It seems that matters of state are not the only weight pressing upon our dear Princess Helena Amira Matilda Xanthippe. This author has it on good authority that the recent council meeting was more than mere ceremonial tradition. According to unnamed but ever-reliable sources (and aren't they always?), the question of marriage was placed most delicately — or perhaps not so delicately — before Her Royal Highness.
Indeed, it appears the gentlemen of the council are less concerned with ruling the kingdom and more concerned with who may rule the heart of the future Queen. One wonders whether they are seeking stability for the realm or merely a seat at the matrimonial table. This author will observe with the utmost interest as suitors begin to mysteriously populate palace events. Gentle readers, we may be witnessing the beginning of a most unusual season. After all, it is not every day that one courts a Queen.
Lady Whittleby's Society Papers, 24 February 1812
---
Helena sat at her desk, the paper from Lady Whittleby still open before her, the black ink smudged slightly by the tight grip of her fingers. The morning sun filtered weakly through the high windows of her private study, throwing golden light across her furrowed brow and clenched jaw. A thousand emotions swirled behind her usually composed features: embarrassment, fury, exhaustion.
Nara stood quietly by the tall bookcase, watching her with that knowing look she always wore — one that Helena had come to depend on more than she would admit aloud.
"She always knows," Helena murmured finally, her voice sharp with resentment. "Whittleby. How does she always know what happens before the ink is even dry on the council records?"
Nara moved from the shadows, her steps soundless against the polished floor. She lifted the paper gently from Helena's hands and folded it.
"It is her business to know," she said simply. "Though I suspect she is less clairvoyant than she pretends and more adept at gathering whispers."
Helena exhaled, leaning back in her chair. She wore no crown that morning, no jewelry, not even the subtle sheen of royal poise. Instead, she looked young. Tired. Entirely too human for a woman who would soon bear the weight of a kingdom.
"They cornered me, Nara. Like hounds circling their prey. Every word out of their mouths was wrapped in silk but sharpened like daggers."
Nara did not interrupt.
"They didn't speak to me," Helena continued. "They spoke at me. As if I was nothing more than a formality to be married off and managed."
Nara lowered herself into the chair opposite her. "And yet, you did not bow. You did not break."
Helena looked up, her eyes rimmed with frustration. "But I walked away."
"Yes. With your dignity intact. That's more than I can say for any of the men in that chamber."
A smile tugged at Helena's lips, brief but sincere.
There was a knock at the door. Helena stiffened. Nara stood, smoothing her skirts as if readying herself for war.
"Enter," Helena said.
The doors opened to reveal Lord Greystoke, his face carefully composed. Behind him stood two pages and another member of the council — Lord Kingsley, a man whose opinion changed with the wind.
"Your Highness," Greystoke said with a bow. "Forgive the intrusion, but we wished to follow up on yesterday's discussion."
Helena rose. "You mean yesterday's ambush."
Greystoke flinched. Kingsley chuckled nervously.
"Not at all," Greystoke replied smoothly. "We merely wish to continue the dialogue, to ensure the transition of power remains smooth. Your marriage, after all, is an essential part of securing the realm."
"You mean securing your own positions," Helena said coolly. "I was under the impression that one must be crowned before being handed a husband."
Greystoke's jaw tightened. Kingsley stepped forward.
"If I may, Your Highness, the people are eager to see the monarchy strengthened. And they look to you as a symbol of stability."
"And you believe my stability is measured by the proximity of a man?" Helena arched an eyebrow. "Fascinating."
Nara stood quietly at Helena's side now, her presence like a silent wall of support.
"We do not mean to offend," Greystoke said. "We merely suggest that eligible noblemen be invited to the palace, informally. To meet you. To allow you to choose of your own accord."
Helena tapped her fingers against her desk.
"You mean a parade."
"A selection," Greystoke offered.
Helena studied them. They believed themselves clever. Benevolent. Manipulative without being overt. But she could see the desperation in their eyes. Their fear of what she represented: change, autonomy, a monarch who would not be controlled.
"Very well," she said. "Send your noblemen. I shall receive them. But let me make something perfectly clear. I am not choosing a husband to appease you. I will choose for myself. And I will not wed unless I see fit to do so."
Greystoke bowed. "Of course, Your Highness."
He left without further word. Kingsley lingered a moment.
"There are those who support you, Princess," he said quietly. "Not all of us are blind to what you can become."
Then he too was gone.
Helena sat once more, her body exhausted from the encounter though her mind raced.
"I feel like a caged animal," she said.
Nara touched her shoulder. "Then let us sharpen your claws."
---
Later that afternoon, in the palace library, Helena met with her tutor, Professor Elowen Hart. Elowen was a woman of about sixty, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, with a halo of silver hair always pinned into an intricate knot. She had been Helena's tutor since she was twelve and had returned at Eleanor's request to help prepare Helena for the rigors of public rule.
Helena entered with a sigh. Elowen looked up from a stack of scrolls.
"Let me guess," she said without preamble. "They want you married."
Helena dropped into the chair opposite her.
"Is it tattooed on my forehead?"
Elowen smiled faintly. "No. But you have that particular look. Like a young lioness who's just realized the pride expects her to birth cubs before she's allowed to hunt."
Helena huffed a laugh.
"What would you do, Elowen? If they told you that your value was tied to your womb?"
Elowen leaned forward, her expression fierce.
"I would remind them that without my mind, my womb is useless. I would sharpen every word like a blade. I would show them that power does not rest between one's legs but between one's ears."
Helena was quiet for a moment.
"I want to rule. Not as a puppet, not as a queen in name only. But truly."
"Then do so," Elowen said. "You are not your father. Nor your mother. You are your own kind of monarch. Let them see that. Make them afraid of what they tried to contain."
Helena nodded slowly. She felt steadier with Elowen's presence, and Nara's unflinching support. There were allies still, though they were few. But they were enough.
---
The next day, the first of the noblemen arrived.
Helena stood on the palace balcony overlooking the rose gardens. Nara stood beside her, reading from a list.
"Lord Gideon Travers, son of the Marquess of Danforth. Age twenty-eight. Known for his military record and fondness for fox hunting."
"Pass," Helena said.
"You haven't even met him," Nara replied with a smile.
"If he prefers killing animals to reading books, I doubt we'll have much to discuss."
Nara continued.
"Lord Henry Ashcombe. Youngest son of the Earl of Elmwick. Scholar. Studied in Vienna. Known for his collection of rare maps."
Helena perked up.
"Interesting. Invite him for tea."
The list went on. One suitor after another, some appealing, most tedious. Helena received them with grace but a growing sense of irritation. She was not a prize to be won. Not a jewel to be selected from a case.
That evening, Nara found her in the royal gardens, barefoot in the grass, her gown spread around her like a fallen cloud.
"You seem troubled," Nara said gently.
"I'm being auctioned off," Helena whispered. "And the bidders don't even see me. They see the crown. The alliance. The power. Not me."
Nara knelt beside her.
"Then show them who you are. Force them to see it. And if they cannot, they do not deserve you."
Helena nodded, her gaze drifting to the stars overhead.
"They will not choose for me," she said. "I will choose. And I will rule. With or without their approval."
Nara smiled.
"Then let the season begin, my Queen."
Back in the gentlemen's club, across from the royal gardens, Lord Amir sat at a corner table, flipping a coin between his fingers. The whispers he had heard at the palace disturbed him. He was loyal to the crown, but he feared the lengths the council would go.
Beside him, Jamie Harrington took a sip of brandy, eyes narrowed.
"She doesn't need a husband. She needs a sword," Jamie muttered. "Preferably to wield against half the idiots at that council table."
Amir chuckled. "You surprise me, Harrington. I thought you disliked politics."
"I do. But I dislike injustice more. And I've seen how they look at her. Like she's a threat."
"Because she is," Amir said simply. "And a necessary one."
Jamie glanced out the window, toward the palace's glowing silhouette. "Maybe they need a reminder that some women aren't to be married. They're to be followed."
And silently, Amir agreed.
That evening, after Helena retired from the barrage of polite conversations and strategic smiles meant to "assess" her temperament, she found herself pacing the corridor outside the Queen's private chapel.
The palace was quieter there—far from the music, the chatter, and the clinking glasses. Only a few candles were lit, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The hush felt sacred.
Nara joined her silently, her expression unreadable until Helena broke the silence.
"Do you think I'm being unreasonable?"
"About what?" Nara replied without hesitation.
"Rejecting nearly every eligible bachelor they've paraded before me in a matter of hours. Lord Ashcombe was the only tolerable one. The rest were insufferable. Arrogant, dismissive, or worse—completely indifferent to me as a person."
"I think," Nara said softly, "that you are doing exactly what they fear."
Helena turned to her, brows furrowed.
"You're thinking for yourself," Nara continued. "You're not playing the part they wrote for you. And that frightens them more than a foreign invasion."
Helena gave a small, tired laugh.
Just then, a soft knock echoed from the far end of the corridor. It was a palace attendant.
"Your Highness," he bowed, "a private note from Professor Hart."
Helena opened the scroll as the attendant left. The message was simple:
Your courage will define this monarchy, not your marriage. Remember who you are, and why they tremble.
— Elowen Hart
She rolled the parchment tightly and pressed it against her heart.
---
Meanwhile, in a shadowed study across the city, Lord Greystoke stood before a map of noble estates, pins marking family names and influence.
"We need stronger alliances," he murmured to Caspian and Lord Wembley. "We cannot let this girl hold unchecked power."
"She has the people," Wembley sneered. "They're foolish. They see her as a romantic tale—an underdog. A woman of mixed heritage defying tradition. They applaud it."
Caspian added with a frown, "If we cannot control her by marriage, we'll have to consider... other methods."
Greystoke looked over his shoulder. "Not yet. Let's not make a martyr of her. We'll try one more round of introductions. But this time… not suitors. Allies. Men who can influence the crown, even if they don't wear it."
---
Back at the palace, Helena was summoned to a quiet dinner with her mother. It was rare these days—privacy.
As they sat over roasted lamb and sweet potatoes, Queen Eleanor reached for her daughter's hand.
"You remind me of your father more and more," she said. "Stubborn. Proud. Brilliant."
Helena blinked. "That's… a compliment?"
Eleanor chuckled. "The highest. He never bowed easily. And he chose me not for politics, but for loyalty, love, and strength. It is the only reason you are here today."
Helena swallowed hard.
"They're planning more," she whispered. "I feel it. I hear it in their silence, in their flattery. I don't trust them."
Eleanor nodded. "Then trust yourself. You are not alone, Helena. You have me. Nara. Your tutor. And perhaps more allies than you realize."
Helena looked up sharply. "Like who?"
A knowing smile curled on Eleanor's lips. "Let's just say not everyone at court agrees with Greystoke and his ilk. Some… are waiting for the right moment to choose the winning side."
Helena tilted her head, thoughtful.
"I just hope I'm the side worth choosing."
"You are, daughter. Now show them why."