1712, De Fontaine Manor, Lorewell

"Will the Prince ever come back?" Rosie murmured through sobs and hiccups. "It has been two full days, and I fear that without the antidote, our poor miss would not survive another day."

Her words reflected the thoughts of every person in the room, though none of them actually dared to voice them out. They all knew that if the Prince failed to return by tonight, they would have to prepare for a funeral the next morning.

"You mustn't say that," Tristan reprimanded. "I trust the Prince. He will return before sundown, I am certain."

But as the golden sun slowly descended down the horizon and the skies were swallowed by darkness, Tristan began to doubt his own words. He had prepared all the ingredients necessary to make the concoction that would save his cousin's life, but without the key ingredient, the Flower of Anaise, there was no use.

He could not stomach looking at the frail figure on the bed, and instead, he resumed sitting on the floor, pestle and mortar in hand, grinding the mint leaves to mush.

Other than the sound of the mint leaves being crushed, there was only the ominous ticking of the old grandfather clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock, it went. The ticking echoed throughout the room, like a death knell. Every single tick reminded him of how close his cousin was to death, and it sickened him.

He hated how her life had been robbed so easily, so unfairly. Even her last moments were to be spent in cold nothingness, without a single glimmer of light or warmth to accompany her. She was stuck in her own head, a dark abyss that she would eventually succumb to.

Little did Tristan know that she was awake the entire time.

I wish that they would put that old clock outside. It is beautiful, I know, but it is so loud that I could barely sleep. Oh dear me, sleep? That is all that I have been doing for the past few months. If only I could speak! If I were to die soon, let me die upon a silk bedsheet, not this scratchy linen mess. If it were not for the poison coursing through my veins, I would actually refuse to die until they change the bedsheets.

O death, o kind, blissful death. Welcome me into your cold embrace, bless me with peace and silence, and never shall I need to suffer like the rest of the mortal souls, and I shall be spared from the woes of love and regret. Is that not such a dramatic line to yell at the top of your lungs while standing on the edge of a cliff? I imagine that I would feel like the heroine of a Shakespearean tragedy, betrayed in life, beloved in death. I like to think that my own impending death is quite Shakespearean too, for I am cold and stiff like marble, ruby red blood spilling from my pale lips, waiting for a lover that would never come.

At times, I find it difficult to believe that I shall soon die by the hands of the girl I once considered a dearest friend. The very same hands that fed me and stroked my hair were the ones that delivered that poison-laced scarf. As I lay here, dying, I wonder if I ever knew her at all. All those months in the palace, I had slept by her side, and her face was the first that I saw when I opened my eyes, yet I never knew that she was carrying Julian's-- the Prince's child. And I never knew that she was capable of committing such a heinous act.

Truly, this is not how I envisioned my ending to be. The night of the ball, I had imagined the glorious life I would lead with the Prince, and all the little children we would have. I always thought that dark hair and pale eyes pair incredibly well, and how splendid it would be if we were to have a child with my black hair and his amber eyes. And I had even come up with the names that I would want to give our children. My eldest daughter shall be Victoire Selene, and the second, Anastasia Lucia. If I were to have a son, then I shall name him Elliott, after my own father. I would have very much liked it if my cousin Rafael were to be the godfather of my children, but all of that remains only a dream. He is dead, and soon, I shall be too.

I feel the cold grip of death against my throat again, constricting my breathing until my lungs begin to ache, and I could feel the warm blood spilling from my lips again, dripping onto my neck and chest. The bitter metallic taste fills my mouth once more, and I sensed that my consciousness was waning, fading, as if I were falling into a deep sleep. While I would much prefer dying at the ripe old age of eighty, surrounded by my dear husband and beloved children, I had been blessed with a Shakespearean death instead. At least I am still beautiful.

"The Prince has arrived! And he's brought the antidote with him!"

Oh? But what about my Shakespearean death?

"I thought you would never come," I hear Tristan voice out exuberantly. "Is that the Flower of Anaise?"

"It is," a familiar voice said, only inches away from my ears. I could feel his warm breath fanning my cheeks, and I was certain that if I looked into a mirror, I would see that my cheeks had turned into a brilliant shade of vermilion. "Stop staring at it. She is growing paler and paler by the minute."

"Sorry, Your Highness," my cousin murmured. "It's just that I never thought that I would ever come close to the royal family's greatest relic. These flowers are stuff of fairytale."

As Tristan got to work, I could hear the Prince let out a sigh of relief. His calloused fingers reached for mine, and though his hands were rough, his touch was so soft. "You will be alright soon. Tristan is preparing the antidote as I speak, and you would not be in so much pain anymore."

He tightens his grip. "It must hurt so much, doesn't it? I wish I could take your pain away, my Nina."

His fingers brushed against the corners of my lips, wiping away the blood. It is such a shame that I barely have the strength to even open my eyes. Though I would rather not admit it, I had missed him.

The Prince gently lifted me up and laid me in his arms, resting my head against his chest. His scent was that of rainwater and firewood, contrasting with the sickly sweet lavender perfume and rosewater that wafted throughout the room. Ah, the rain. It is always the rain.

"Wait for me, I will come to you."

"So you did come. You came back to me," I would have said.

My lips slowly curved into a smile, and for once, I felt truly content, truly happy. With that in mind, I allowed sleep to overtake me for good.

"Catarina?" Julian stammered in alarm. Her entire body had become limp, and her skin was cold, unnaturally cold, like that of a corpse. Her chest no longer heaved up and down, and he did not hear her weak, ragged breaths. A sickening silence filled the room, only to be broken by the old grandfather clock as it rang the midnight bell. "Tristan... She is not breathing anymore..."

There was an audible thud as Tristan threw aside the pestle, and he hurriedly scooped out the contents of the mortar and poured it into a small crystal goblet. With trembling hands, he pulled out his chest of medicinal ingredients that had been sitting under the table gathering dust. He unlatched the chest, revealing rows upon rows of vials, jars, and bottles filled with all sorts of ingredients in every shape and colour. On one end, there was dried chamomile, jars of aloe, as well as bottles of salve, and on the other end were rather unorthodox ingredients, such as mummified frog legs, jellied fish eyes, and powdered chicken liver.

However, he was not looking for those things. Instead, he reached for a bottle of spring water and mixed it with the paste, turning it into a funny green concoction. In a sense, this assortment of his somewhat resembled Marguerite le Prince's chest of poisons, except that this one was used to save lives, and Marguerite's was used to take lives.

He rushed towards the bed, goblet in hand. "Here, give it to her," he said to the Prince.

The concoction disappeared down her throat, except for a few stray drops that trickled down her chin. Tristan had expected a miraculous recovery and the sort, since this was a famed, legendary remedy after all. However, his cousin remained silent, her skin still deathly pale, her chest still and unmoving.

"I do not understand," he stammered. "This is the Flower of Anaise. It is inscribed in every medicine book, written in the fairytales, and sung by the children on the street. If it is truly miraculous, then why is she not breathing?"

As Tristan crumpled to the ground, defeated and ashamed of his own failure, guilty for being unable to save the life of his cousin, Julian was left to stare at the corpse of the woman he so deeply loved.

"Forgive me," he whispered. "Oh dear Catarina, do forgive me."

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, allowing his tears to finally fall. He hated how cold her skin was, how pale her lips were. Once, she had been so full of life, so brimming with joy. Her lips were always red and smiling mischievously, and her cheeks were sunkissed by the summer sun.

"Is it nice up there?" he murmured. "I always heard people saying how peaceful death is, how quiet and tranquil it is. Are you happy now?"

He lifted his head, laying his gaze upon the unmoving face of his beloved. "I wish you nothing but peace and happiness, but for as long as I live, there will never be happiness for me. You are my peace, my happiness, Catarina. It is you who made me smile, and without you, I am lost. The world is much duller now. The skies are still blue, and the trees are still green, but they feel dead. I see no more beauty, no more joy, only endless pain and misery."

A teardrop trickled down his chin, splashing down onto Catarina's cheek. "How can I live, when the only life that I have ever known was with you?"

I had expected to see Rafael once I opened my eyes, but instead of my dead cousin, I came face to face with an unfamiliar woman, her lovely features marred by sorrow.

"So soon," she murmured, her sea green eyes downcast as she eyed me from head to toe.

"Pardon me?"

She forced herself to smile. "Your life had come to an end far too soon, my dear child."

For a moment, I felt myself stiffen. The world around me felt surreal, dizzying even, as if I were caught in a dream. I found myself standing in a vast sunflower field, and in the distance, I could see sprawling hills of blue, and the skies... Oh, the skies were a brilliant shade of indigo. How very odd...

The ground seemed to crumble underneath my feet, and I looked down expecting to see the grassy ground, but instead, I saw sand. Behind me, the path between the sunflower field seemed to lead to the open sea. The waves were gentle, and the waters were a deep shade of aubergine.

In awe of this strange, yet enchanting world, I forgot about the woman who stood before me. She took a step towards me, and as she did, the sunflowers seemed to slowly turn to face her, rustling softly as they did so.

"Child, do you like it here?" I heard her say.

"It is lovely, madame. But it does feel off... Please tell, madame, how did I get here?"

She frowned. "You have died, Catarina. And this is the afterlife."

"How do you know my name? I never told you that, and who are you?"

"Of course I know your name. I chose that name for you, my daughter."

It took a moment for me to put the pieces together. We had the same dark hair, the same features even. Our eyes, however, were different. Her eyes were a lovely mixture of green and blue, like the waters that surrounded the Southern Coast, while mine were inky black, just like my father's. Then, I was reminded of the portrait hunt in my father's study. The same face, the same hair, the same eyes. The only difference was that this woman was flesh and bone, and the woman I was used to seeing was paint and old varnish on top of a canvas. She is much more beautiful in person.

"Mother?" I found myself saying. "Are you truly my mother?"

I found it difficult to believe that this young, stunning woman was indeed my mother, but just like myself, she too had died at a young age. She tearfully nodded, and I felt myself being pulled into a warm hug. Her scent was that of lavenders and roses, the exact scent that wafts through her old quarters.

"I want to stay here. I want to stay with you. I... I missed you so much.. I've always wanted to meet you, Mother."

Mother. The word felt so foreign, yet it rolled down my tongue with ease. Perhaps, I had always wanted to utter it.

"I missed you too," she choked in between sobs. "But you cannot stay here. You must live, Catarina. You must be happy."

"But what about you? This is a beautiful place, but is it not terribly lonesome here?"

She let out a chuckle. "My father and brother are here, as well as my sister-in-law. My good friend, Miriam Breckenridge, is here too. You mustn't worry about me, hm? Now go, Catarina, and do not come back for another sixty years."

As she uttered those words, I felt myself weaken. The skies seemed to disintegrate, and the beautiful face of my mother gradually faded away. As my vision darkened, I heard her say, "Live a long and happy life, my sweet child."

And then, I woke up.

A/N: Hi! I hope that all of you enjoyed the chapter! Also, I am here to inform you that I have recently began to continue writing Eleanora's story, A Gilded Cage. The love story between Eleanora and Nicholas isn't explored in this story at all, since this is Catarina's story after all. Therefore, in A Gilded Cage, Eleanora and Nicholas take the centre stage. If you liked this story, I'm sure that you'll love A Gilded Cage too. I had published a new chapter recently, so I hope to see you there :)