The Bloom of Violet

“Oh my, Your Highness,”

The Duchess of Valenska’s voice carried a subtle chill as Lennox interrupted. She flinched slightly but managed to maintain her composure. Lennox, however, paid her no heed and instead grasped Anne’s wrist firmly.

“She’ll be with me until six today,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“But Anne has tasks to attend to. Her Majesty the Queen Dowager specifically—”

“It doesn’t matter. Anne is mine.”

“Your Highness.”

“Anne is my maid. For now, I’ve just temporarily entrusted her to my mother.”

The way he spoke made it sound as if he were reclaiming a borrowed pet—or worse, a mere toy. Anne shifted uncomfortably, attempting to free her wrist, but Lennox’s grip only tightened. She gave up with a sigh and turned her gaze to the Duchess.

The woman exhaled deeply and muttered, “Do as you wish,” before turning on her heel. Anne watched the Duchess retreat with a mix of resentment and helplessness before finally looking back at Lennox.

“That hurts,” she said softly.

“…Sorry,” he replied, releasing her wrist. His demeanor shifted entirely, a stark contrast to the rigid attitude he had displayed moments earlier in front of his godmother and former caretaker.

“Are you still upset?” he asked cautiously.

“…No.”

“Good. Don’t be mad.”

He flashed a bright smile—the same cheerful expression he wore when he spoke of his affection for Charlotte. Anne swallowed the sting of that familiar wound and followed him reluctantly.

Later, with Charlotte

“Are you upset?”

“Me?”

“You seem to be,” Charlotte remarked, narrowing her gaze.

The two were in the midst of preparing for the Duchess of Valenska’s upcoming birthday banquet, with Charlotte trying on dresses. She had paused to study the man staring out the window.

The king, as usual, appeared indifferent—aloof, even. Yet there was a sharpness, a tension in his expression that only surfaced when that woman was involved. It hadn’t always been this way.

Back when he was a child, Lennox was sensitive and irritable, but his emotions had been distributed evenly, regardless of whom he interacted with. Now, however, his feelings seemed to revolve around a single person.

Charlotte dismissed the maid who had been adjusting the lace on her sleeve and walked toward Lennox. Behind her, the displaced maid busied herself with tidying a nearby dress form.

“Why do you look so melancholic?”

Lennox finally turned his gaze to her, his violet eyes meeting hers. Charlotte worked to maintain her smile.

She knew. Of course, she knew. Lately, the king’s thoughts had been consumed by Anne. Whenever he had a spare moment, it seemed he would drift into thoughts of her. Even if he tried to conceal it, the worry and restlessness etched into his face were undeniable.

And she wasn’t the only one who had noticed. His fixation on that woman was glaringly obvious.

He called Anne his friend. A lifelong companion, he said. But Charlotte couldn’t accept that.

Even if men and women could be friends, what sort of man would ever share a bed with his friend? Just the thought made Charlotte’s blood boil. If only he had declared Anne his mistress outright—it would sting less. If Anne had admitted her love for the king, perhaps Charlotte wouldn’t feel this seething rage.

“…I’m just tired,” Lennox said at last.

“Is it because of Anne?”

He turned fully toward her this time, his gaze sharpening. Charlotte had learned that if she wanted his attention, she needed to bring up her. Lennox only showed warmth when Anne was involved.

Outside of Anne’s presence, the king had little kindness to spare for Charlotte. Even during their private moments, like in the Stäroffe Garden, he acted like a lover only when someone else was watching.

She knew why he treated her this way. And knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

“…Do you have something to say?” he asked.

“I think your mind is troubled by Anne’s marriage prospects,” Charlotte said with a soft smile. “It’s amusing, really. You seem more concerned about her marriage than our own union.”

“……”

“Of course, it makes sense. She’s your closest friend. Even as a prince, you were meticulous about vetting potential suitors for her, weren’t you?”

Charlotte smiled faintly, her tone polite but pointed. She was subtly reminding him that his preoccupation with Anne—a mere maid, a common orphan—had eclipsed even their impending marriage, not to mention matters of state.

“She’s an old friend,” Lennox murmured, his voice low and strained. “And my savior.”

The words fell from his lips with an unsettling finality. Charlotte clenched her fists, swallowing her rising fury.

She wanted to scream: Savior? She was part of the scum that threatened your life to begin with! That filthy girl doesn’t deserve your gratitude!

But she held her tongue. If she let her emotions take over now, it would only backfire. Instead, she bit her lower lip, suppressing the words that begged to escape.

The king sipped his steeped red tea, his amethyst eyes fixed on her with a gaze as cold as a bird of prey. His expression seemed to suggest he was reading her thoughts.

“…Forgive me. I overstepped,” Charlotte murmured, lowering her gaze in apology. She knew the king wouldn’t grant her forgiveness, but she had no other choice. After all, he had likely never thought of her as anything other than the queen.

No matter how special that woman—Anne—might be, she could never threaten Charlotte’s position. Yes, that knowledge would suffice.

“Go with the second dress,” the king said, rising slowly.

Charlotte stepped back a few paces and curtsied, lifting the hem of her dress slightly. The king didn’t even glance at her as he turned and left.

The sky was vast and high. Anne stood admiring the dahlias that had ripened under the summer sun. Just last week, the flowers had barely begun to bloom, but now they were in full, radiant splendor. The vibrant red summer roses and pristine white peonies, alongside the warm coral hues of the dahlias and the clustered blue delphiniums, created a breathtaking scene.

Holding her parasol, Anne strolled leisurely through the geometrically trimmed garden. The neatly manicured hedges and verdant fruit trees felt familiar, almost comforting. She stopped and gazed at the distant lavender wisteria trellis.

A breeze swept past, tousling her silver waterfall of hair beneath her white bonnet. She dabbed the sweat off her chin and fanned herself lightly. She had planned to meet Bottelock beneath the trellis, though…

Ever since that day, Bottelock had avoided contact with her. After the humiliation Lennox had put him through, Anne had felt a gnawing guilt and decided to send him a letter. She had carefully written a formal apology on behalf of the king’s household, taking great care with her words. But Bottelock hadn’t replied.

Her guilt deepened, and she considered visiting his home to apologize in person. But she quickly dismissed the idea—it would be inappropriate.

For a young, unmarried woman to visit a man’s house without any engagement or formal relationship was unthinkable. It would be an embarrassment, not only to herself but to the Dowager Queen Ingrid and the noblewomen of Tulip Palace.

So, what should she do?

As she sat brooding, her head heavy with sighs, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Bottelock asked if he might meet you tomorrow in the Tulip Garden. If you’re agreeable, perhaps you could meet him discreetly, away from His Majesty’s watchful eyes?”

It was the Countess of Herbon.

Anne looked at the composed woman in surprise. Even knowing the events of that day, the countess remained unbothered, her expression unusually gentle. If it had been the Duchess of Valenska, she would have immediately run to the Dowager Queen in a frenzy.

“If Bottelock is willing, then I’m happy to meet him anytime,” Anne replied, forcing a smile.

Though she didn’t feel like smiling, she needed to manage her expression—without it, her face would harden completely.

The Countess nodded. She had been the one to introduce Bottelock to Anne, and Anne silently thanked her for it.

Had it been the Duchess of Valenska instead, Anne was certain things would have gone much differently. The Duchess would have reported every detail, scrutinized every interaction, and ensured that the Dowager Queen knew everything. She would have disregarded Anne’s age or maturity, treating her like a child to be disciplined and controlled.