Living in royalty can't be so bad, right? But... what if you're not technically royal?
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In late eighteenth century Europe, nestled in eastern France, is a peaceful kingdom called Totresia. A carriage wreck disturbs that peace when found by Totr...
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The city facades were like nothing he had ever placed his eyes upon. The rough, stone ramparts stood high before the carriage, weathered in ways that suggested they'd seen many wars. Many struggles. Many attempts to penetrate the hidden location—most of them by fellow Frenchmen. The indents from bullets, the spikes at the top, the patrolling French army in their signature Napoleonic suits; it was all so foreign and violent, fueling him with the desire to go home.
Avignon.
King Antoine peered under the window flap of his transport as it trotted past the gate, waved in by the men in blue coats with distinct large black hats on their heads.
So lovely in appearance, Avignon had such a harsh, war-ridden history. So different from the sweet-natured Totresia Antoine grew up in. The long, slick fusils* the soldiers held at their sides caused a slight shiver to race down his spine, but Antoine wouldn't falter. He had no reason to fear them—this wasn't enemy territory. It was herhome.
He winced.
Her.
The woman sitting across from him in her heaps of red silk skirts that invaded the space separating them, taking up almost the entire carriage to herself. Always in red, the color of violence, like her home city that they now entered. Her hair, also red—a shiny, sleek crimson that her ladies had teased into bouffant bunches, engulfing her ruby and gold crown.
All the red made him dizzy.
She smiled as she pivoted from the window and caught him watching her. Her bright azure eyes glowed in delight at the attention. "It feels marvelous to be back." Her honeyed tone created lumps in Antoine's throat.
She wasbeautiful, no doubt about it. Exquisite, eloquent, elusive—any European man's dream. With her creamy skin and perfect cheekbones and a figure to make one shake in pleasure, she was an impeccable French lady, with impeccable manners to match. At least in public.
Antoine's heart didn't flutter at the sight of her; it sank. She was a handful; tantrum-prone, an avid critic of everything, and a tadtoo wild in the bedroom for his taste. Most men wouldn't complain, but Antoine was crushedby the weight of her vanity.
My choice. I must live with it.
Seated there, under her scrutiny, feeling more alone than ever, was not how he hoped to spend his first summer as a married man.
He chose to keep his window flap open, allowing hot rays of sun to blaze in. They didn't blind him; he loved basking in them, sensing their warmth on his skin. His cheeks heated, his bones relaxed, his long limbs stretched out and tension melted.
The golden glow shining down on the vast French landscape reminded him of her. The other her; not his wife, but the one who should have been. Her corn-colored hair, cascading down her spine and spilling over her shoulders as she ran. Her uneven paces as she rushed down the pebbled garden pathways, one hand clutching her dress, the other waving about for balance. Not to forget her eyes, shimmering as rare emeralds, speckled with blues, yellows, browns, widening as she approached him.
