If I could not disappear, then I would be a thorn. Not a ruin, per se, or a catalyst for destruction of any kind. I was devoid of aspirations of anguish and power, and making footstools of my enemies certainly seemed like a task too exhausting. I was not cruel or evil or hateful, but I was a petty creature.

That was why when I was bound and led away, I spat on the shoes of the man who chained me. It was why when I was bundled into the carriage for the long, long ride back to the capital, I didn't speak even to answer when questioned. I listened, though, to every word that was said for any hint of why I had been falsely captured and what would be done with me. I knew I was not a thief, and I had not stolen the crystal. Was I being framed? To what end? Moreover, what was the point of framing me for a petty crime and dragging me all the way to the capital?

I thought of my uncle. I thought of the upcoming coronation. My stomach churned. Still, I had no answers, and I clung to my petty spite to keep me grounded.

Upon our arrival in the palace city days later, I was hauled out of the carriage at the back entrance to a huge theater. It was extravagant even from the back, decorated with gold and blue and purple, and curving up to form a domed roof. My mind suddenly screamed public execution. My innards coiled even tighter. I turned to flee, but the soldier kept a firm hand on my cuffed wrists. Not to mention my leg was still smarting from my fall, though the swelling had gone down significantly.

I was hauled inside without grace and led down winding hallways until I came to a small but no less exquisite dressing room packed with gowns and fiddly tidbits of beautifying. A woman was waiting there at the vanity, comb and makeup brush brandished like weapons. The lights flickered ominously. My guard sat me down harshly on the stool and left me with this new threat.

Public execution. My heart thrummed against my ribs, rattled my insides, and rang like the bells of a grave. I did not want to die. I did not want magic either, if it even deemed me worthy.

The woman made quick work of me, stuffing me into a flowy blue dress and cinching the waist with a green sash. She adorned my neck in silver like a pretty noose. To my waist, she pinned a pale pink carnation with a crystal at its center. It too was hung with bells like my ears. My hair fell loose about my shoulders, touching my waist. I jolted upright as she combed it. Then I thrashed until her attempts to style it were foiled. She gave up with a huff and left it down, pinning silver at the crown of my head instead.

"Most girls want to look pretty before they die," she said plainly, and it rang the same as what the soldiers had said in the carriage.

I gritted my teeth. The caged thing inside me raged. I refused to be cowed by the court, to play their silly death game. When my guard returned to fetch me, I stood sharply, startling the woman. "You must believe your death is quite far away then," I said.

That twisted her terrible, wrinkled face, but I was dragged away before I could find proper satisfaction in it. I wondered pitifully what Mother was doing. If she would try to have me released. If she knew it was pointless. If she missed me.

The guard, my constant companion, grabbed my arm and hurried our pace. His grip was a vise, unlike his tongue which was always loose. He was talking again as he walked me to another door—one I knew would lead us inside the massive theater—but I tuned him out. He was never not talking, I had learned.

The double doors, glittering and gilded, swung open. For a moment, I was blinded by the light glancing off every unnecessarily shiny thing in the room. I heard the rustle of a great crowd, the tittering of those who might recognize me (or at least found amusement in my being there, for I did not look like a court woman no matter what dress I was shoved into. My elbows were too bony, my face too mean, and my hair less than shiny). As I was led down the walkway, half blind beneath the glare of harsh electric lights, I thought perhaps I would look pretty.

Then it was spite that kept my spine straight and my chin high. It was spite that kept my steps steady. I would be a pretty thing, sure, but I would be so pretty that no one dared lay a finger on me again. The kind of pretty that made men think twice. The kind of pretty that made women feel shamed. The kind of untouchable, perfectly hateable, wretched pretty. A spiteful, petty sort of pretty.

The kind of petty, shifting thorn that would make my uncle wish he had left me to my devices.

I would not be a fearful little girl, wrongfully accused, brought to her knees in tears, and buried with countless regrets. That was the kind of girl who could rise from death a pawn. If I was to grasp magic at my death, I would rise from death a bane.

When I was seated—roughly, because the man who guarded others from me knew neither silence nor kindness—I was still only long enough for my dear uncle to take the stage. It was a raised platform surrounded by water, glittering and unnecessary like all things in the palace city. It was below my special box, and he had a perfect view of me from the podium. I knew because he looked as soon as he got there and grimaced.

When I knew he could see me, I made small talk with the woman beside me. She was a haughty thing with big hair, a pound of makeup, and a skirt so large it filled her seat. My never-silent guard was seated on her other side. Their matching rings gleamed in the light. Did he think I would be intimidated by such a creature? Or maybe he thought I'd be tamed.

I was bored, instead, each time she opened her mouth. I tried to beat her in conversation. At first she attempted to shush me as though my uncle's speech was of any importance to either of us—like she hadn't been talking through it earlier. As I continued to press, asking after the fine handiwork of her carefully embroidered sleeves, she caved.

I seemed like such a nice girl, she told me finally. It was such a shame that my dear uncle would have me executed by morning.

A shame indeed. My gaze snagged on a loose thread, a hole where her sleeve had worn thin. Truly, a shame.

"Anywhere would be better than here," I told her, and then I began to pull on the thread. It was not such a well made garment after all, for my touch so easily unraveled it. My fingers tore a hole into her sleeve. My never-silent watchdog ordered me to stop. My face stung where the woman struck me. My uncle had stopped his speech to look up at the commotion I had caused.

I was no tool of great destruction, nothing more than a crime of fashion—and hardly anything worse than what the woman had been wearing in the first place—yet I was wrestled to the ground. I tasted the floor and bit through my tongue. Then I was hauled up. Perhaps I was yelled at once I was out of the assembly hall. I didn't much care. I was busy leaning against the wall in such a way that the guard could not see me press the soles of my shoes to it. They weren't terribly muddy, but they would leave some mark, at least, on these horrid walls with their gold filigree.

The man told me I was behaving like a child. I told him this place made me feel childish for I had left it when I was still small. He told me to grow up. I told him I had no plans to do so because my dear uncle intended to execute me in the morning.

My dignity was in shreds. It usually was when death knocked. I would die a fool's death, so maybe I'd do well to get into character first.

I didn't feel so terribly pretty anymore. Or spiteful or petty. Instead I felt small and stupid, and I suppose I was.

When the speeches ended, a crown was placed upon my uncle's head. He was met with applause. I did not clap nor even rise from my seat, and I made certain he saw my inaction. A glance was all he got before I was hauled away again.

~~

"What is wrong with you?" Uncle asked, his deep voice booming in the overly grand room. Its high ceilings were perfect for such an occasion because they created such an echo that the only thing anyone could hear was his voice, which was how he liked it.

"I didn't know you were so sentimental," I said instead of answering him because I could not swallow any sort of answer. "If you wanted me at your coronation, you should have sent mail. I'd have thrown it in the fire without opening it, of course, but it would at least be the polite thing to do." Sending his men to attack, arrest, and harass me at my place of work was kingly, perhaps, but also unfortunate.

He whirled on me, his pacing finally stopped. His old, dark eyes were wild. If hate were a living thing, I imagined it would have a face much like his: wrinkled like a forgotten raisin on the pantry floor, an impressive and mean brow bone, and thin lips that I didn't believe any self-respecting woman would ever want to kiss (yet somehow, his wife did. Their affection was beyond me).

"Sentimental? Toward you?" he was saying. "You misunderstand your position."

"I understand perfectly well. I heard it all the way back here—that I'll be executed, and good riddance too, because who would want the late king's bastard daughter wandering the streets unsupervised? You never know what sort of trouble someone like that might get into." Never mind that only the highest of people in the palace city cared, the fancy sort of folks who couldn't see past their own noses. Like my uncle, who was never such a thing until it suited him.

I wasn't sure it suited him now. He didn't wear death well.

He withdrew from me, pinching his great hooked nose and sighing deeply. "I have turned a blind eye to you for six years and this is the respect I get?"

I snorted. "A blind eye? You? I saw the way you looked at me when you saw I was there for your speech. You didn't know where I was until I was arrested." Why he went through so many hoops instead of quietly locking me away was beyond me.

"You needed to appear one last time," he said.

"Is my execution not going to be public enough for you?"

"You will die tomorrow, yes, but then I have work for you."

I forgot to be a thorn. I forgot to be petty and rude. I forgot to be everything, even to exist. For a moment, I was frozen and so was time, simply staring in dumb disbelief until finally I managed, "Excuse me?"

This might be pretty obvious, but I had actually written a large portion of this chapter before I really committed to writing the whole book. It was sort of a test run for Celestine's POV and the general vibes of the story. It's a bit strange, I will admit, but I do still enjoy it lol.