Johannes

He's trying to hide it, but I can tell my father is disappointed in me.

"I know it seems boring to us, Jo," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, "but these are people's lives. Real people. I need you to take your duties more seriously."

I bow my head in shame. Of course I know it looks bad to fall asleep during a meeting of the privy council, but I really had tried to stay awake.

"It's Herzog Blumenfeld. He should be a nursemaid for how soothing his voice is."

Papa gives me a tiny chuckle, but he looks up at me with concern and says,

"What were you doing last night that kept you up so late anyway?"

"Writing to Derek," I lie, crossing my fingers behind my back.

He rolls his eyes. "You know, even if you write a reply right away, he still won't get it for another three days. Wait until the morning next time, alright?"

I nod.

Papa sighs and rubs his face again. "How about you take a nap?"

I look up, meeting his eyes in shock. "Don't you need me here?"

"An hour won't make a difference. I need your attention more than I need your presence."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," he nods toward the door, "go get some rest."

"Yes, Papa." I walk from my father's study to the family wing of the castle, running a hand through my hair.

I lied to my father. I never lie to my father. And about something so trivial too. How easy would it have been for me to tell the truth? For me just to say, '"I had trouble sleeping", and not give details.

But then he would've asked for details, and I'd either have to lie about those or say I didn't want to share, and then he would know I had a secret. My father loves secrets. He loves mystery, he loves disguises, he loves drama of all kinds. And he would pry.

God help him, because he's a nearly perfect parent in all other aspects, but that man is far too nosy for his own good.

And just to get him to shut up, I'd probably tell him. And there was no way I was going to admit to my father that I was up all night thinking about Genevieve Du Châtillon in a wedding dress.

Or really, wondering why that image kept coming into my head. Why seeing her, a girl I've grown up with on her wedding day, made me so uncomfortable. Perhaps it's growing up that scares me. Knowing that someone a year younger than I am is old enough to get married. Knowing that my mother is looking at potential matches for my younger sister. Knowing that in a few years, she'll do the same for me (it's rather ridiculous how much younger girls are expected to get married than boys are, but at least I don't have to consider matrimony for a while).

I think all of us always expected that Genevieve would be the first to get married. She was always the most grown-up out of the four of us, making sure our parents knew where we were going when we would play as children, and making sure we got home in time when we got older and left the palace without their permission. She was responsible, she is responsible. And she's intelligent enough to understand that her responsibilities entail getting married. To a prince or king, specifically.

There was a brief period where she and I were betrothed, but that fell through. It wasn't something either of us shed tears over, we never would have worked together. I fall asleep during privy council meetings, put my feet on tables, and drink my tea too loudly. And she's Genevieve.

On the way to my bedchamber, I pass by the open door to my mother's parlor and peek in. She's sitting in her favorite chair by the open window, embroidering something as she hums to herself.

"Mama?"

She looks up, then beams when she sees me.

"Playing truant?"

I smirk, ducking my head. "No, Papa told me to take a nap because I fell asleep during a privy council meeting."

"Up all night thinking about a girl, were you?"

My head snaps up to meet her eyes in shock. The gleam in her eyes tells me she was only joking, but at my visceral reaction, she raises an eyebrow.

"I wasn't, Mama," I insist.

"Of course you weren't," she says lightly, dipping her head to her embroidery hoop again.

At the hint of a smile I catch from her, I say again, "I wasn't ."

My mother looks as though she is trying very hard not to laugh.

"I believe you."

"Because I don't even know that many women. There's no one for me to even think about."

Mama nods.

"I see."

She looks up at me again and smiles placatingly, but with a twinkle of intelligence in her eyes. My father pries, he asks incessant questions until you have to tell him everything just so that he stops. My mother just knows things without having to ask.

"Mama, please don't say anything."

She winks at me conspiratorially. "Say anything about what? You weren't thinking about a girl, so there's nothing to tell."

I smile gratefully. My mother isn't a gossip, but I'm so paranoid about this.

I've become embarrassed to say Genevieve's name out loud, as though those three syllables will speak into existence all the thoughts of her swirling in my brain, and turn the abstract concrete.

"Go get some rest, sweetheart," Mama says, reaching out and squeezing my fingers.

I squeeze back before letting go and turning to leave. I look back at her once more, my hand on the doorway. She's gone back to humming a familiar and distinctly Palladian lullaby, one she's sung to me a million times throughout my childhood. I smile to myself, ducking my head and heading to my bedchamber.

I only undress halfway, discarding my jacket, waistcoat, and shoes before laying down on top of the bedclothes. Genevieve would have changed back into her nightgown and climbed under the bedclothes. Or really, she would have gotten enough sleep the night before and not needed a nap.

Jesus. Why am I thinking about Genevieve in her nightdress?

I must be even more tired than I thought. Or perhaps I'm jealous of her. How she's always been so naturally capable of all the things a monarch should be.

I wonder if she's ever wished to have been born a boy so that she could inherit Palladia one day (Derek is a few minutes older than she is anyway, so I suppose even if she was a boy he'd be first in line). I sometimes wish I was a second son or even a daughter. I think I'd be a better consort than a ruler. But just like she's fated to walk behind a man half as intelligent as her for the rest of her life, I'm fated to spend mine leading when I don't know the way.

I lie awake in the half-dark a few minutes longer, the bright sunlight still penetrating the closed curtains. I remind myself that my father was still a few years older than me when he inherited the throne. That my father wasn't even twenty-four at my birth, while my grandfather was over forty when Papa was born.

Papa is still young. He's still the picture of health. I have time to learn how to be a leader.

I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, not twice thinking of sandy brown curls under a white veil.

Notes:

Herzog = Duke