1890

To meet one's fate is not a pleasant event for most. But, for some, it may be the only choice.

The fluttering and sharp grass cut around the steps of Anastasia's garden makes her smile widen. Her mother spent hours tending the daisy bushes, berry bushes, and flower trees. Wasn't it only natural for Anastasia to continue her mother's passon?

The royal family's two golden retrievers, Mopsie and Patch, find their way to the glass and ice tinted greenhouse, bathing in the sun without the awful heat of the morning.

Whispers of giggles from her mother echo amongst the wind, parting the ruffles along the bottom of her tea dress. Her mother used to wear this very same dress while gardening. Perhaps it is outdated, but Anastasa does not mind.

The clouds, ripped from a painting, are dazzling over the rusted fountain. Only God knows the reason why it still works. Trees shuffle and brush along the summer leaves, synchronizing with the melody of the wind.

It was impossible for Anastasia not to pick up a strawberry from the bush, once tended with her charming sister, Beatrice, and Mama. Blast of sweet and tangy filled her mouth to no end—the horizon kissed her tongue. She enjoyed the fragrance of the white gardenia flower spreading around the premises.

"Anastasia, are you out here?" she hears, stopping her impulse to grab another one. "Oh, there you are."

er older sister, Beatrice, waves from the stairs. She had been on a trip out to Bath with her husband, Mr. Edgar Taylor. Anastasia didn't expect her company until next week. The blue of Beatrice's eyes are suppressed into a lighter gray from the sun rays.

"Good day, Beatrice. I thought you were arriving here next week."

Beatrice smiles, locking hands with her sister and leading her up the garden stairs. "Poor Edgar couldn't stand the society of his family. He called the carriage earlier."

"Oh, I understand."

"I have good news. For you– at least," she says, opening the glass doors inside the palace. The halls dance and sing with housekeepers dusting the walls, tables, and portraits of their ancestors. The two sisters ran up the red-carpeted steps, walking down the gold sculpted walls. "Prince Alfonso of Spain and his family are visiting for the week. Hmm..." She stops and looks at the new painting of her and Edgar in the hallway. "Exquisitely done, you agree, right?"

"Must you get distracted?" Anastasia asks.

"Oh, you must admit how beautiful the–"

"Alfonso is another suitor, is he not?" The doors of the dining room are wide open, showing the long wooden table filled with pastries, biscuits, and fruits.

Beatrice links arms with her sister. "Yes, but he is quite the charm. Papa wants an engagement to be announced by the end of the season. How delightful!"

"An...an engagement?" her hands cover her mouth, tears fighting to meet her cheek. That is all so quick. Her dearest friend, Mr. Leopold Allen, has been hinting towards engagement for months. Their father knows about him, too– and he even promised her his blessing. How is he switching his sentiment? "There must be a switch up."

Anastasia separates herself from her sister, grabbing the base of her dress and running up the steps. An engagement will not be happening between her and Alfonso. He is too much of a flirt, not to be trusted, and is a mad man. Everything must go his way, or nothing shall be done at all.

"Ani!" Stanley announces from behind her. "Ah, there you are."

She waves to him as he walks beside her, as she grabs a berry from the basket. "Have you heard of Prince Alfonso?" she asks. "You must have heard of him, no? You know everything."

"It seems like someone is upset about his arrival." He steps in front of her, smiling. "You look awful. Not in a bad way, of course. You have dried petals on your shoulder–" Stanley picks them off, putting them on the floor. His fingers snap together, alerting nearby footmen. "You. Pick that up."

The footman does as he says, handing it to a nearby servant. Beatrice says her goodbyes, disappearing into the halls.

"Of course I am upset," she says. "I am not particularly fond of the Prince. We are not compatible."

"Oh." Stanley folds his hands behind his back. "I am sorry to hear."

She whispers a thank you. Marriage is not her choice, and it will never be her choice, but that is a fact she refuses to take. Caspen would sympathize with her problems more than Stanley has. She walks away, heading towards the stairs.

"Sister!" Stanley yells, catching up with her stride. "You are in a hurry."

"Have you seen our brother? I must talk to him."

Stanley rubs the silk of his purple waistcoat. "He went shooting with his friend. That one duke– what is his name?"

"Lucas. Lucas Lennox. He spends more time with him than his own family!" she mumbles under her breath.

They all meet in the dining hall a half an hour later. The Spanish Royal Family sits across from the Royal Family of England, Anastasia across from Alfonso. Beatrice talks to Anastasia about the nursery she is creating in her own estate, dreaming of having a baby girl one day. She hears glimpses of Alfonso and Stanley talking to each other about an assortment of political and economic circumstances– a topic Anastasia wishes to engage in– but a topic she cannot as a woman.

Her and Alfonso make eye contact, something she has been wishing to avoid all morning. "Princess," he says, attaching eggs to his fork. "How delightful it is to meet your lovely presence once again. I have been dying to see you since the last time you visited Spain."

"Yes. As have I, Prince. I do wish I could visit more. Your country is beautiful– and my mama loved it very much." She picks up her water, drinking the entire glass. Servants immediately refill it, as well as her cold tea with a hot one.

"May God rest her soul. I adored her liveliness." He finishes his eggs, requesting more from the servants behind him. "Have you seen my letters? Or do your overprotective brothers hide them from you?"

What a tricky question. Of course she has seen his letters– but why would she take the time and effort to write him back? Why shall she invest in his emotional endeavors with him? She should not lie to him. "You must not give them any ideas. But I must say," she pauses to eat a couple bites of fruit. "The amount of letters you addressed to me since my visit to Spain is quite comical."

He holds his silverware in a tight grasp, his hazel eyes attached to Anastasia as if she is a rare jewel. One that even a Prince never possessed. "Comical? Pardon me? I am afraid I do not understand..." His free hand grabs a deep yellow handkerchief. "I believe that it is comical that you didn't return them."

A nervous laugh fills their conversation. She eats a spoonful of porridge and finishes the water, her glass being refilled once again. "I believe that writing to you would not be appropriate, sir. Servants and my own lady's maids would gossip about my correspondence. Not to mention the mail deliverers. They would believe us to be engaged."

Anastasia gazed at her father conversing with the Spanish King while simultaneously requesting more food and wine.

"And that is the end goal, yes?" he asks, his smile tracing his face. "I truly admire you. You would make a great queen. An excellent one."

She nods her head, unable to think of a response.

After breakfast, the Spanish Royal family left to visit nearby Dukedoms and family estates. Anastasia and her family rests in the drawing room. Her father scans through the newspaper, her brothers play chess, and Beatrice sews a handkerchief– presumably for her husband.

"Beatrice," she whispers, trying not to alert their Papa on the golden couch across from them. He looks less intimidating with his hands full of a newspaper, his glasses sliding on his face.

"Yes, Ani?"

"I have a question." She reaches for the handkerchief that she is personally making, examining the red organia flower in the middle. She continues the design, cleaning up the stems and petals. Perhaps she can give it to Mr. Allen. If she sees him ever again. "How and why did you accept marrying Mr. Taylor?" Her voice lowers, looking up from the fabric to see her father.

"I love him." Beatrice grabs the handkerchief from Anastasia's lap. "I was extremely lucky. I know everyone will not have my luck and–"

"I have an issue!" Anastasia crosses her arms, fiddling with the gold cuffs of her peach morning dress. If she is to marry Alfonso, what about Mr. Allen? They have known each other for years, their family, closest friends. Why could her father be so careless? "Oh it is so large, so exhausting! It is so terrible, sister. I am dying of an illness that simply cannot be cured." She takes out her fan from the pocket slit, an attempt to calm herself. Beatrice assures her that she is fine, going back to the handkerchief.

"Anastasia," her father says, folding the newspaper. "Stop this madness."

"Why must I get married away so quickly to a man that is so self-absorbed–" she watches a footman come into the drawing room, bowing before he walks in further. "he is better off marrying himself, Papa. And you said that I could marry Mr. Allen! You have said that for years and now–"

"Do not question my decisions. The opportunity arose and I shall take it."

The sun's glare shifts away from Anastasia, too shy to encourage any natural light in the room. Flowers in the golden vase beside her wilt over in response to the sun leaving its presence. Caspen sits beside Anastasia, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

"What is your issue, sister? Surely I can help with it."

"Would you?" she asks. He nods his head, already finishing the glass. "I can–"

"Father!" Stanley yells from the window sill. "You must read the poem I wrote! It is absolutely beautiful."

Stanley has always had a love for writing. Whether it be journalism, short stories, poems, anything. Writing is the one thing he's (decently) better at than his older brother, Caspen.

As young boys, they attended boarding school together, editing and going through each other's essays and speeches. Caspen's were always more formatted, elegant, little to none grammatical errors. He found himself fixing Stanley'– nearly rewriting every sentence in order to sound more intelligent and formal.

Every day of Stanley's life, he found himself polishing his own writing style.

Their father stood from the couch, walking towards the door. "You all are my greatest failures. Greatest. You kill my soul."

Anastasia stands to look at the footmen with the golden plate. "A letter for you, your Highness," he says, extending his arm.

She picks it up. There is no need to read the slanted cursive, no need to read the address. The bright strawberry bled seal tells her enough. Her hand rests on her stomach, another twirling the tight curls of her chignon bun.

"May I–" she unfolds the envelope and takes out a dried flower and two pieces of paper. "Be excused?"

Beatrice looks up from her handkerchief, giggles to herself, and goes back to her needle. Caspen pours himself another glass of whiskey, resting the decanter on the coffee table.

He sighs. "Yes...whatever for, though?"

"I have realized that..." Anastasia looks out the window, looking at the hyacinth's flow and bends to the tune of the wind. "The garden needs– weeding? Yes, weeding."

The tip of her fingers holds the satin of her dress as she walks out the drawing room.