Olivia

When Lucienne pulls the lever, the light is blinding. Pure sunlight beams from the three mirrors, causing each of us to cry out and flinch back. Lucienne is quick to reassure us that the video can take time to calibrate, and slowly, the light begins to dim.

Three perspectives come into focus, all different angles of the palace dining hall. We have taken no risks in this regard. One LucyBug is hidden in the chandelier; one is nestled inside the flowers of Edgar’s boutonniere; the last is embedded into Ezra’s left cufflink. Viewing the scene from three angles simultaneously, we want to make sure that absolutely nothing will be missed.

We have become the fly on the wall in the most secret of state proceedings: the private royal dinner. In attendance are His Majesty the King, the Crown Prince and Princess, Ezra and Edgar, Count and Countess Guildenstern, and of course, their precious daughter Lady Olivia. After the main courses are served, even the guards and maids will be dismissed from the dining hall. This is where politics happen. Not the King’s court, or the princes’ desks, or even the boardrooms stuffed with bureaucrats. No, here. The royal dinner table, when all parties involved are confident that no one else is listening.

By the time we are able to join the dinner, it is well into the second round of appetizers. I would have preferred to watch the whole thing, beginning to end, but we would have had to leave the engagement party suspiciously early and book it across town in record time. Moretti assures me that we haven’t missed much. While the chefs are displaying their ornately-crafted salad sculptures and the sommelier is rambling on about vintage reds, nothing of substance will be said.

This appears to be the case, as for a while, it just looks like a normal dinner party. King Edwinn III is at the head of the table; as the guests, Count and Countess Guildenstern, sit to his right. Prince Edgar sits to the King’s left, with a suspiciously empty chair on the other side of him. The other three seats are occupied by the Twins and Ezra. Having worked alongside my uncle Ezra for longer now, I find it less unsettling how often he is drunk and more unsettling how often he pretends to be drunk—while, in reality, still as sharp as a fillet knife. The act and the real thing are nigh indistinguishable.

Right now, Ezra is characteristically tipsy and ill-mannered, resting his elbows on the table as he tells some artfully embellished tale of a stag hunting trip gone terribly wrong. He’s working the room. Even through the mirrors, there is a tangible tension in orbit around the empty dining chair. Count and Countess Guildenstern (wholly unremarkable in appearance; you could swap them out for any generic nobleman and woman without any impact on the scene whatsoever) cast frequent wary glances towards Edgar, who is silent and withdrawn as he slowly picks at his salad. Crown Prince Edwinn IV’s smiles are strained, never quite meeting his eyes. And the King is very, very silent. But Ezra’s tale always pulls the audience back. He stirs up some laughter, and as he finishes his story, he even takes the bottle of wine from the sommelier, circles around the dining table, and fills everyone’s glasses extra high. It is strange, but I see echoes of my mother in him—though often crass and mannerless in her own right, Mom never fails to make every guest smile. I am certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was she who taught Ezra everything he knows.

For a few minutes, I am even tempted to say that this dinner is not so bad after all. Besides my father’s gloomy and introverted demeanor (which, I have been told, is not entirely out of character even on a good day), the Guildensterns are laughing and chatting pleasantly with the Royal Family, as if nothing at all were wrong. But I am glad I do not speak too soon. Suddenly, both the sky above us and the dining hall windows alight with a second blinding flash: lightning, then a horrible crack of thunder so loud and reverberating that I am not sure whether it is closer to us or the palace, with such force that the palace’s power flickers in and out.

At the same time, the doors to the dining hall fly open. As if the gods themselves have personally summoned this devil to earth, there in the entrance appears Lady Olivia Guildenstern.

As the dining hall electricity comes back on, I get my first close view of Olivia. It is undoubtedly her, but at the same time, nothing like I remember. The Olivia at my execution was luxurious and glamorous, the pinnacle of modern high fashion, all bright makeup and high contrast and glimmering rhinestones. A “new money” look—a garish display of freshly earned wealth. But that is not the Olivia I see today. Her hair is a natural chestnut-brown, not platinum; and loosely gathered in a ribbon, not starched and coiffed. Her gown is a conservative champagne color in the lace-trimmed, faux-pastoral style customary to the nobility in the past decade; her jewelry consists only of simple, antique heirloom pieces. She does not even appear to be wearing makeup. Nowadays, Lady Olivia dresses like old money.

And she is undoubtedly very, very beautiful. But no beauty can distract from the fact that she, very recently, has been crying.

As soon as Olivia enters, the dining hall goes silent. Olivia walks stiffly, with her hands balled up into fists at her side. Countess Guildenstern gets up at once and goes to her daughter’s side. “There she is. Oh, sweetie, are you alright?” the Countess asks.

“I’m fine, Mother,” says Olivia.

Her voice is much higher and lighter than I expected—fragile, like it could shatter any minute. Countess Guildenstern hovers around her until she sits in the empty chair beside Edgar, who looks like he would like the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

The service doors open a second later. The chef walks out with a parade of butlers in tow, carrying covered silver platters. “Your Majesty. Your Highnesses. Your Graces. For our third course—”

The King waves his hand, beckoning the chef to stop talking and come closer. Confused, he does. “Aubert. If we could dispense with the presentation and proceed to the main course, that would be much appreciated.”

The poor chef opens his mouth, likely to ask a follow up question, but his gaze soon flicks over to the forlorn creature in champagne-colored lace. He notes her red-rimmed eyes and crusty nose, then wisely closes his mouth.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” says the chef. “I will have all the entrée dishes brought out at once.”

While the servants bring out the main course, the dining hall is silent as a tomb. Not a single soul speaks. Only Ezra is bold enough to lift his glass to his lips, but a pointed glare from Princess Emerlane seems to discourage him from doing it again. As if a paralysis spell has been cast upon every guest at the table, they are stone still until the last of the servants have filed out of the room. King Edwinn III waves his hand, and the guards follow. Only once the door shuts behind the last guard does the spell end.

Edgar exhales. “Olivia…”

“Don’t even fucking talk to me right now,” she snaps. Her jaw is trembling. She is on the verge of bursting into tears again.

The room is dead silent for another minute or so. No one has touched the food. It is a collection of the largest lobsters I have ever seen, and they are growing woefully cold. The first person to break the impasse is Emerlane, who, with a great sigh, reaches to fill her plate with freakishly large lobster limbs.

“Livvy, I mean this with all the love in the world,” Emerlane tells her, “but you must have known that this was a long time coming.”

“Emerlane,” the King scolds.

“What? I’m just saying what we were all thinking,” she says. (I decide that I like this woman.) “Edgar, you’ve devoted how many years of your life now in escaping this engagement? Thirty-something?”

“Twenty-nine,” Edgar murmurs.

“Twenty-nine. I was there, you know, when Mum first announced it. You were seven years old. You got up from the table, threw down your bib, and started making fake throw-up noises into a wastebin. Olivia, darling, you know I care for you. I would love to have you as my sister-in-law. But we have been friends for too long for me to let this go on.”

“So you’ve taken his side?” Olivia retorts. “You don’t want me as a sister-in-law?”

Emerlane opens her mouth to respond, then closes it with a pressed smile. Then she shakes her head and starts to cut into her lobster. “I…literally just said the opposite.”

“I think we can all agree, however,” Count Guildenstern speaks up, “that the manner in which this was announced was vastly inappropriate.”

“Hear, hear,” says Edwinn IV, raising his glass.

“The Alamar Isles have not been recognized as a sovereign nation in decades,” says Guildenstern. “Most Saelic citizens do not even know where it is! Suddenly announcing that a dissolved island nation has produced some sort of theocratic dignitary, then declaring Edgar’s intent to marry her as if it is part of some well-established diplomatic marriage? Throwing in some secret grand duchess, to boot? And all in the same Friday afternoon, on a slow week with no other major breaking news. This is bait for the tabloids, a low-brow effort to rile up high society.”

“And to turn the public opinion against Lady Olivia,” Edwinn IV adds.

“Oh, shut up, Winny,” Edgar snarls.

“Are you drunk, Edgar?” asks the King.

“No, I am not. I’m pretty angry, though.” Reflexively, Edgar starts to reach for his own glass, then seems to reconsider and retracts his hand. “I’ll reserve the bulk of my argument for my day in court; I have quite enough words for Mom and her lawyers, I assure you. But you all listen here—I did it this way for a reason. And that reason is that you people can’t take no for an answer.”

“What my dear brother means to say is that…certain information has come to light that will be mutually destructive, both for the Guildensterns and the Rosencrantzes alike,” Ezra cuts in. “This is the safest way that it can be neutralized.”

“Really? And what’s your part in this, Ezra?” asks Edwinn IV. “Did you supply the wench? Your ‘contacts’ in the red light district, I presume?”

“Hey, Winny?” Edgar pushes his chair back and stands.

“Yes, Gary?” Edwinn IV replies.

“Say that about my wife again. And savor it. It’ll be the last fucking thing you ever say.”

“Your wife!” Olivia cries. “Your wife!”

She buries her face in her hands and wails. Immediately, Countess Guildenstern rushes around the table to comfort her.

“Edgar!” the King barks.

“What?” Edgar barks back.

“Apologize at once.”

“To who? To Winny? I’d rather choke, thanks. To Olivia, I am sorry. But this isn’t about you. It’s never been about you.”

“That’s a lie,” Count Guildenstern retorts. “Do you think we don’t remember the annulment? We were there. Your own clerk testified that Olivia was at the center of all of it. From its very inception, this whole ploy has been to escape your betrothal—”

“And so what?” Edgar splays his arms out wide. “Sue me. Breach of contract. I’ll admit liability, no problem. I’ll give you a settlement that your great-great-great-great-grandchildren will thank you for. Because I’ll have obols out the wazoo if things work out my way—what with the Northerners backing us.”

“You insufferable little…” Count Guildenstern begins, but the second that Edgar mentions the Northerners, he falters. “With the…what?”

“That’s impossible!” Countess Guildenstern stands up. “They would have no reason to ally with you—”

“With all due respect, Your Graces, but that is where you are incorrect,” Ezra cuts in. “You saw it yourself, Amira’s bodyguards? Genuine, ethically sourced barbarians. Well, your spies saw them, at least. Not very subtle, sending a steward with your house crest on a brooch…? Anyway, I digress. I can verify it myself that the Lady Amira Al’Kilic has, indeed, independently obtained the full counsel and support of the Northern seafarers.”

“How?” the Count gasps.

“Indeed, how?” Edwinn IV leans forward. “Has she some…secret guild of shipbuilders that we are unaware of?”

“No,” says Edgar abruptly. “Something better. She has a daughter…a daughter pledged to marry their future Oberjarl.”

EXHIBIT 49.

In support of his petition to His Majesty’s Court of Pleas, Petitioner EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ comes now and enters into evidence the following:

Photographic facsimile of a handwritten letter, written by Petitioner and addressed to Imogen Rossach, entrusted to Mr. Peter J. Pym. As alleged in the Petition, Paragraph 85, Subparagraphs A-F, Mr. Pym willfully failed to deliver Exhibit 49 to its address.

Petitioner requests that this Honorable Court take judicial notice of the following:

That Exhibit 49, unlike the majority of Petitioner's letters to Imogen Rossach, was not entrusted directly to the Royal Mailroom. Because Exhibit 49 was a longer letter and contained evidence of Petitioner’s request to Imogen Rossach as to the child’s name, Petitioner ordered Pym to make a photographic copy of Exhibit 49, deliver Exhibit 49 by private certified courier, and to file both the copy and the certificate of delivery into Petitioner’s personal records. The copy was filed, but no certificate of delivery was ever found. Upon Petitioner’s knowledge and belief, Ms. Rossach never received Exhibit 49 nor any other letter written by Petitioner.

Dated this September 15, 471 A.R.

My dearest Imogen, my princess, forevermore,

By my calculations, I suspect that our child is either born or soon to arrive in this world. I write inquiring for any news, to know the child’s name, and to send you my everlasting love.

I have not received a response to any of my previous letters, but I continue to write to you faithfully, trusting my clerk to deliver them into your hands. I do not hold any grudge against you if you do not wish to respond. In truth, I failed you. I promised that I would protect you from the wrath of my mother, but in my weakness, I allowed her to banish you from the palace. While I was not allowed in the courtroom proceedings with respect to my very own annulment, my mother told me that you were furious with me. Mr. Pym confirmed.

I have no reason to believe they would lie to me, but their stories do not line up. They said you lied about the pregnancy, yet I sensed our child’s life within you. They said you only pretended to love me, but they must think me an idiot if I am to believe that. I have no reason to doubt our child or our love. So is your anger genuine? Do you despise me for failing to protect you? I could not blame you. Every day, I despise myself with ever more fury. All that prevents me from delivering my own life into the hands of the gods is the distant, glimmering hope that I may see your radiant face and hold our child in my arms, if it is within your grace and forgiveness to allow me.

If you have given birth, how does it fare you? Are you well? The medical stipend of one hundred obols should be adequate to pay for the finest postpartum care, but if it is insufficient, I would be happy to provide more. In advance, I have contracted for a nursemaid to serve at a flat rate of Ω4.50 per week, until our child is five years of age. If the nursemaid is not to your liking for any reason, please let me know, and I will have Pym find another. He is also a father (and soon a grandfather, he tells me!) so he has more experience in these matters than I. If you would like to speak to him in person, he is not banned from seeing you, like I am, and I am sure he would be happy to give childrearing advice from his own experience.

I have thought long and hard about the name of our child…we only briefly discussed such an important matter many years ago, and entirely in jest. I would not blame you if you have forgotten what we discussed, when the concept of parenthood was merely a fantasy on the distant horizon. Now it is here. In case I am ever able to restore your rightful place at my side, I request you do me only one favor: ensure that our child’s name begins with the letter E. It is a longstanding tradition of the royal family—I am not sure from where it began. In honor of my closest brother, I am favorable to Ezra for a boy. For a girl, in honor of my beloved late aunt, I propose the name Eloise.

As with all matters, though, I yield to thee, sweetest Imogen. I recall a book we shared in the library rafters, what feels like a thousand years ago — with the gentleman protagonist Elias, and his sister Ellie, short for Elizabeth. I know that is what you would favor. Please, my lady, if it would bring a smile to your face, and remind you of those precious moments we spent together, name our daughter Elias or Ellie.

My Imogen. I miss you more than I can express in words. Please, write to me. And if it would please you, tell me of our child, that I may imagine holding them in my arms.

Yours now, and forevermore—

—Edgar.

Duly sworn and submitted to the Court of Royal Pleas, certified in authenticity and veracity by Royal Notary and Clerk of Records, MS. ELOISE ODRIC, in service of His Highness, PRINCE EDGAR ROSENCRANTZ.