A melody weaves through the air, carried on the sweet, morning breeze that sweeps into my room. It chimes a stream of whistling, falsetto notes before dropping to warbling lows. Dancing up and down an octave, it rests on a final, silvery pitch. The sound fades with the night's darkness, shoved aside by orangey rays that burst through my open window.

Amongst silken sheets, I sit with perfect, upright posture on my bed, a habit drilled into me over the past four years. The rising sun sprinkles golden rays across the wooden floor while I slip a brush through my dark brown hair. After ten minutes of brushing, not one tangle catches on the tines, and the strands glisten in the waxing light. The hair of a Princess, Mother used to say. Each sparkle is that of a million jeweled crowns, declaring my royal status. I used to tell her that my status wasn't from birth, that I wasn't a true royal. She'd just kiss my head and say that perhaps I was always meant to be a princess.

The twitters of birds sing outside, fainter and less melodious than the previous refrain, but still pleasant. I never noticed the birds' morning songs until four years ago, soon after my mother passed. Soon after she was murdered. Funny how their tunes grew brighter after such a tragedy. One in particular woke me every morning with its cascades of notes, almost as beautiful as the pieces composed for the king.

A yawn tugs at my lips, and I stretch, first my legs straight in front of me, then my arms above my head. I roll off my bed and land in an uncomfortable crouch on the ground. I push myself to my feet, then lean back to stretch once more. There is no hurry to dress this morning, and no maids to chide my sluggishness. The next three days are those of freedom, maybe even four if I am lucky.

I amble to my ceiling-high wardrobe pressed against the wall. Inside, a baby-blue gown hangs on the back of the wardrobe's door, indicating the dress my maids selected for me to wear today. The satin fabric slips off the hanger with one tug and slinks fluidly over me as I pull it over my head, stopping just above my ankles. It's a simple design, plain blue with a white corset in the front, since I need to lace it myself. My fingers tighten it with a few pulls, tying a bow in front to keep it in place. I turn to the mirror on the wall for one final check of my appearance before leaving my room.

Servants in black shirts and pants bustle past me in the halls, carrying garlands, roses, towels, and boxes. Others sweep the red-and-gold swirl carpet or clean the sandstone-colored walls. Ahead, at the edge of the hallway, a maid stands on a ladder with a hammer in one hand, while another gives her a long, green garland. I walk to the circular cut-out in the center of the floor, overlooking the first floor. Servants scrub the tile floor, and even more hurry past them, arms full of decor and tools.

"Are you just going to stand there all day?" a voice asks. I turn to see Wolfgang, the servant responsible for the royal children. His wrinkled face, quite the contrast to his crisp suit and white, ruffled shirt, holds a neutral expression. No amusement, no irritation, just a simple expression that conveys his undying duty to the King. Part of that duty is ensuring that the royal children make it to breakfast. He never falters in this task, never deviates from the rules, as if doing so will add another streak of white to his already gray hair.

"I wouldn't dream of skipping breakfast," I reply. "Though it doesn't really matter when I eat. I have no schedule today as you already know."

"Princess Clemaina refuses to start breakfast until all arrive," Wolfgang states.

I roll my eyes. Of course she follows Court protocol, even on days such as today.

"Thanks for letting me know," I say with a tight smile.

"Of course, Princess Aylo." Wolfgang walks away, stiff as a toy soldier.

I hurry to the Salon of the West Wing. Three sit at the long dining table behind the sitting area. Clemaina sits at the head of the table, her purple, silken skirts spilling over the sides of the chair. A cool smile pulls back her rounded cheeks, tinted with pink.

"So glad you could join us," my sister greets.

"I have to," I murmur. I plop into the seat across from my brother, Sigvard. His brown eyes glare at me, and I hear his stomach growl.

"Couldn't you have come a little bit sooner?" he complains.

I shrug, and Clemaina claps her hands. Seconds of silence pass, and irritation grows on my brother's angular face. He and I always looked more alike, taking on the same wide forehead, thin cheeks, and pointed jaw of our mother. Clemaina always had a fuller heart-shaped face. Perhaps that's why she's so loopy for her fiancé.

Clemaina clears her throat and claps her hands louder. James hurries around the corner. A silver tray balances on his fingertips, bearing a blue teapot and three matching cups. He places the tray in the center of the table, then disappears once more. Sigvard throws his head against the chair. A groan escapes him, and his hand rubs the back of his brown hair.

"You ought to be more careful," Clemaina chides in a calm, high-pitched voice. She almost sounds like she sang a lullaby. Sigvard just rolls his eyes toward the hall.

Moments later, James returns with our full breakfast. The three of us receive decreasing portions of food. Sausage, potatoes, scrambled eggs, and three pieces of toast crowd Sigvard's plate. Mine is half the size, and at Clemaina's request, her plate contains more white space than food.

We eat in silence. There's little to discuss with Sigvard, and even less with Clemaina. It's like she's trapped in her own royal bubble, consumed with real and imaginary duties. Even now, she takes a single bite of food and chews it for an eternity while staring at Sigvard and me. Then, she takes a tiny sip of tea and savors it for at least twenty seconds before swallowing. Her performance only lacks proper conversation as is customary at lunch-ins and tea times with the ladies of court. She gave up on small talk during our mealtimes long ago.

My fork scratches the bottom of the plate as I scrape up the remaining herbs and crumbs. Clemaina wrinkles her nose, still chewing on her food.

"It isn't polite to scrape the bottom of your plate like that," Clemaina says.

I set my fork down and make eye contact with Sigvard. His nut-brown eyes shift to the exit, and we get up from the table in unison.

"Where are you going?" Clemaina demands.

"We have no schedule today," I call back. "Remember?"

I hear her huff just as Sigvard and I round the corner. My brother laughs once we're sure that Clamaina's out of earshot.

"We get three days of freedom each year, and she wants to follow court etiquette?" Sigvard shakes his head. "We have plenty of time for that when we get older."

"She is older," I point out.

"Still, she doesn't have to be such a bother."

We stroll through a side corridor and arrive in a small sitting area. Sigvard plops onto one of the velvet couches.

"So what are we doing today?"

I walk to the window overlooking the gardens. Trees tower beyond, a canopy of green dotted with pink blossoms. I can practically smell the sweet scent of flowers carried on the breeze tousling the leaves. Sunlight bathes the forest, not a cloud in the sky.

"A lovely day," I murmur.

"You want to go outside?"

I stare out a moment longer before facing him. "No."

"What?"

"Let's go upstairs."

"Why? It's such a nice day."

"We'll probably be outside the next two days for the Festival of Fallen Roses. I'm going to the attic."

"But—"

"Come on." I grab his wrist and tug him toward the corridor. He holds back, and pain stings my shoulder. I release his wrist.

As a child, I never had a problem dragging him along on my adventures. But over the years, the most unfortunate dilemma developed: he grew up.

"Fine. I'll go myself."

"You're going to the antique lounge, aren't you?"

"Of course. Where else?"

Sigvard flops against the couch. "But Father doesn't want—"

"We're not going to break anything," I say. "Come on!"

I start down the hall. Sigvard's dress shoes clink behind me on the newly waxed floor. I smile to myself and pause so he can catch up. Some things people never grow out of. For my fifteen-year-old brother, following me around is one of them.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☀. :☆ﾟ｡･ ───

The stuffy mixture of wood, chemical polish, and gunpowder permeates the antique lounge. I hold the door for Sigvard to enter, then ease the door against the frame. Slowly, I release the knob, making no sound. Sigvard sits on a three-hundred-year-old couch, laced with intricate gold thread amidst the cushions. I join him, though I might as well sit on the floor. The cushions are stiffer than the way Wolfgang walks. I lean against the wooden backing, and my eyes fall naturally on the intricately carved fireplace in front of me. Tiny figurines line the ebony mantle, each from a different kingdom. The small space contains many centuries' worth of travel and trade, alliances and battles.

My eyes land on two objects in the center. One is a heart, fashioned of blue-tinted glass. The ceramic figurine of a woman stands beside it. A navy coat covers all but her pale face and gloved hands. The detail never ceases to amaze me—every brush stroke resembling fur, the slightest ripple by her feet, her slightly raised index finger. Due to Saursi tradition, Clemaina and I had tutors for the arts. It's a way to show class and contribute to cultural tradition. But the pottery I craft can't compare to that figurine's beauty.

I glance at my brother. His eyes are glazed, trained on the mantle.

"Thinking about mother?" I ask.

Sigvard blinks out of his thoughts, looking around until he focuses on me. He exhales a sigh. "I guess she's the reason you like to come in here around this time."

"There's more assurance we won't get caught," I reply. "All the servants are occupied with decorations, so no one's checking up on us."

The arrangement was a deal Sigvard and I struck with King Ivandor, our step-father (though we just address him as Father), after Mother died. He agreed he needed as many hands as possible to prepare the kingdom for the biggest, most extravagant celebrations of The Festival of Fallen Roses. Thus, he allowed us three days without lessons or the pampering of servants. Just those three days, though. And once we assume official positions in the kingdom, that freedom will probably end.

"It's kind of fitting, I suppose," Sigvard continues. "A visual reminder of what we're celebrating."

"The lives and impact of all the Saursi Queens," I say.

I stare at the mementos. The ceramic doll of Queen Xenia rests beside the sapphire heart of my mother, Queen Dianne. They ruled in succession beside King Ivandor, first Queen Xenia, then after her death, my mother joined him on the throne. Now, we honor them during the festival. Both are fallen roses; both are dead.

I stand from my seat after a few minutes and pace across the room. A wooden display case shows off guns and rifles from battles long forgotten. My history tutor once brought me here to show me replicas of old cannons used in war. Three populate the bottom shelf beside a crossbow and arrows. I move on to the next table, the square surface forming a chessboard. Yellow stains the ivory pieces, and the obsidian ones need polish. Dust cakes the wooden grooves between spaces. It looks worse every year, testimony to the Antique Lounge's rare usage. Father ought to have the servants clean them more often. But I can't tell him without revealing that I entered the lounge without permission.

A clicking sound rings in the hall outside. Sigvard's head whips toward the door.

"Aylo, we—"

"Shh," I hiss.

Sigvard clamps his mouth shut and fits his wiry body under the sofa. I dart across the room to a bookcase that fills almost the entire wall. I slip inside a space between the peeling wood and the vintage wallpaper. My heart thumps in my chest, and I take deep breaths to steady myself, focusing on the purple damask curtains behind the chess table.

The footsteps recede, and silence stills the hall. I wait a minute before inching from behind the bookcase. Sigvard crawls from his hiding spot and leans against the couch frame.

"That was close," he says. "Too close. Let's go."

"What? Even after all that military training, you're scared of a servant finding us?" I turn my attention to the bookcase. At least a hundred books line the shelves.

"There's a difference between being scared and prudence."

I pull a thick book from the shelf, its blue cover faded. My thumb flips through the pages, releasing an earthy, yet slightly sweet aroma, like wood mixed with vanilla.

"Then leave," I say, not looking up.

"Ugh," Sigvard groans. "You don't even like to read."

"I like to read these books." I slide the book back into place, then grab the one beside it. Elaborate pictures decorate the inside, full of castles, forests, and fairies.

"Yeah, cause you're not supposed to."

My eyes skim over the frayed spines. The titles' ink had faded long ago, so picking up books was a guessing game never short of surprises. I recognize a few books I started during previous visits. It's fun to read the old-time language, discover what entertained people in previous eras. Some are gifts from other kingdoms or written in ancient languages, making them even more exciting to explore. I step along the row, searching for my next read. My eyes linger on one with a gray cover. Silver swirls along the spine, and flaking letters title it "Legends Beyond Time."

"Sigvard, can you grab this book for me?" I ask.

"What, so you can stay here longer? Not a chance."

I face him, summoning my most pleading face. "Please?"

"No." His face locks in a scowl.

"Fine. I guess I'll just have to climb onto the bookcase myself and risk toppling the whole thing over. Then we'll both get in trouble for being in here."

Two seconds pass. With a groan, Sigvard hauls himself to his feet. He's at least half a foot taller than me and doesn't even stand on his tiptoes to reach the book.

"Here," he mutters.

I receive it and immediately trace my finger over the smooth calligraphy on the cover.

"Thank you."

I expect a sarcastic remark, but Sigvard doesn't speak. He reaches up again for a black leather book, angling the side toward me.

"Read this."

Grooves dug along the spine spell the name "Odeia." I grab it from him and open the cover. The title page, written in perfect cursive, states "The Second Journal of Odeia Sophfeu."