The Princess and The Pirate

While Jacqueline was unconscious, life didn’t stop in Rocqueburne.

The Queen was trying to sleep, but her declining health made it difficult. The past few days had been full of annoying aches, anxiety, and exhaustion. Today, a fever was added to her troubles. She dryly swallowed as a morning breeze flapped her soft white curtains.

A soft sigh, not her own, caused the Queen to open her eyes. She froze, her own breath stuck within her neck. Jacqueline stood at the base of her mother’s bed. It was a terrible sight to behold, turning the Queen pale.

Where the Princess’s eyes would have been were two gored-out holes. Dried blood flaked off her white cheeks, not an ounce of color left in her skin. Her long red hair was still vibrant and softly curled, wrapping and hugging around the bend of her neck, the base of her shoulders, and along her arms. The nightgown she wore was filthy, as if Jacqueline had climbed out of a fresh grave.

The apparition gave a soft, blind smile, taking another step towards the elaborate footboard, “Do you feel it?”

In response, the Queen slid back on her bed, bracing against the headboard. “Away from me, spirit,” she said warningly, sweat curling down her temples.

“In your heart, do you feel it? Do you feel the weight?” said Jacqueline, who climbed over the edge and onto the soft luxurious sheets. “In Hell they dress you in links of chain, one for every wicked deed. Every broken commandment, every unapologetic sin…” She brought her hand around her mother’s foot, and the Queen quickly ripped it away. The Princess looked at her curiously, but had no eyes to see.

Stammering, the Queen curled to the left, trying to flee from the spirit.

“Leave me!”

Jacqueline followed, crawling like a beast on her hands and knees, “They will bury you in iron, mother. Link after link, for all eternity, weighing upon you. And Satan himself will cast them!” Jacqueline suddenly reached out, gripping the Queen’s bare ankle with a cold, clammy hand.

Hoarsely screaming, she kicked the hand away, falling off the bed with a thump on the ground, managing to take the blankets and pillows with her.

Lillian was walking down the hall holding a sterling silver platter. Juice, a plate of seasonal melons, and a muffin—a breakfast fit for a queen. To complete the ensemble was one bright, fully-opened red rose in a narrow vase from the castle’s very own garden.

And all of it was tainted with drips of cyanide. After the tasters sampled the food, the princess had been slowly poisoning every single piece whilst playing the ever tentative daughter. On the outside, the poor woman was suffering from a broken heart. Such an ailment was beyond most doctors’ care, and who’d know if she’d ever recover?

The inner workings of women were a fickle thing.

Within, it was much more nefarious. The cyanide was sapping the energy and vitality from the matriarch. No one was the wiser, since everyone assumed grief had bedridden the Queen. The poison did its job exceptionally well, drop by drop, disrupting the blood’s ability to carry oxygen. Slowly starved for air, the body becomes easily exhausted and behaves irrationally. It debilitated mind, body, and spirit until eventual death.

Hearing a thud and a scream, Lillian watched Versetti’s guards charge through the Queen’s doorway, swords half-drawn to slaughter whatever offense was on the other side!

All they found was an old woman, clutching blankets on the floor and pointing to the bed. “SHE’S HERE! SHE’S HERE!” motioning at nothingness.

It should be noted that extended cyanide poisonings can cause vivid hallucinations.

“Who, m’lady?!” the armored men demanded, walking to the open window, seeing no one.

“Jacqueline! She was here! No more than a moment ago!”

Some of the men crossed themselves, muttering a soft prayer, more religiously devout than others regarding the deceased princess’s sanctification. Others sheathed their swords and sighed. Great. Their queen was mad now.

Rocqueburne was going straight to Hell.

They helped her back into bed, gently lifting the woman back into the comforts of the sheets and pillows. Versetti gave the Queen’s hand a kiss and bowed gracefully. Upon his exit he gave Lillian an inappropriately lustful look, followed by a wink, then closed the door behind him.

“I’ve brought breakfast, fruit, and baked treats,” started Lillian, gliding across the room, her dark teal dress sweeping the cold floor, “and juice as well. The doctor says coffee is bad for your condition,” she calmly explained, taking a seat next the Queen’s bedside.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied, shakily look at the corners of the room, having just recovered from the fright of her life.

“Nonsense.” Lillian smiled again, stabbing a piece of tainted cantaloupe. “You have to eat to keep your strength.”

The Queen coughed and then seemed to lose her breath. Inhaling deeply but finding no relief, she motioned for the drink upon the platter and the princess promptly gave it to her.

Quickly drinking the juice, she found only the slightest relief. Holding the glass in her hand, she looked over Lillian in the sunlight. Raven-haired like death, pale as death, as still as death… There was absolutely nothing like Jacqueline within her. It seemed as if very little life at all resided within the new princess. In fact, even as an apparition, Jacqueline had more life than Lillian.

Picking up on the Queen’s criticizing stare, Lillian cleared her throat softly, motioning to the impaled cantaloupe. “Eat something.”

Looking out in front of her, the Queen picked up the fork uneasily. “You’re so quiet. Tell me a story. My daughter was good at stories.” Indeed, she could pull the most fantastical things from the farthest corners of her imagination.

Her daughter? Wasn’t she her daughter now? The princess blinked, sitting back in her chair, trying to think. Realizing she didn’t have any stories, or couldn’t recall any, silence fell between the two women.

The woozy Queen used the napkin provided to slowly dab her sweating brow. She knew no story was coming, but she was in a particularly mean mood after the fear subsided. With her own child and husband now dead, who else was there to inflict damage on?

Lillian ran her tongue over her teeth, annoyed.

“You’re nothing like her.” Pushing the napkin against her mouth, she struggled to keep the bite of food down.

“Isn’t that the point?” Lillian asked, crossly.

“I suppose it was,” the Queen muttered, a faraway look in her eye, leaning back on her pillows, feeling sick, “I can’t have any more children, so you will have to do.”

She would have to do?

Lillian slowly processed these words, each one more poisonous than the last. However, putting on a happy face, she stood up and began to fluff the woman’s pillows. “I suppose I will.” Being inferior in any way sent Lillian into a quiet, seething rage.

The Queen just sighed, apathetically shutting her eyes. Things were a right fine mess.

Lillian slid a pillow free from the pile of fancy fabrics. Taking it in her hands and inhaling deeply, the princess quickly pressed it into the woman’s sleeping face. Anger, pure, indignant hatred, made her climb on top of the bed, pinning the Queen’s arms with her knees.

Struggling weakly underneath, the Queen tried to breathe, only having the soft fabric fill her nose and mouth. Muffled squeaks filled the room and she tried to fight, but Lillian’s weight kept her pinned.

“If you miss her so much, let me reunite you,” the princess hissed through her teeth. Rage made her milky skin a bright hot pink. Curling her lips against her gums, she contorted the pillow against the Queen’s face. Soon the resistance stopped, the frail body underneath falling still. Exhaling, she pulled her tool away, only greeted by a glazed stare. Grabbing the Queen’s cheeks, she turned her head left and right, checking for any signs of life.

There were none. She was dead.

Satisfied with her work, she slid off the Queen’s body, calmly brushing the front of her own dress. Pushing the whole body onto its side, Lillian nestled the woman’s face between pillows, propping up her head with the murder weapon. Softly, the princess brought her hand over the Queen’s face, shutting her eyes completely.

Still warm. Anyone could have mistaken her for being asleep.

Quietly gathering up the dishes, Lillian left the rose on the Queen’s bedside. Taking the tray, she gracefully left without looking back, clicking the bedroom door closed behind her. Versetti was waiting on the other side, standing guard by the door. She went to open her mouth, but a nurse was trotting up the hallway.

“My dear, how does our lady fair today?” she asked, but was only met with Lillian cramming the dirty dishes in her hand.

“She ate very little and was overcome with the need for a nap. Take these back to the kitchen,” she snapped, brushing loose strands of hair back behind her ear.

The nurse looked insulted but remembered her station and gave a soft curtsy, taking the tray. “I’ll check on her when I return.”

“See that you do,” and the two women turned away from one another.

Lillian gave a look to Versetti from the corner of her eye, and he only nodded his head to the side.

“Make sure no one sees the Queen but the nurse.”

“Aye, my lady. You have my word.”

The princess continued walking down the hall. Eventually, when she was in a private enough space, she put her hand to her lips. Taking a long, self-indulgent second in the afternoon sunshine, she smiled with an enormous grin, even giving a graceful twirl, like a girl smitten with love.

Long live Queen Lillian!