in denial, not when there was no proof. Her mind could wander as far as it could, theorize and speculate as wildly as it wanted to, but without proof, it wouldn’t be able to make her accept it.

(But could she prove that the alternate reality didn’t exist?

She couldn’t. Yet.)

Whatever. That wouldn’t change her mind. She wouldn’t accept an alternate reality without proof (because otherwise, she would admit that she had lost everything). This was not an alternate reality. Everything was the same. Only she was different (but the princess was different—stop. Stopstopstop).

“Oh, shut up,” she groaned, pinching her forehead. This was bad. She couldn’t be left alone with her mind. Too much was going on in her head. It kept talking to her. This wouldn’t do. Distraction, distraction, she desperately needed it. She walked at a brisk pace to the bell pull, grabbed it as if her life depended on it, but then she hesitated.

She did not hesitate because she was worried she would disturb the servants’ rest. No. The palace servants were available 24 hours per day. They worked in shifts. What made her hesitant was what she was going to do once the servant had come. She only needed a distraction. What was she going to call a servant for?

A drink? She could ask for water. She could even ask for a snack, but that wouldn’t be enough to distract her.

A book, then. Something to read. Surely that would be enough to occupy her mind. Or maybe she could just work? But she had finalized the princess’ schedule for the day. The rest were all waiting in her study. Her office, a place unfit for a lady still in her nightgown.

Or she could do journaling, she thought. The book was here, inside a drawer below her desk. The nib pen and the ink were here as well. But what was she going to write other than her traitorous mind’s terrible theory?

“Just a book to read, then. And water,” she decided. She pulled the bell and waited. A servant came—not her personal maid, just another palace maid—asking what she needed. She only asked for a glass of water since she already had books collected in her room, books she had finished reading in the first timeline, but what else could she do other than reread them? The palace maids had no access to the library without their master’s order. Besides, the library had not opened yet. Too early.

The maid left with her order after turning on the desk lamp for her, and returned not too long after with what she had asked her for: a glass of water. Once the maid had been dismissed, Rosella started reading one of the books collected on her shelves, sometimes sipping the water. By the time she finished the water, she got bored with reading, so the idea she wanted to forget started invading her mind again. It was annoying. Pathetic. She returned to bed again, trying to sleep, but she couldn’t. Ultimately, she settled on journaling, an option she had dismissed before. She could write anything but an alternate reality. Anything but the possibility of her losing everything. Anything.

Like her regression, for example.

Like her princess. Her friends. Things that happened in the first timeline. She could write them down to make sure she wouldn’t forget. To make sure she wouldn’t make the same mistakes.

She sat down behind her desk, taking out her journal from the drawer, skimming page to page until she arrived at a blank one. With a deep breath, she straightened her back, prepared the ink and blotting paper, then reached for her dip pen as her mind started working on what to write.

Regression. The first timeline. Definitely not an alternate reality. Over and over she repeated them in her head like a mantra to protect herself, a warm-up for her brain so it wouldn’t be distracted by unnecessary, traitorous, horrifying thoughts.

She took another deep breath. The journal, pen, ink, blotting paper. All ready. She could start anytime. She exhaled.

Alright. She could do this.

***

Journaling proved to be more effective than merely reading a book. It focused her mind on a certain topic of her choosing, preventing her from being easily distracted by unnecessary speculation. It helped organize her thoughts and recall her memories as well. What used to be abstract and tangled became something more real and ordered. If she truly wanted to avoid the same future, journaling like this was a good way to keep track of the past and the present. Of what had happened and what she was going to do. Now, she had more than a determination. She had clarity.

All in all, Rosella was satisfied. She left her room feeling more energized, more optimistic. Everything about the alternate reality was pushed to the back of her mind, obscured by the memories she had allowed to surface and the feeling of accomplishment after gaining clarity over her purpose in the second timeline.

“We have new letters, My Lady.”

Rosella turned to the door as she quickly secured the pen before the ink dropped and made a mess of the reply she was writing. Her personal maid, Ilona, came into her study with a trolley of letters collected this morning, delivered to the door by a trusted messenger.

“Thank you, Ilona. Leave it there,” she instructed. “Can you get me more papers? We don’t have enough here.”

“Certainly, My Lady.”

She returned to her job once Ilona had left, writing a reply on behalf of her princess. Sometime later, Ilona returned with a stack of blank papers, storing them in their proper place inside a drawer. She left again to take care of her mistress’ other necessities while her mistress was still busy writing. One by one, Rosella finished letters from the first batch before moving on to the second batch, the ones that just arrived.

As usual, she read and categorized them before anything else. More tea party invitations, more political letters from her supporters, and several engagement offers. She really was popular, wasn’t she? But of course she was. Rosella knew well how famous her princess was. Her beauty alone was enough to mesmerize people. Her kindness was sufficient to move the hearts of poets and minstrels to praise her in their poems and songs. With the addition of her royal status, she was the most beautiful, most precious, and the unattainable flower of the continent—until her long-lost big brother returned.

That was the start of all these courting letters. Rosella would know. She had been there since the start. She was there before they found the prince. She was also there after the prince returned. Political letters? The princess received them way more often before, back when she was the sole heir to the throne. It was the same with party invitations—everyone wanted to include the future ruler of their kingdom in their parties. However, it was different with engagement offers.

An heiress of their kingdom was not allowed to marry a foreigner.

Only when the prince returned did the situation flip upside down. Decrease in political letters, increase in engagement offers. It was because the law dictated that a prince had more right to the throne than a princess. Since the princess was no longer the heir to the throne, an international marriage became available to her. The once unattainable flower had become attainable for men outside of their kingdom.

“Nothing has changed, it seems,” she murmured, amused as she set aside one of the engagement offers into its own category before opening another letter. From the sender’s name, she guessed it was a party invitation. She was right. She placed it on the pile of invitations before reading another one. More invitations. Then, there were a few names whose letters were forbidden for her to read, so she did not open the seal, intending to deliver it to the princess later. A few more political letters from familiar nobles, members of the princess’ faction. Then, she found a letter bearing a symbol of another kingdom. Neighboring kingdom, to be exact.

She had a guess. Not a pleasant one, yet not exactly bad either. She gulped, looking at the name of the sender. Oh. Something was weighing on her, mind and heart. An unpleasant memory resurfaced. She gulped again, slicing the seal with her knife, taking out the paper inside the envelope. Her hands steadily unfolded the letter, but her heart, burdened with invisible weight, was not as steady.

She read it. It was the same letter from the first timeline. She might not remember it word by word, but she remembered the content clearly.

Another engagement offer, but this was not just an offer. Not to the kingdom, and certainly not to her.

It was an offer from a neighboring crown prince, and not just any crown prince.

It was from the crown prince of Terralta, the princess’ husband.