Later, Mary would have no idea how she got through her television appearance.
For several moments after she'd found her way out of that memory, she felt as though she was underwater somehow, with every sound around her seeming rather muffled and distant.
The walls seemed to be spinning a little, and Mary had to silently convince herself that she was only imagining this sensation, out of a genuine fear that she might actually faint right there on the stage.
The people in the audience also seemed to look a bit blurry, with their faces no longer seeming clear or distinct.
Except one face in particular.
Francis Valois continued to stand there, right in the centre of the room, right in front of Mary, with that same serious look on his face.
Francis's hands were still clasped tightly behind his back. Every few seconds, he looked in the direction of the room's windows, almost as though he was silently plotting his escape. He looked as though he would rather be anywhere but in this Throne Room right now.
He was dressed all in black, Mary now noticed, just like she was, which probably created the strange impression to the audience that the two of them were in mourning.
Francis's father, Henry, had also arrived in the room at some point, apparently having travelled to Scotland with his son, and he now stood leaning against the back wall with his arms folded and a stern expression on his face. He even sneered at Mary a few times, as though silently trying to let her know that he didn't believe she was good enough for his son.
As Mary looked back and forth between father and son, she couldn't help thinking about how alike the two of them looked right now, with matching stern expressions and dark clothing. This thought made her feel dizzy all over again.
For the few seconds that the focus was off her, Mary managed to catch her mother's eye. Trying to be as subtle as possible, she shook her head slowly as she continued to look right at the Queen of Scotland, trying to let her know just how disappointed she was in her.
She could tell from her mother's expression that this gesture had thrown her-she was used to Mary expressing her disappointment through shouting, or complaining, or sneaking out of the castle to get away from everyone.
As the show dragged on, Mary was fairly sure she managed to say 'yes' and 'no' whenever a question from Lord Castleroy required an answer, and she was almost certain she managed to use a few more pre-approved phrases that Narcisse had taught her, focusing on how she was waiting to see what would happen, now that the process had officially got started, but she couldn't clearly remember exactly what she'd said.
At last, Aloysius asked his final question, and Mary managed to mumble an answer.
Then, as was expected, Francis bowed to her, mumbling something about how he was honoured to go through this matchmaking process with her.
There was no emotion behind his words. He sounded like he was on autopilot; like he was going through the motions; like he was just here to do his duty.
"The honour is mine," Mary responded, the way she had been taught to do, her tone of voice probably sounding just as flat.
Francis turned away from her and started to walk back in the direction he'd come from-back towards the door leading to the side room.
He would be required to stay close to the Throne Room for a little while longer so he could give a few interviews to the waiting journalists, and then Mary would be expected to appear with him again later, at the party.
The audience applauded once more as the show started to come to a close.
The moment the cameras stopped rolling, Mary practically ripped the microphone away from her dress. She'd been taught the correct method to remove microphones, what with all the television appearances that were required of the royal family, but right now, she didn't care about being slow and careful.
She couldn't take it anymore, and she just had to get out of this room, away from the cameras and the journalists and this whole performance. Away from what was expected of her.
She was acting out of fear, not out of duty.
After she'd thrown the microphone onto the nearest chair, she ran off the stage and towards the door before anyone standing close to her could stop her.
She heard a few words of protest from her mother, but then she heard James's command of, "Let her go!"
Thankfully, this time, her mother listened to her son.
And then Mary was out the door, running through the corridors, getting as far away from the Throne Room as she could.
She ran across the castle's entrance hall, up a couple of flights of stairs and down a few more hallways.
For a moment, she was sure she saw someone else in one of the corridors, standing just around a corner, almost like they were spying on her, but when she slowed down a little to check, there was nobody there. Deciding that she had only imagined it, Mary picked up the pace again.
Finally, she arrived just outside the television room. She hadn't even known that this was the direction she'd been running in; her feet had just taken her back here.
With adrenaline still running through her body, she pushed open the door leading to the room, practically tripping over the door's threshold, then, when she was safely inside, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, trying to catch her breath.
Somebody had left the widescreen television on. On the screen, Mary could see some kind of panel show taking place, where a team of celebrity journalists and royal columnists were analysing the opening ceremony.
Every few seconds, an image of Mary standing on the stage in the Throne Room appeared on the screen. Mary chanced a glance at the images, realising that she looked like a rabbit trapped in headlights in every single shot.
Images of Francis also appeared on the screen as the panelists continued to debate and analyse the show. Francis looked equally unenthusiastic, although if he had been nervous at all, he had done a much better job than Mary at hiding his nerves, if the images on the television screen were anything to go by, anyway.
In another sudden burst of anger, Mary threw her tiara onto the nearest sofa, messing up her hair as she removed it. It wasn't enough. With another sigh of exasperation, she took off one of her shoes and flung it across the room. She was tempted to throw it right at the television screen, but she knew it wouldn't be worth the lecture from her mother if the glass screen shattered.
How could you do this?! she desperately wanted to scream at every single member of her family. How could you even think about putting me through this?! With him, of all people?!
All this time, she'd imagined that her parents would perhaps try to set her up with someone who worked in politics-someone who her mother had connections with through her previous role in government.
Or maybe even someone of noble birth who also happened to be a trained accountant, just like her father had been, back when he first met Mary's mother-someone who could help balance the royal family's books and manage money that never seemed to be there when they needed it.
But no, of course her parents hadn't found her someone like that. They'd decided to set her up with someone who was the heir to the throne of a rival country; an enemy country, if she was going to be truly honest.
They'd set her up into some sort of twisted political alliance. They'd set her up into royalty. They'd set her up into her own worst nightmare.
Regardless of what had happened that night at the French castle, she thought to herself, did they not know how difficult it would be for her to back out of this, now that there was another royal family to consider?
This would not be like going on a dating show and simply deciding not to meet someone again after a bad first date. Things were different, when royalty was involved. If Mary quit this process, the French royal family would take it as a personal insult. There would be repercussions, both diplomatic and political. It would therefore be almost impossible to get out of this, even with very valid excuses.
For so long, Mary had simply played along when it came to doing her royal duty. Deep down, she'd always hoped that one day when she was grown up, she'd be able to get away from it all, one way or another.
She'd pictured her older brother, James, as king, with his wife and children by his side; children who would take her over in the line of succession and be heirs to the throne. When that happened, Mary's presence would no longer be required at the castle.
She'd assumed that she'd finally be free to move away; free to marry someone who lived a normal life; free to choose her own career; free to set up home in another town, or city, or country.
She'd spent many a happy hour as a teenager, imagining moving to Edinburgh, or maybe even London, where she'd work in politics or law or international relations, or maybe she'd even set up her own art studio, if she was lucky enough. She would live in a house, not a castle; a house that resembled her doll's house, with her little family…
But that wasn't going to happen now. Her parents had seen to that.
Why hadn't she guessed before now? Why hadn't she even imagined that they'd do something like this? Why hadn't she predicted that they would try to block the door that marked her final chance of escape?
You foolish, foolish girl!
Catherine's voice rang out in her head, almost taunting her.
If she married Francis, who was the heir to his country's throne, Mary would one day be a queen. She would have to take on all the royal duties and requirements that went with the role, and there would be no getting away from royalty then. She would be pressured to give birth to children, not out of her own desire to have a family, but out of a requirement to produce heirs to the French throne.
With a gasp that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Mary was hit by a fresh wave of horror as she thought about the fact that her parents wanted her to marry into the Valois family, of all the royal families in the world.
There was Francis's father, King Henry, who ruled with fear and saw the law as a black and white process with no blurred lines or exceptions, especially when he was the one who was enforcing it. His staff and subjects alike seemed to be terrified of him.
And of course there was Queen Catherine, who although she was adored by her subjects, could be calculating and manipulative behind closed doors, where her behaviour usually depended on what mood she was in on any given day, and the 'innocent, kindly mother' act often appeared to be just that-an act.
Then there was Francis, who could barely even look at her. Francis, who tensed up and looked away whenever she walked into a room. Francis, who had been right there on that terrible night. Francis, who probably still had a girlfriend. Francis, who always seemed to put his country and his role as its prince first. Francis, who was no doubt only here in Scotland out of duty to France.
As a sense of panic started to overwhelm her, taking over her anger, Mary's breath came out in rapid gasps.
She felt something wet trickle down her cheek, and she realised that she really was crying now.
Still struggling to catch her breath, she grabbed hold of the back of the nearest chair for support.
As she cried, her memories washed over her again like waves…
She was on the floor in the castle ballroom. She wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd first been spinning around in circles, but it seemed almost like she'd lived a whole lifetime in the terrible moments that had followed the first loud crash.
At the very least, the worst of the panic seemed to be over now.
Francis sat a few feet away from her, looking equally dazed and confused. They must have separated at some point, after their moment of holding each other tight in the midst of the horror.
With a heavy sigh, Mary pushed herself up into a seated position, feeling a jolt of pain in her arm as she did so.
Catherine was running towards her across the dance floor, a look of fury in her eyes. "You foolish, foolish girl!" she screamed at her.
But then, when she got close, she threw herself down on the floor and pulled Mary in for a hug. "Thank you," she whispered in Mary's ear, sounding almost tearful, and slightly hysterical; as unpredictable as ever. "Thank you for saving my son."
Mary barely had time to acknowledge Catherine's words when she heard Henry shouting at her, something about how furious he was that she had dared to sneak into the castle.
She couldn't really take in what he was saying, as she was starting to feel dizzy, and everything around her was starting to fade to blackness…
She woke up in the hospital wing, realising that she much have blacked out, and that several hours must have passed since she'd been lying on the ballroom floor, as she could see the faint light of dawn outside the windows.
As she sat up slowly, the first person she noticed was her brother, walking slowly towards her hospital bed with a grave expression on his face.
"James," she whispered automatically, the need to cover her tracks already kicking in before she could start considering anything else, "please don't ask me why I'm here. Please don't tell anyone I'm here…"
He nodded solemnly, silently agreeing to her plea.
Suddenly feeling confused as to why James was there in the first place, Mary looked around the room. She noticed that Catherine was standing on the opposite side of the hospital wing, in a far corner, close to Francis's hospital bed.
When she caught Mary's eye, she nodded discreetly at her, and Mary realised that this was Catherine's subtle way of paying her back for helping Francis-by summoning her brother here. By calling on the one person who Mary could trust completely.
Catherine did not like to be in anyone's debt. Now, she would consider this particular debt to be paid, and she would have free rein to insult Mary and her family again at some point.
At the very least, Catherine had not called for Mary's parents. The secret was still safe, for now.
Francis's younger brothers were also standing by his bed, next to Catherine, and every few seconds, Francis pulled them both in for a hug, like he was just relieved that they were all right, and he wanted to be close to them.
"Mary," James whispered, pulling Mary's attention back to him, "be very careful what you say and do. They're watching," he added, rather ominously.
Mary frowned at him in confusion. She wasn't sure what James meant. Not then. Everything still seemed a little hazy, and it was hard to think. Among the confusion, she did notice that James was dressed in very smart clothes, and his hair was perfectly styled. Almost as though he'd already been out somewhere when Catherine had called him. She wondered where he could possibly have been. As far as she knew, he'd already been asleep in his room at the hotel when she'd sneaked out.
She was just about to ask James what he was talking about when she was distracted by another noise...
"Francis! Francis!" she heard someone call out from the doorway, sounding frantic.
Mary looked over in time to see Olivia, running dramatically towards Francis's hospital bed, before she practically fell on top of him, throwing her arms around his neck as she embraced him.
Mary watched the two of them, the perfect couple, surrounded by Francis's family, and more than ever she felt like an outsider; an intruder on this family moment.
"James," she whispered, her voice cracking a little as she pleaded with her brother, "we have to get out of here…"
And so the two of them crept out through one of the windows while no one was watching, trying to be as discreet as possible while they walked down the long path and out of the castle gates, so as to not draw attention to themselves, only breaking into a run when the castle was safely in the distance and they were back out in the French countryside.
"Mary, you could have put us all in danger," James eventually whispered to her as they made their way through a forest on their way back to the hotel, almost as though the trees could actually overhear them. In that moment, James was no longer a concerned older brother but was instead a nervous future king; a king who was worried about the fate of his own country. "You could easily have been accused of being behind that attack! The king was talking about taking you in for questioning…"
Mary continued to sob, not even sure if she was so upset because all the memories were still flooding back into her mind, or because the full weight of her family's betrayal had finally hit her.
"Please, Mary?"
Mary jumped at the sound of a voice coming from the doorway.
Hurriedly trying to wipe her eyes, and trying to compose herself, even though she knew it wouldn't be much use, she turned around quickly to see who had entered the room.
A member of the castle's staff was standing in the doorway. Mary hadn't even heard her come in. The woman looked smart in her suit, but she also looked slightly awkward at having intruded on Mary's private moment of anguish. There was a look of urgency on her face, like she was here on somebody else's orders.
Mary sighed, wondering what her mother could possibly want now.
"Please, Mary," the woman repeated, "Francis Valois has asked to speak with you."
Mary felt her eyes widen in shock. She hadn't expected to see Francis again until later at the ball. What did he want to speak to her about?
This was so much worse than an order from her mother.
A sense of panic, and anxiety, set in. Francis couldn't see her like this.
"Tell him I'll meet with him in half an hour, in one of the official meeting rooms," she instructed the member of staff, trying to keep her voice level, even.
She could barely even think straight, with a couple of tears still falling slowly down her cheeks, and her heart still beating fast.
"I'm sorry, Princess," the woman told her, looking genuinely concerned. "He's here right now. He said it was urgent."
Mary stared back at the woman in open-mouthed shock. Why did you let him up here without my permission? she really wanted to shout at her.
This could not happen again. Just because Francis was an heir to a throne, it did not mean that he held any authority over this castle and the Scottish staff. He held no authority over her.
But then, there was no more time to think about all that, because Francis was standing in the doorway.
For a moment, Marry almost forgot about her nerves, as she was so surprised by the sight of the prince in front of her.
She saw that Francis must have changed out of his dark clothes at some point since the show had ended, because he was now dressed in a faded pair of jeans and a casual white jumper-an outfit that Mary would never have pictured him wearing. She was so used to his sharp designer suits and black clothes, and of course his crown.
His blond hair also looked a bit messy-a sharp contrast to before, when it had been so perfectly styled for his television appearance.
Not to mention the fact that something about the expression on his face seemed softer, less guarded now. He still looked nervous, but nowhere near as tense as he'd seemed before.
He shuffled into the room, looking just as uncertain as Mary felt.
Mary knew that she must look ridiculous, with her tear-streaked cheeks and messy hair, and a shoe missing from her right foot, but she simply sat down slowly on the nearest chair and stared as though transfixed as Francis moved to stand right in front of her, shuffling from one foot to the other, as though he was actually trying to decide what to do, now that he had her attention.
Mary continued to watch him with a frown. He looked nothing like the stern, serious prince who had stood in front of her in the Throne Room. She had no idea what had brought about this sudden change.
A thought suddenly occurred to her: perhaps this was how he dressed and acted when he wasn't out in public, being his country's prince.
"Mary," he finally whispered after a long, tense silence, his eyes full of concern.
He spoke in perfect English, with a flawless British accent. Anyone meeting him for the first time would probably not even be aware right away that most of his family members were French.
Yet Mary knew that he spoke French perfectly, too-she had heard him, in many an official speech that he had given in his home country.
Mary suspected that the years he had spent at school in London (just like her) were responsible for his perfect command of the English language.
She couldn't help remembering all those evenings when she'd caught glimpses of him in the city, back when she had been sneaking out of her school.
She'd been so full of curiosity at the time as to where Francis was going, on those evenings when he passed her in the streets. Given his status as a royal, Mary had imagined all sorts of sordid places that he must have been visiting-bars and clubs that only those who held high up positions in society were allowed access to.
She'd also pictured all the pretty girls who Francis was probably meeting with in secret in London. Girls his parents wouldn't have approved of, maybe.
Some nights, Mary had even followed him, just to see where he was actually going, feeling ridiculous as she watched him from around corners, trying to keep her distance and be discreet.
But Francis had simply walked and walked, for miles and miles, night after night, going nowhere in particular, apparently happy to walk the streets alone, lost in his thoughts.
Mary felt herself blush as she wondered what Francis would think now, if he ever found out that she'd followed him so many times back then. How ridiculous it would seem to him. How ridiculous it still seemed to her, especially on a day like today. She wasn't even sure why she'd done it.
"I'm so, so sorry," said Francis, pulling Mary back to the present.
Mary looked up at him, unable to help her expression of total confusion, as she wondered why he was apologising; why he was now being so kind to her.
"I know you would never have wanted this," he continued as he started to pace up and down in front of her. "I know you would never have chosen…this, if you'd been given any choice in the matter."
I know you would never have chosen me…she could practically hear him saying as she read between the lines of his words.
"I want you to know, I wasn't responsible for this mess; I didn't ask for any of this...I would never have pushed you into it."
Still his voice was kind, gentle, apologetic.
Mary was sure she was expected to respond in some way, but right now, she couldn't find the words. She was still too shocked.
"Especially after that night," he mumbled as he stopped pacing and turned to face her.
Mary felt her whole body tense.
"I really am sorry that you got caught up in it all-"
"Francis," Mary interrupted him sharply, surprising even herself. "You must not apologise for that night…" She paused for a moment, trying to think. "I was not allowed to be there, and I chose to sneak in anyway." The words seemed to be leaving Mary's lips before her thoughts could catch up. "I put myself in danger. If anything, I should be apologising to you."
Mary hadn't even realised that this was how she felt, but as she spoke these words out loud, she knew them to be true. Her body relaxed a little, as though some of the tension that she'd been carrying for the past two years was slowly leaving her shoulders. Already, some of the burden of that night had eased, now that she had taken some responsibility for her part in it.
"I helped you to get in," Francis protested. "I would never have forgiven myself, if anything had happened to you…"
Mary blinked rapidly again, feeling overwhelmed by his words, by the act of putting the memory of that night into words. She had to admit though that it was a bit easier, to talk about that awful night with Francis when he speaking to her as a person, and not as a prince.
Although, she didn't really understand what Francis was saying, when he talked about how he would not have forgiven himself if she'd been harmed.
She didn't even understand the change that had come over him since their meeting in the Throne Room half an hour ago.
All of it was too much to process right now.
Mary felt a fresh wave of tears starting to well up, and she furiously tried to blink them back. She couldn't cry in front of Francis. She already looked a mess, but she didn't want to look weak and vulnerable as well.
He must have sensed, however, that she was on the verge of tears, as a look of sympathy crossed his face, and he suddenly knelt down right in front of her, looking almost as though he would have taken hold of her hand to comfort her, if he'd known her better.
"If there's anything I can do to make this process easier," he said gently from where he was kneeling on the floor, "then just let me know. I can stay out of your way behind the scenes, if you'd prefer. And perhaps we can find a way to work together when we're on camera for the next few weeks, so we can both get through this?"
So we can both get through this…
Mary repeated his words in her head. Of course he didn't want to be here. Of course he didn't want to go through this. Like her, he had had no choice in the matter. Others had brought him here; others had pushed him into this.
What a bizarre matchmaking show this was already turning out to be. How the viewing public would laugh, if they knew the truth. Mary would almost have laughed herself, if not for the fact that the reality of the situation already made her want to cry.
"I think that would be a good idea," Mary chose to say out loud, trying to sound as dignified as possible, even though she knew she looked anything but right now.
In spite of everything, she decided that it would probably be better to work with Francis to get through this, rather than against him. If anything, he seemed to understand the pain she was going through right now.
Francis nodded, seemingly satisfied with this agreement that they'd just made, but then there was suddenly a look of anguish, or maybe even pain on his face, almost as though there was something else he had not said out loud, some other secret that was troubling him.
"Francis, please do not feel guilty," Mary told him, deciding that some lingering feeling of guilt over that night must still be getting to him.
Francis looked taken aback for a moment, but then he looked right at her, and he actually managed a hint of a smile, which almost made Mary smile back at him, through her tears.
She opened her mouth to say something else-
Suddenly the door burst open, making them both jump.
"Excellent performance today, Princess…"
As the sound of Narcisse's voice rang out around the room, Francis's expression instantly changed from soft and gentle to cold, almost angry; much more like his father.
He also seemed to go pale, as though the sound of that voice had filled him with a sense of shock, or disbelief.
He stood up slowly from his position on the floor, staring at Narcisse as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Narcisse strode confidently into the room, but he stopped when he realised that Francis was also there, with Mary.
Instead of looking apologetic, a smug smirk seemed to creep slowly to his face.
Mary looked from one to the other, trying to work out what was going on.
"What are you doing here?" Francis asked Narcisse sharply as he folded his arms and glared at him.
"Oh, hasn't anyone told you yet?" Narcisse asked him with a sneer, sounding a bit patronising. "I'm Mary Stuart's new Publicist. So it looks like you and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other…"
At this announcement, Francis seemed to go even paler. He shook his head, as though he couldn't believe what was happening. "We'll see," he muttered, cryptically.
Narcisse ignored him. "Shall we find you the perfect dress for the ball tonight, Your Highness?" he asked Mary with another smirk. "Something that will show the French royal family who's in charge-"
"I'm sure that Mary will look beautiful in whatever she chooses to wear tonight," Francis interrupted him. It sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth.
Then, he suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable, as though he had just said something he shouldn't have said. His cheeks even looked a little flushed.
"We'll see," Narcisse shot back at him, sounding smug.
Mary still had no idea what was going on. She felt like she was missing something in this conversation; like she wasn't reading between the lines properly. She wondered what the history was between the two of them, as they clearly knew each other from somewhere.
Now that she was listening more carefully, Mary could definitely pick up on a hint of a French accent when Narcisse spoke. She hadn't noticed that before. What else hadn't she noticed?
"I'll leave you to get ready," Francis told Mary with a polite nod, his voice suddenly gentle again.
Narcisse smirked again, his expression triumphant, as though he had somehow won this round.
"Just so you know, Mary," Francis added, as he started to walk out of the room, "we have our own team here with us from France, should you require the assistance of any competent staff members. " He made sure to glare at Narcisse as he said this. "We also have a team of highly trained guards, should they be required," he added with a meaningful look in Narcisse's direction, before he left the room, slamming the door behind him.
"Well, that was rude," said Narcisse, the moment Francis left. He seemed rather amused by the exchange.
"What was all that about?" Mary asked Narcisse suspiciously.
"No idea," Narcisse responded with a shrug.
Of course he knows, Mary thought to herself as the rest of the Publicity Team returned to the television room. He just won't tell you.
Narcisse had known all along that her parents would be setting her up with Francis Valois, too, Mary suddenly realised, as she thought about the events of the past couple of hours. She remembered how he'd bowed to her earlier, addressing her as 'Your Majesty' with a smirk on his face. She remembered how determined he'd been that she play this game very carefully, that she appear as a worthy opponent. All of that wouldn't have seemed so important, if Narcisse hadn't been fully aware in advance of the royal status of her 'opposition'.
She would have to be careful with Narcisse, she decided.
All too soon, the hair and makeup team had also arrived in the room, all of them eager to get started on getting her ready for the party this evening.
Mary found herself seated in front of a mirror, where everyone either fussed over her hair or frantically wiped the tears stains from her cheeks as they fixed her smudged mascara.
Mary ignored them, taking out her phone so she could have a look on the Internet for the initial reactions to today's show.
Already, people were making photo collages of her and Francis together on various social media sites, speculating as to what they would be like as a couple, and whether they looked like a good match.
Some viewers had also typed out all sorts of scenarios for imagined conversations that could take place after their meeting in the Throne Room, and others had written stories about their upcoming first dates.
It was almost as though the two of them were celebrities, or a fictional couple from the stories that Mary loved to read so much, and not real people with royal duties to fulfill.
She couldn't help sighing to herself as she continued to read all the posts about today's show, and the familiar feeling of despair threatened to take over again.
Things still looked fairly terrible, from where she was sitting, but after her conversation with Francis just now, she felt almost as though the exit door that her parents had tried so hard to seal had opened up a little, with Francis's help.
Neither of them had chosen this process, but Francis had at least offered to work with her, to help make things easier.
It's a start, she told herself.
As the disorder continued all around her in the television room, Mary put her phone down and allowed herself to get lost in her thoughts for a little while.
She'd been a broken woman, after that night at the French castle. Or a broken girl, more accurately. She'd managed to cover the bruises and the scratches with clever choices of outfits, of course, but the look of anguish on her face had been much harder to conceal; it had taken a lot more time to fade.
She had been so afraid, afraid that something like that would happen again, especially with all the threats against the royal family from the rioters and the protesters in Scotland.
She'd also been so scared that the French royal family would act upon Henry's threat to question her about the attack; that they would invent a false allegation.
It had been all too easy, back then, for her mother to convince her to leave her school in London and move back to Scotland permanently, where she would be under the watchful eye of the Scottish royal family twenty-four hours a day.
She'd spent her days drifting almost aimlessly around the castle, not knowing what to do with herself. She'd stared mournfully out of the windows all day, and suffered from nightmares all night.
And, in this state of fear and numbness, she'd allowed herself to be convinced to sign up for this whole matchmaking process in the first place, believing all the staff when they told her that she would be helping Scotland, that she would be providing the perfect distraction, which could reduce all the tension and the protests in the country.
The television show was something that she would probably never have agreed to, before that night in the French castle.
It was ironic, she couldn't help thinking to herself, as the discarded tiara was placed back on her head; that the prince who had helped to lead her down this path in the first place would now be joining her on the journey…