"I'm so sorry, your highness, but…well…"

"But what?" he asked sharply, glaring down at the cowering servant.

"But…oh sire, I'm so sorry. She's gone."

"Fool!" he spat. "She cannot be gone. She was still here not even an hour ago."

The servant paled. "No, your highness, sir, um, well, you see…Mazarin wanted her gone immediately," she stammered. "He's actually been planning this for weeks, and, uh, um…"

"That's…that's enough." Louis walked away, slowly, his face expressionless. Already gone, and without a single word of apology, not one last goodbye! He moped quietly to himself in the nearest salon, his newfound confidence crushed like the Fronde. He had wanted to kiss her pale face and whisper to her sweet words and dance, dance with her, one last time. For courage.

He wandered towards the general direction of the stables, half-heartedly wondering if he should chase after her. She was perfect! but she was gone. Exiled. And, somewhere, the Spanish princess sat by her window and watched the sun set and brushed her long hair, thinking of her wedding night. Was she excited? Scared? Angry? Would she love him? Understand his language? And had her father already hired a dozen cavalries to skewer him if he broke her heart?

He ran into Mazarin in a back hallway. The minister nodded at him vaguely as he ran off orders to a servant.

"Monsieur Cardinal," said Louis, waiting.

"—the Italian vice? Tell the Philippes to try and keep that quiet, jeez—oh! Yes, Sire?" Mazarin huffed, a bit embarrassed. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, Monsieur Cardinal, I…" This was it. This was his shot.

"Yes, sire?"

"I'm…excited for the wedding." He cursed his stupidity, and his cowardice.

The cardinal nodded. "Yes, well, I'm glad you've gotten over your infatuation with my niece so quickly. What's good for France is good for you."

Louis grimaced. "Actually…I'm excited for my wedding. Not the Maria Theresa's wedding."

"What do you mean, sire?"

"I…" He pictured her face, and he went with it. "I'm marrying your niece, Monsieur Cardinal. I've made my decision."

Mazarin turned redder than normal. "That is forbidden, sire! I refuse. Everything is already arranged with Spain and—"

"Mazzy, I'm the king of France. You can't stop me!" He sauntered away laughing, ignoring the cardinal's cries of rage and confusion behind him. "Oh, and it's rude to exile a future queen behind the king's back!" he called over his shoulder.

He'd said no to his minister!

He…he had said no to his minister.

He tried not to think about it. The very idea was painful, and he was not looking forward to his next cabinet meeting. He thought instead of crowning Marie the Queen consort of France and Navarre, and of her smile that would glow with the crown jewels, and he made it to the stables without a change of heart. He shoved aside a bewildered stable boy and trod through the lowly muck to the stall of his fastest horse, where he found—