The Paper Crown

1. The Princess in the Tower

As midnight nears, the crowd in Justice Square grows impatient. They light fires and chant curses and beat drums. I watch from my tower window, twisting the gold chains around my wrists until they bite deep into my flesh. Had I any matches, I would join the crowd, start my own fire, burn the silk carpet and the velvet drapes and the satin bedspread, burn my tower to its bare hard stone, and burn myself to ash with it.

But that would spoil their fun.

I check the clock on Parliament Tower. Two minutes to midnight. They will be late. Three years they have made me wait, and now they are late. I wrench at my chains, willing them to snap. They slice into my skin and hot blood seeps over my wrist, followed by the chill sting of pain. Time and time again, I have tried to break my chains, so delicate and fine they look more like bracelets than restraints. All I have to show for it is a lattice of fine white scars. And now, one more, which will never heal to white.

The clock strikes midnight and a hundred feet below the crowd lets out a roar of anger.

"Kill her!" I whisper along with them. "Kill the devil princess! Let her die!"

A high bugle sounds from Parliament House. It slices through the noise of the crowd like a knife. They quiet. Slowly, the parliament doors open and the prime minister and the parliamentary herald emerge onto the steps, flanked by soldiers. I cannot hear what the herald says, but it makes the crowd angry. Someone throws a torch at the guillotine. Another fires a pistol towards my tower. Sparks fly from the stone wall outside my window.

Soldiers descend upon the crowd, pouring into the square from the garrison below my tower. The fires are quenched. The curses are silenced. The drums are stilled. The crowd scatters and the square is emptied of everything but the debris they left behind and the guillotine in front of Justice Gate, gleaming in the moonlight.

After all they have taken from me, they steal my audience too. And I dressed to be seen tonight, in bridal white with scarlet on my lips and ribbons in my hair. I drag at the ribbons and whip them to the floor, ripping strands of long dark hair with them. It feels good to be violent. It heats the air in my lungs, sends the blood racing in my veins.

Then the feeling passes, and I am left with nothing but anger, caged burning within my ribs, and I cannot shake the feeling out, no matter how I tear my hair and stamp my feet and throw things at the walls.

Half-past-midnight. One o'clock. Two. Four. I wait in fury and confusion, pacing my tower from one side to the other. This is not the plan. The plan was for my execution to be held at the stroke of midnight on my twentieth birthday. I have been preparing for this midnight for three years. I am ready. Where are they?

At long last, there comes the knock at the door. I check my appearance in the mirror one last time and apply another smear of scarlet to my lips. I look like Snow White – deathly pale, loose black hair, blood-red lips. I feel more like her evil Stepmother. The knock comes again, and with it, uncertain whispers. The bolts scrape back into their sockets and the door opens to reveal my escort to the guillotine: three looming, stone-faced soldiers.

My heart – fickle organ – skips a beat.

"It is— time?" My voice is cracked and dusty from ill-use. For three years, the only person I have spoken to is myself. I cough, cough again, and swallow. "It is past time."

The soldiers say nothing. From behind them appears a smaller man, a very short, pompous man, with a thrusting chest decorated by a scarlet sash and gold braid. Lord High Chancellor Fauser. He bows the way a chicken bobs for grain.

"Your Highness." His voice matches his size. "A royal writ has been issued requesting your attendance."

He carries a scroll in one hand with the traditional scarlet seal and gold silk binding. I do not bother to take it. I know what it says.

I raise my chin high. "Then I must go. You gentlemen will walk behind."

I cross the room, splitting the soldiers in my wake. For the first time in three years, I see outside my tower door. I freeze on the threshold. Nothing lies beyond but a bare stone room and bare stone steps leading downwards into shadow. One hundred and thirteen steps.

If I fall, they will not have to execute me.

I cackle at the thought.

"Your Highness?" Lord Fauser speaks. "We must go."

"Be quiet! You are the ones who are late!"

I pick up my skirts and carefully descend. The soldiers follow behind, their boots heavy on the stone. I force myself not to hurry. I am not afraid of soldiers. I am not afraid of death. But somehow I wish these stairs to never end.

We reach the bottom. Here, more soldiers wait. The lower tower room opens into an arched passage leading through the Old Town Walls. The outer gate, towards the city, is shut and barred. The inner gate leads to Justice Square, beyond which lies the gilded, gas-lit Parliament House. This is barred too. Through the iron bars I can see the refuse of the night's aborted revelry – broken glass, burnt stumps of wood, and abandoned flags.

"Your Highness." The captain of the soldiers bows. "We go another way."

There is no way up to the executioner's platform from Justice Square. Prisoners must make their way through a secret passage in Parliament House before they come out through Justice Gate in full view – but out of reach – of the crowd below. In all my life, I have seen only one man emerge from that door. And now, it is my turn.

I follow the soldiers through a door in the Old Town Walls. A passage leads downwards into the earth. The soldiers carry torches to light the way and our shadows dance about the walls. We follow a turning, twisting path, cut deep into damp rock. At last, we reach stairs, and climb up and up. We come to a solid oak door set in a solid stone wall.

Lord Fauser pulls it open. Warm air sweeps in, carrying with it the scent of sulphur and smoke. And yet, the air has never tasted sweeter. My heart stammers. I count the beats, wondering how many I have left until it stops.

Lord Fauser goes through. I hesitate, confused. This is not the plan. The prisoner goes through Justice Gate alone.

"Your Highness, please move onward," a soldier says.

I follow Lord Fauser uncertainly. On the other side of the door, I stop and stare around me. This is not the executioner's platform. We stand in a thickly carpeted, gas-lit chamber. This is not even the House of Parliament. This is somewhere in the royal palace. I recognize the view through the window, looking east over the city towards the mountains. They are just visible as a black silhouette against the approaching dawn.

The soldiers come into the room behind me and lock and bar the door.

"What is going on?" I demand. "Why are we here?"

But I already know. There is only one man on Earth who would dare challenge fate this way.

A door opens in the far wall and he enters.

It is King Edmund.

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2024-04-03: HI LONG TIME NO SEE NEW STORY.

(I was totally going to post this 2 days ago then I remembered it was April Fools... no, it's real, NEW STORY!!!)