A/N: so i have nothing like super vital for you guys to know this chapter which is surprising since i like to create super complex plots and like ruin my own life with confusion. (well i mean the illéa's are introduced this chap and i love 3/4 of them so.)
ofc thanks to y'all for your SUPPORT™ and i'm glad you ship max and madeline! (ahh my pure children.) hope you enjoy and review, and if you're feeling the aesthetics checkout my pinterest: intersectionally.
"Jesus––"
Madeline's eyes snapped open, and then squinted against the sunlight hitting her face. Typically, the sun streaming through a window was a warm and pleasant way to wake up, but not when accompanied by a throbbing headache and no memory of how she had even gotten into her bed. The last she remembered, she was (sort of) kissing Max at midnight, and then they went to her room––
Oh my God; we did it, didn't we?
If Max standing in her room, shirt and tie loose around him and struggling to get on his shoes was any indication, they most certainly did it. (And Madeline was most certainly freaking out.) Instead of acting like a normal person, and perhaps greeting him, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She waited until she heard him slowly open and close the door before springing out of her bed and into the bathroom.
Madeline looked at her reflection and threw up.
She blindly pounded on the button to call her maid, and soon she came running in, towels in hand. "Your Highness," she exclaimed, quickly running over to hold back the princess' hair. "I must have fallen asleep early on, because I don't recall you coming in."
Madeline finished retching, and her maid guided her to the tub, flicking on the faucet. She tried to focus on the water splashing onto the pristine white finish, but she would continually think back to what she must have done and the urge to release whatever she had drunk the night before pulled her to the edge of the bath. Leaning herself against the tub, the round edge pushing into her chest, she looked at her distorted reflection in the clear water. She was lulled into a trance until she felt something wet splash against her face, but it wasn't until her maid helped her out of her dress and into the tub that she began to cry.
"I don't know what I've done, Ishani," Madeline confessed, her maid looking at her with pity. "The council already thinks I'm a floozy, and this will only confirm their suspicions."
"I'm sure they don't think that," Ishani tried to soothe her, scrubbing something into her scalp.
"Half of them didn't want me to be appointed." Madeline breathed in deeply, squeezing her eyes shut. "The only reason I got on was because father and Will had the deciding votes. The only few who supported them were Aunt Margarita, Atticus, and Alexander."
"And the Pentwists," Ishani reminded gently.
"That's of no help to me in the current situation. Hell, the only supporters I have are basically family."
Ishani sighed and leaned back on her heels, letting Madeline wash out the soap from her hair. While submerged under the water, she wondered if she would be required to leave her room if she fell unconscious by staying underneath long enough. She lasted barely two minutes before she broke the water's surface, gasping for small breaths. Her maid looked at her disapprovingly.
"I've taken care of you since you were twelve years old," Ishani began, grabbing a towel and handing it to Madeline. "In those seven years, I've seen you grow to be a responsible young woman. You're smarter than trying to hide away from those people."
"It's just so difficult when I'm one of three women," Madeline sighed, draping the white cloth over her shoulders. "They expect so much of me, and now they'll view me like Christine––an easy target."
Ishani pressed her lips together, making no further comment. She did all that was required of her without a sound, only breaking the silence with a farewell and curtsy. The door slammed behind her. The sound vibrated through her chest, reminding Madeline that Ishani had never been the type to entertain her constant shading of Christine.
Despite wishing to curl on her bed and never exit her room, Madeline forced herself to leave and move down the stairs. No one looked at her any differently; no eyes of ice were pointed in her direction, and no mocking laughter was targeted her way. The only thing that kept her untrusting of her surroundings was the constant feeling of people watching her, like a prickling that traveled across her shoulders and down her back. She managed to arrive to the Great Room without any incidence, her mother and brother looking up from their meals with synchronized smiles. They acted so similar at times it scared her.
When she sat down, the first thing she saw was the empty chair at the head of the table where her father would have sat. The weight of his loss crushed down on her and the air suddenly turned suffocating, twisting her throat around itself that she was nearly wheezing. Will looked up, concerned, but she waved his eyes away. Will wasn't as affected by his death, simply because he had always been their mother's favourite, but she had been their father's. At least, when Christine wasn't around. The moment her half-sister came into their father's sights, she was old news. Madeline had tried everything to get that edge over her, even going as far as to join the council in his approval. She had never gotten it, despite that only she and her brother were present when he gave his last breath.
She had never hated someone more for doing nothing.
That was the thing about Christine; she did nothing, yet she had always been her father's favourite. In fact, she did everything a proper princess 'ought not to do, but he couldn't have loved her more. When he was lying on his death bed, the queen inconsolable, Will staring stoically ahead, and Christine trying to occupy Angelina, he had motioned for Madeline to lean forward and had simply whispered: "Don't let hate consume you." She had turned over those five words in her head for weeks after his death, never understanding where they could have come from. As far as she knew, he had never openly resented someone. Although, it could have simply been said because of her clear hate towards Christine. In a way, Madeline did want to make amends with her; whatever she had said during the Report had caused her to throw up, which wasn't what she had intended. Perhaps a slight uneasiness, but she didn't want to drive her sister to her death. Maybe she had to begin patching up the old wounds, even if it started with a simple bandage of an apology. However, she would have to settle for starting her healing process on another day, as Christine was (somewhat unsurprisingly) not present for breakfast.
"So." The Queen cleared her throat after a few moments of utensils scraping against plates. "The Selection committee has given me an end date."
"An end date?" William scoffed. "The whole thing hasn't even begun yet."
"Circumstances are not ideal, William; you only have so much time before you're to be coronated."
"I realize," Will ground out between his teeth, "but that doesn't mean you can put an expiration date on when I'm supposed to choose my wife."
"William Richard Schreave," their mother snapped, "don't start using that tone with me."
Will sighed and leaned back in his chair. "They realize that I won't just know, right? These things take… time."
"It may shock you, but you will 'just know.'" She raised her eyebrows. "You can't expect everything in your life to be complicated. Some things are easy, but you just make it hard for yourself."
"My entire existence has been complicated," Will shot back. "From birth people have been debating between I and Christine for who should have the throne, but now that it's fallen on me, I can't get a break!"
"William," their mother warned, "don't start talking 'bout things you don't understand."
"What I understand is that father made a mistake with who he chose, and it took the girl dying for him to realize that––who's to say I won't do the same?"
The silence that followed weighed down in a thick, dark cloud. The topic of Princess Genevieve Beau-Schreave, the King's first wife and Christine's mother, had always been a sore point for prodding. Their mother had her reservations about her, but not because she was the first choice. In fact, their parents had always said they had been each other's first choice, but something had gotten in the way.
Perhaps Genevieve hurt him. Maybe that's the hate he so grudgingly carried.
The Queen suddenly rose from her seat, her chair scraping against the marble floor. William and Madeline quickly jumped out of their own chairs, but she was storming out the doors before they could wish her a proper farewell.
"Great job," Madeline sneered, "now she's gonna be in a pissy mood for the rest of the day."
"It would be worse if I told her I saw Max sneaking out of your room at seven in the morning," he fired back. The satisfaction that crossed his face was enough of an answer on the current colour of her face.
Madeline put her head in her hands. "Does the whole palace know?"
"Luckily for you, not yet. Most likely not ever, considering Ishani would never tell a soul." And God bless for that.
"I got a few New Year's resolutions for you," Madeline said as she wiped her mouth and stood up. "First: stop being a whiny bitch. Second: I don't care who you're in love with, just give this thing a chance."
William raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "And I got one thing for you: try being a decent human being to Christine." Then, softer, "it's what Dad would've wanted."
"We don't always get what we want," Madeline responded quietly. However, the thought didn't leave her head for days.
January 3rd. One day before the Selected arrived, and Will couldn't concentrate.
As of current (if he wasn't living in some delusional fantasy) Pentwist Sr., who was seated on his right, talked about Illéa's current international relations. Max, or as he was so creatively referred to as Pentwist Jr., was seated directly across from the prince, involved in some sort of discourse with Madeline, who was at the man's left side. To Max's right was Atticus Illéa, the senior vice councilman who had a soul more bitter than the blackest of coffee––and he certainly looked the part, with his head propped on the palm of his hand and blue eyes boring holes into the head councilman as he talked. To William's left side was Lady Margarita Illéa, Atticus' sister and mother of Alexander Illéa, councilman of war and defence. Or so they say, if him having a silent yelling match with his mother held any sort of professionalism.
The seven of them had always been seated like this: Alexander, Madeline, Max, and Atticus on side, and Margarita, Will, and Calvin Pentwist on the opposing. Although, what had always felt more comfortable was his father seated between him and Calvin. The core eight of the council, always pulling the country in the right direction, always bringing in considerable personal drama. He wondered if his wife would enjoy being part of this group.
Pulling him out of his thoughts, a pen hit his forehead. He looked down at the blue stick before looking up to meet the eyes of his assaulter. Atticus only raised his eyebrows. "Your Highness?"
William's eyes went wide. "What am I supposed to say?" He whispered quietly, hoping the people to his sides would assist him in some form.
"Read the papers," Margarita murmured, nodding at the open folder in front of him. He didn't recall seeing anyone place them there.
"Yeah, okay." Will stood up, the sheets in his hands. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he said after a moments silence. A few chuckles went around the table as Alexander leaned forward and took them from his hands.
"I suppose he has a right to be distracted, considering the circumstances," Alexander teased. However, the moment he began reading aloud William was lost in the political jargon. He went back to observing the people around them, mainly Madeline and Max. Madeline seemed on the verge of a panic attack on New Year's morning, but whatever had her in a frenzy today was clearly of a different reason. Max put his hand on hers in an attempt to soothe her, but she snatched it away.
"Why are you trying to be so cute after we did… it," Madeline whispered, holding her hand to her chest.
Max tilted his head. "It?"
Will was rather confused himself, if he was honest with himself. However, Alexander was still droning on about whatever, and it wasn't like he could exactly butt into their conversation for clarification purposes.
Madeline sighed. "How was it? That night."
Max's face twisted into the further depths of confusion. "I mean, not great, to be honest. It was pretty uncomfortable."
Madeline gaped at him. "… What?"
"Maybe get another one, for future guests," Max suggested. Apparently, it wasn't the wisest decision, since her face flushed with fifty shades of red.
"A better one? For future guests? Where and how the fuck do I get a 'better one?'"
Max's eyes widened, and he shrugged. "Maybe Ik––"
"Anything further to add, Your Highness?" Calvin said from beside him.
"Uh––no; no," William hastily said, tearing his eyes from the pair in front of him. "Sounds good to me."
"An impending war 'sounds good?'" Atticus raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He leaned back in his chair, swivelling around."Someone give me another pen to throw at him."
"Give him a break, Finch," Margarita said from beside Will. "It's the day before his life changes forever."
"Please, Marge, you say that about everything."
Before the siblings could continue their bickering, Pentwist called the meeting back to the centre and adjourned. Apparently, Madeline couldn't leave fast enough; she grabbed all her documents in one motion and practically sprinted towards the door before Max could do as much as open his mouth. Will had no idea what they could be bickering about––though he was sure Madeline would soon tell him––but it certainly left a few damp spots on her relationship with Max. Damn, he may just owe someone money.
"Will." Alexander caught up to him as they exited. "Are you okay?"
"Do I seem okay?" Will sighed. "I'm currently the epitome of the 'tired eyes, tired soul' troupe."
"There are worse troupes to be."
William snorted. "Says the man who's last name is a troupe."
"Unfortunately, my dear Schreave; unfortunately."
Friday, January 4th. The day the Selected arrived, and Madeline was most certainly very, very, bored.
"My feet are actually numb," Madeline whispered to Will.
He seemed barely awake. "My everything is numb. What's even happening?"
"The prep for some kind of initiation-greeting thing with Mom, Christine, and I before they come into the palace. Then they come and inside and you do… whatever you're supposed to do." Madeline rolled her eyes. "To be honest, everything that just came out of my mouth was total bullshit."
"Noted," Will yawned. Madeline turned her attention to the wall behind them, which displayed their mother and father's official coronation portrait, blown out so large it must have been taller than Madeline, if she were to stand next to it. It was a given to be noticed when anyone stepped into the Grand Foyer, but it was what they had displayed above, albeit in a smaller scale, that Madeline had always loved to look at as a girl; black and white pictures of her parents on their wedding day, positioned side by side. Her father's picture showed him looking towards the right in a clear state of nerves while his sister, Elizabeth, straightened the flower tucked in his lapel. Her mother's photo showed her standing in a doorway, her dress taking up more room than the doors were propped open. In her hands was a bouquet of white flowers––which she had preserved in her rooms, somewhere––and a wedding crown atop her head. She looked to the left, confidant, and with the way the pictures were positioned, it were as if her parents were looking at each other. Whether positioned in such a way on purpose or accidentally, her parents' love story was practically a dream.
From the side, a butler came running up to Will and whispered something in his ear. When he nodded, the butler bowed and scurried back to his position along the wall. Will turned to Madeline, an anxious smile on his face. "That's your cue––you're to go to the front of the palace."
Madeline sighed, picking up her dress. "Wish me luck."
"I give you all the luck in the world––but give it back to me before dinner."
The princess gave her brother a final pat on his shoulder and turned to Christine, extending her arm out. "Shall we?"
Christine looked taken aback at the friendly action, but looped her arm through hers all the same. Her dress was a blush like Madeline's, but with more earthy tones and decorated top. With a high neckline yet slightly sheer neckline, she stayed pretty but modest––a good mixture for someone of her age, title, and parental status. Madeline's own dress was light pink, but the fabric fell down her body like running water, and two long pieces of fabric hung by the front and back of her shoulders. Though it stung a bit to admit, they looked like synchronized sisters.
"I want to… apologize," Madeline began while they made their walk outside. "I was out of line on the Report, and I should have kept my mouth closed." She sighed and hung her head. "I had no idea I was going to make you throw up."
"Oh, that wasn't you." Christine waved the hand dismissively. "I've just been sick recently––but I appreciate the apology. There really is no need, though. I understand where it's all coming from."
Madeline smiled tentatively. "I know that the reason I act the way I do wanted us to have a better relationship. So, I guess, this is me trying to do that. I don't expect a sisterhood, or even a friendship," she quickly tried to reassure. "Just… friendliness."
Christine smiled, her teeth and skin glowing like a thousand suns. "I've been waiting for you to say that since we were kids." Then, quieter, "I have to admit, though, that you're doing much better than I was at your age."
"Because you were pregnant?" Madeline's eyes widened when she realized what had slipped out. "Shit, I didn't mean––"
"I know," Christine laughed. "I'm glad that we're not going to be at each other's throats anymore."
Madeline squeezed her arm. "I am too."
They moved through the Great Doors, and the sounds of a wild crowd swept through her ears. She held onto Christine's arm as they moved down to the bottom of the staircase, where her mother stood in her lavender gown, every bit a Queen. "Get ready," her mother whispered to her as they moved into a diagonal line, Christine being the first person the Selected would greet, and the Queen the last. Madeline had no time to respond when the crowd's noise turned thunderous, rumbling deep into her stomach. From the edge of the gates, she could see the Selected walking in a straight line towards them. At first glance, it was somewhat intimidating how they all moved in synchrony, everyone donning the same outfit of a white blouse and black pants. The only originality they could showcase was their province's flower tucked behind their ear. The girl leading the line of Selected was none other than Vivienne Starling, who's platinum hair practically blended in with her blouse. She stepped towards Christine and executed the perfect curtesy.
"Your Highness," she greeted, her voice sweet as a rose. Madeline had to remind herself that roses had thrones when Vivienne moved towards her, and the girl behind, Ada Owoso, curtsied for Christine.
"A pleasure," Madeline said, dipping her head. The actress smiled and moved to the Queen, no other words exchanged between them. The line of greetings moved on without much incident; though, Saskia's flower fell from behind her ear and she whispered a swear under her breath while she went to retrieve it.
"Don't say that around Graciela," Madeline said, referring to the palace's strict etiquette teacher. Saskia grinned and gave her a quick nod of the head in understanding.
The final girl was Willow Nakamura, who had coincidentally been the first Selected announced. Though she had long limbs that seemed hard to manage, she greeted them with more grace than some royals Madeline could think of.
"Your Highness," she said smoothly, her voice a sweet melody of a few accents weaved together. Madeline could pick up on a trace of a Japanese tone in her linguistics, but the other additions remained an unknown. She barely had time to respond before Willow moved to the Queen, still flawless as ever. She joined the rest of the girls standing on the first step of the staircase and they all waved a final time to the press, some more enthusiastically than others. In great synchrony, they spun around and moved up the steps, towards the palace. Madeline and Christine followed soon after, her mother staying behind to talk with a few of the media correspondents. When they reached the Grand Doors, Madeline made a turn to go to where the councilmen stood, but she was pulled away with a tug. At first, she thought it was Christine, but then she was greeted with the cool stare of Gabrielle Illéa.
"Madeline," Gabrielle said smoothly, a hint of ice laced with her words. "I never got the chance to talk with you at the New Year's Eve ball."
Yes, because I was ignoring you.
"I just got so preoccupied with other people––you know how it is," Madeline laughed, a fake twist in her tone. While her hate of Christine may have been somewhat unjustified, the annoyance she held towards Gabrielle was completely rational. Ever since they were children she had been conniving and manipulating, constantly vying for attention and trying to have all Madeline was given. Gabrielle thought being an Illéa gave her power, but in reality she had nothing over Madeline or her siblings. If it weren't for her mother and uncle's active presence in the government, (or their personal connections with her parents), Gabrielle would be like her grandfather, Marid––irrelevant.
Gabrielle smiled, thought it looked more akin to a grimace. Her hand didn't loosen on Madeline's arm. "Have you chosen who you'll be taking for tea?"
Madeline's eyebrows rose. "What tea?"
Gabrielle laughed, her pin straight hair moving off her shoulder when she threw her head back. "For the Selected's tea, of course! Your aunt chose Marianne Woughtsin and…" she scrunched her nose up, "… your mother." Gabrielle tipped her head forward and leaned towards Madeline, like they were sharing a secret. "Personally, I think you should choose Vivienne Starling; you shouldn't be giving hope to the girls of the lower castes."
Madeline pressed her lips together. It was common knowledge her mother came from the slums of Midston as a Five, and it was common knowledge that many nobles resented her for it; especially since Genevieve, a Two and socialite, could have been Queen in her place, had she not died. It wasn't surprising that Gabrielle was one of the few with such a limited mind set.
"Actually, I've already made my decision." Madeline slipped her arm from Gabrielle's grip, and straightened herself to her full height. "Saskia Cotrell, Three, and Willow Nakamura––" her lips turned up in the beginnings of a smirk, "––Six."
Gabrielle's eyes flooded with anger, her blue irises flashing into a tint of green. "Well," she said tersely, "I hope you have a grand time." She turned around on her heel, whipping away so fast the sharp ends of her dark hair grazed past Madeline's cheeks. There was a quiet victory while she watched Gabrielle stalk away, everyone sliding out of her way as she moved on a war path down the hall. Max must have noticed her satisfaction while he walked towards her, an eyebrow just barely raised. Madeline smiled when he stood beside her, and barely thought about her actions as she leaned into his chest.
Then, she remembered their conversation from the day before.
"Yesterday morning," Madeline began slowly. "You were going to say where to get a new… thing?"
"Oh, yeah," Max said after a moment's thought. "I was going to say Ikea. Literally everyone's got furniture from there."
"I–Ikea?"
"To get a new sofa," Max responded. He turned his face towards her when she remained frozen. "That's what you were talking about yesterday, right? About how the couch in your room was uncomfortable to sleep on during New Year's?"
Madeline balked. "Uh, yeah, yeah; definitely what I meant." He didn't question her, looking back towards the group of people in the Main Foyer. After a few moments, she spoke up again: "Max, did we––" She snapped her mouth shut when his ocean eyes met hers. "Never mind."
He smiled and chuckled under his breath, leaning slightly into her. She burrowed herself deeper into his chest, trying to think back to that night and comb through the details. Maybe she had jumped to conclusions, but if nothing happened their newfound coziness with each other couldn't be explained. No matter, whatever happened must have been good if he was so comfortable with her, physically and emotionally––she just wished she remembered what it was.
