I did indeed need to energy to face Amelie's onslaught of preparation the next day.

Even though the 15th was only three days away, she was getting Perry a new suit made and ordering bolts of very fine silks to serve as tablecloths. We dealt with the decor in the mornings, then over luncheon discussed menus. A large part of me wanted to sabotage Gavrila's reception, but I knew if I tried to do that, he may figure out that I was here, or Amelie may reign in her kindness. So I pretended to have opinions on nearly identical rolls of lace and possible starters, smiling at everything she picked.

Luncheon was long devoured, but as we sat in the sitting room, still poring over selections and arrangements, my stomach rumbled.

"Right, so if we have champagne with the appetizers before we sit down, then do we go for white or red wine with the starters?" Amelie turned to me, her eyes a little puffy, still wildly flicking between me and the menu she was drafting.

I racked my brains back to the dinners I'd suffered through at the palace, alcohol being their main selling point despite the glares I got from any of the girls when I necked it. "The Ilragese staple is rosé with starter, red with main, white with desert. Then there's coffee with the cheese, followed by port for once the ladies have retired." One night after a dinner where Gavrila particularly ignored me, I crept along behind the king, princes, Lord Turner and the male chaperones. They all went into a room with a massive billiards table and drank port whilst playing, none of them seeming that interested.

"Alright." Amelie noted those down. "I'll ask Grey to send some samples up in a while. Merde what's next?" She muttered under her breath. "Breakfast," She turned back to me with a cheery smile. "Why don't we just have a sort of sit down buffet for the entourage, then we'll send up breakfast to the Prince and princess in their suite?"

I nodded along, something tasting rather like jealousy rising in my throat.

"If we send up eggs, toast, some meats, maybe porridge, do you think that'd suffice?"

"Oranges." I sputtered before I had really processed her question.

Amelie cocked her head in confusion.

"The prince would like oranges with his breakfast. Fresh ones. From my orangery."

I had barely noticed that I was digging my fingertips into the blue velvet of the couch. Tears pooled in my eyes for reasons unbeknownst to me.

"Alright." Amelie soothed in matronly tones, putting her clipboard down to sit next to me. She took my head into her hands and hushed me gently. "Let's talk about it now. Come on, chérie, why are you crying?"

I shrugged against her, crying openly. A bit of my hair stuck to my face. "I don't - don't know why." I managed to force out between sobs.

"Alright. Hush now, chérie." Amelie sat me back up slowly. "Let's talk about the Prince. Have you met him before?"

My head nodded quickly, more hair springing loose from my bun and hanging across my face.

"When did you meet him?"

"The season. Last winter."

"Did you talk to him."

Nod.

"Did you you like him?"

"So much," I managed two words, both falling blows on my throat.

Amelie sat back, again her eyes fell to the ring around my neck. "Is that from him?" She asked quietly, taking my head back to her shoulder when I nodded. "You should've told me this before, chérie. Are you engaged to him?"

It hurt me to shake my head again. "He - he proposed. I said no because I don't want to be married. I don't want to be queen. Then he - he cut me, he thought I was the spy and he tried to execute me and then I left and when I came back he was already gone to the Palais." The words came hard and fast and left me breathless.

Amelie's gentle smile was replaced by a frown. "He cut you? With what?"

"His sword." I mumbled, focusing on the quicks of my nails instead of her.

"Had he ever hurt you before? Had he hit you? Made you feel bad about yourself?"

I shrugged and nodded, thinking that if I kept quiet, the memories of every time I sobbed my heart out behind his back would stay in my head.

Amelie muttered something which was too Baracosian for me to fully catch before taking back my hands. "Well that explains some things. And all along I thought you were just grieving your family." She cupped my cheek in her hand, brushing the last few stray tears from my eyes. "Cherie, you've been coming to terms with escaping an abusive relationship. So it's absolutely fine to cry. Did your Maman explain the seven stages of grief to you?"

I shook my head, feeling strong enough to sit up, to revisit memories of Mama. I had loved both my parents dearly, but as the middle child I had less attention. Mama followed the twins about all the times, teaching them the things they needed to know for the futures they had now lost.

Amelie took up her clipboard again, taking off the menu to leave a blank sheet. On the sheet, she wrote the words

Shock

Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

I looked back up to her, confused. "I'm not depressed," I pointed out. I wasn't angry either, or denying much.

Amelie inclined her head towards the page again as she added to the list. She wrote my name in the space between depression and acceptance. Then she wrote Perry's next to anger, Jon's below acceptance, and finally hers beside denial.

"These are the stages of grief." Amelie spoke slowly, as though I was almost a child. "People tend to go through them in that order. Do you see, you're nearly there. You're nearly at acceptance."

The paper seemed to offer me some consolation, some hope. Perhaps there would be a time then when I could confront him, when I could return the ring. Then another thought clouded my mind.

"But what are you three grieving?"