"The Queen of Scotland!"

All the men look at me, faces drawn in either surprise or scrutiny.

"Lady Lola Fleming and Lady Greer Beaton."

Now they look at each other, having the gall to be openly shocked to see a woman negotiate the terms of her own marriage. Dear me!

"Queen Marie," the King waves from the head of the table, "please join your family on my left."

I nod politely at my Grandmother and Uncles before turning to King Henri.

"If His Majesty wouldn't mind," I gesture, "my ladies are in need of seating as well."

With a grunt and a pound of a fist on a table, two chairs are brought in for Greer and Lola. Greer by the window, and Lola by the door. That is probably so I can't whisper to them.

"Marie," Queen Catherine pulls out her chair, "so good to see you, you've been keeping to your rooms these past days."

I decide to take a risk, "I seem to have a heavy correspondence."

The King tilts his head, "Do you?"

"Why yes," I don't miss a beat, "a representative of every clan has to come to my wedding, and I'm sure you know Scotland has many clans."

With a groan, King Henri leans back, "At least your people like to drink."

I roll my eyes. Francis coughs across the table. I meet his eyes with a welcome smile. It only breaks when the doors are banged shut. I jump slightly.

"Queen Marie of Scotland is going to marry the Dauphin," the King claps, "there is much to discuss."

We start by discussing the ease of travel between the countries, because, as I so kindly brought up, peers have to travel for the wedding. I have no objections to what the King proposes, it even sounds fair, but that feeling deflates when he starts talking about tariffs and trade.

"Queen Marie-"

There's a knock on the door, and everyone seems confused.

"Sorry I'm tardy," Ambassador MacDougal walks in, grinning, "Her Majesty just received some letters."

I smile at him and hold out my hand, I was expecting these, but now is such a wonderful time to receive them.

"Well," the King of France eyes the letters, "who is so important to interrupt your marriage negotiations."

I flip through, "Uncle Cumberland, Cousin Darnley, and Aunt Suffolk."

Aunt Louise's husband sits up, "English?"

"Family," I correct, glaring at him, "they're nice to have you know?"

The King of France slaps his hand on my wrist.

Shock and fear tumble throughout my body, as his eyes go cold, "Read them to us, Marie."

I glance at Francis, he holds my gaze, then flicks his father's hand off my arm.

"Oh my, Aunt Cumberland has spoken to the Queen, she and Cousin Margaret will be part of the English party coming to my wedding."

"Hm," the French King huffs, "continue."

I glance at him with a gaze that could level Ben Nevis.

"Cousin Darnley is also coming," I swallow, "and Uncle Lennox as well, they all wish me congratulations."

"Boring."

"You ask." I bite back.

"Aunt Suffolk says Katherine Grey will be coming," I read, then gasp, "and the Lady Elizabeth."

That gets the King's attention.

"The Protestant contender for the English throne is coming," he smirks, "lovely, we must show your cousin the Queen that you are a better option to rule England."

Dryly, I reply that we shall see what she thinks of me with her reply.

King Henri the Second of France goes still, "You wrote to her without my knowledge?"

I blink, "Why would I tell you if I wrote to my cousin or not?"

The slap comes as such a shock I don't register it until my eyes begin to sting.

"How dare ye, ye fucking bastard," MacDougal's brogue accompanies a throwing knife that lands in front of the King, "how dare ye lay a hand on my Queen!"

From between my tears, I can see the King of France glower at MacDougal.

"What did you call me?"

"A fucking bastard," I repeat, my voice hoarse, "it is none of France's concern who Scotland writes to, and you have no right–"

"Look at the Dauphin, Marie."

I pause, turning to Francis in confusion.

"If you go through with this marriage, he will own you," King Henri thunders, "and my son's property is my property, therefore you will have to do as I say."

I look down, I refuse to believe that.

"Do you understand me, Marie?"

I stand up, scrapping my chair on the ground with such force it skids.

"One day," I turn to him, "I will have an empire larger than the small borders of France, and you will regret speaking to me in this way."

I leave, uncaring if Lola and Greer follow. I am so enraged my skin burns on contact with air, and my vision is black around the edges, allowing me to bump into multiple startled courtiers as I pass. I don't apologize and I don't turn back.

"We're leaving," I announce to my room, "start packing for Saint Germain."

Kenna and Aylee are so shocked they don't move.

"Now!" I roar, delegating my friends to objects.

I go to my desk, gather all my most important letters, and store them on my person.

"Majesty," Rose scampers into the room, "is it true you are leaving?"

"Yes," I growl, "all my maids shall pack."

Lola bursts through the door then, Lord MacDougal right behind her.

" Mheri ," she begs me in Scots Gaelic, "I know the King was rude but we need our alliance."

"Our alliance is broken," I tell her, "say goodbye to Elodie."

Silently, Lola rises and walks out the door.

"Mari," Greer hurries in, speaking in rapid Scots, "your family is arguing on your behalf–"

"I don't care," I spit, "go downstairs and call for carriages."

For the first time in a long time, Greer is still. Next, she curtsies to me, low and long. Finally, she goes. Seeing her so removed from her task sobers me a little, but I can not turn back now.

"You have made the right choice, Madam," he bows, "Scotland is not property."

"I agree, hurry your letter to Mackenzie, I want him and his men here to bully the King."

"Aye, Madam," he bows again, "may I carry that trunk down?"

I turn, a trunk labeled "tartans" is sitting on the floor.

"Aye, you may."

I send a rider ahead to inform Saint Germain we are coming, and by the time we are all packed, it is nightfall.

"Grace, Eilish," I begin, "ride ahead with our things now."

They curtsey and scamper off.

"Rose and Helene Deveroux," I turn to the little maids, "the choice whether to stay or come is yours, but make it quick."

Both agree to go with me.

"Then you must go downstairs and ride ahead with my belongings as well."

"Majesty," Greer curtsies, "your grandmother wishes to see you."

"Where?"

"Her rooms."

I nod, ordering her to do a final sweep of the room.

"And tell Kenna to invite Bash sometime when she says goodbye."

"Of course, Madam."

I stalk over to my grandmother's room, letting nobles dive out of the way like sheep. They gawk and whisper, there is a red mark on my cheek now, I made sure to touch it up with rouge this afternoon. Likely everyone will know of the King's misbehavior in five minutes' time.

" Mon grandfille ," Antoinette de Guise takes my face in her hands, "my poor granddaughter."

"Grandmére, if you wish–"

"Hush," she interrupts, then gestures, "the Dauphin asked to see you."

I look at the Dauphin. He is ashamed and the pallor on his face reflects the pain in his bloodshot eyes.

"Francis," I swallow, "I can't stand him."

He steps forward and falls to his knees.

"Meri, stay with me," he grabs my hand, "I will protect you."

I grow cold, "As you did at the meeting?"

Francis gapes.

"I will not be property, Your Royal Highness, and neither will my country," I force my sob back into my stomach, "your father can forget every ambition he's ever had of an empire and Calais."

The Dauphin openly lets his tears fall.

"I fought for you, Meri, I will fight for you."

I give him a small, sad smile.

"You are welcome to, good luck, Francis."

Despite myself, I bend down and wipe his tears, kissing him softly.

"And goodbye."

Four carriages of stuff have already gone, followed by a caravan of my male and female servants. Greer and Aylee are in the carriage, the latter holding a crying Lola. The sight fills me with such pity I almost call the whole thing off. Almost.

"Mòrachd," Kenna comes up by my side, "I have said my goodbye."

We walk forward and I'm moved when some of the courtiers curtsey and bow as we walk past. I climb in. Kenna climbs in, and I pound the roof of the carriage. We're off.

Lola continues to sob for an hour, and Aylee whispers to her until she falls asleep. Kenna stares out the window in silence, and I sense that she's mad at me. Greer tries too start a conversation twice, but both times no one answers.

"Here we are," she finally announces at the end of our fourth hour stuck in a box, "and we are safe."

Lord Cunnigham helps me out of the carriage, I nod thanks before staring up at Saint Germain en Laye. She's smaller than the Louvre, and the Chateau has a rugged, Scottish style to it behind the pristine wall keeping us "safe." Its jagged stone edges and tight passageways certainly make for a strong demeanor.

"My lord," I swallow, turning to my protection officer, "will you carry Lady Lola to her old room?"

"Of course," he bows, "and Madam, I am sorry for your loss."

I can't respond to that, thinking of how cruel I was when leaving Francis. I did the exact opposite of what I wanted, but I did it.

Aylee follows behind Cunningham while Greer taps my arm.

"I will go see to Rose and Helene," she whispers, "and I'll take Kenna with me."

They go off, and for some stupid reason, I stand still, gazing up at my childhood home.

"Madam," Mrs. Wilson, my housekeeper, lets her brogue roll off her tongue, "it's been a long day, may I help ye tay bed?"

I exhale, "Thank you."

My quarters in Saint Germain fill me with hurt when I enter. This room is full of a little girl's dreams. There are poetry books on the shelf along with sweet-smelling roses. Colored ribbons hang next to fairytale depictions of chivalry and success. I pull the one depicting Sir Lancelot and Guinevere down.

Mrs. Wilson undresses me silently, her old fingers still nimble after years of service.

"Thank Mrs. Wilson," I sigh, stepping out of my dress, "please see to it that Lady Greer and Lady Kenna are comfortable next door."

"Aye, Madam," my housekeeper hang up my dress, "I shall."

I climb below the covers of my bed, feeling my shift rustle against the sheets. For the first time in a long time, I am homesick.