The Queen and I sat in the Tower Library, where the shadows hung thick as pomades and the tapestries swallowed sound.
We did not conspire there, naturally.Conspiring was against the law.Scheming, on the other hand, was simply encouraged.
"Alina," the Queen said, her voice a drop of winter on glass, "must be managed."
I sat perched on the arm of a velvet chair that clogged the air with dust, swinging my toes—an image of royal innocence.
"Managed like a fragile rose?" I inquired politely.
The Queen's thin, sharp mouth curled into a smile."No, darling. Managed like an infestation."
And so the campaign against the King's new fixation—the adorable, blushing common girl he'd rescued from the fire—began.
Phase One: Gracefully Subvert
First, the rumors.A misplaced letter here.A glistening whisper there.Scandal blooming like fungus in a velvet-draped room.
"She was observed," I informed Lady Marigold at luncheon in my most solemn tone, "stealing wine from the royal cellars."
The Queen lofted one brow and added smoothly, "And indulging in debauchery with the stableboys."
By nightfall, the court buzzed like a hive of poisoned bees.
Phase Two: The Very Public Slip
We arranged for a small mishap, at the Queen's behest.A goblet, conveniently placed at the top of the grand staircase during a royal procession.A slip, a shriek, and sweet Alina tumbled headfirst into the Duke of Windmere's much-prized peacock display.
Feathers flew.Gowns tore.Dignity was lost forever.
(General Whiskers, observing from the banister, appeared quite impressed.)
Phase Three: Drowning in Grace
Then, we smothered her with kindness.
Invitations.Tea parties.Ballroom lessons.Twelve noblewomen descending at once to "refine" her manners until they gleamed—and cracked.
She was paraded, corrected, re-dressed, re-named.No decision was her own.Every moment, a performance.
The King watched, baffled, as the bright-eyed girl he had once saved grew pale and brittle under the burden of courtly favor.
I smiled sweetly each time he looked my way.
Endgame: Seeds of Doubt
The Queen and I never lifted a hand.
We didn't need to.
We merely tilted the stage until Alina fell, again and again, and sighed with deep, aching sympathy.
"Ah, poor dear," the Queen murmured once, her voice a velvet sigh. "So delicate."
I sipped my tea and replied, "Maybe the King needs someone more robust."
Someone who wouldn't fall when the world caught fire.
Conclusion: Not Every Fairytale Ends in Love
In the end, it would not be poison or a blade that destroyed Alina.
It would be the inexorable, crushing weight of a crown she was never meant to wear.
And when she faltered one final time—When she gazed up at the King, tears shining, and he, at last, looked away—
The Queen and I would be there.
Smiling.
Because not every happily ever after ends with a kiss.
Some end with a crown.
And others—with a kingdom burning to ashes.