I returned to the estate well after dark and went straight to my rooms. Sleep came in fragments. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the base of the cliff, the ruined face, the way Elira’s bracelet had looked on a wrist that was not hers. When the sky finally began to pale I gave up and sat at the edge of the bed until a servant knocked.
The news had already reached the capital.
A body matching Elira Veyne’s general description had been recovered from the rocks below the north-road cliffs. The clothes and personal effects were hers. The face was too damaged for easy recognition, but the family had been informed and a formal identification was expected later in the day. By mid-morning the house was full of quiet voices and the heavy atmosphere that always preceded a funeral.
I listened to the reports without changing expression. Inside, the decision I had made in the woods settled into something final. The search was over. The questions would narrow and close. I would go back to her the day after tomorrow. One full day for the rites and the public grief. Then I would return to the locked room and the blue dress and the girl who still did not know the world had already buried her.
The funeral was held on the Veyne family grounds under a pale sky. Black fabric moved in the light wind. I stood among the mourners in a dark gown and watched Elira’s parents break in public. Her mother could not stop crying. Her father held himself rigid until his shoulders finally gave way. I stepped forward when it seemed required and offered the expected words. They gripped my hands as if I were still the childhood acquaintance they had always approved of.
Do not worry, I told them in the privacy of my own mind. Your daughter is in the safest place.
The crown prince stood near the front, face drawn, eyes fixed on the closed casket. He looked older than he had at the ball. When our gazes met he gave a small, hollow nod. I returned it and looked away.
Near the edge of the gathering a red-haired young woman was being held back by a taller companion with yellow hair. I recognized neither of them at first. Then the red-haired one pushed forward far enough for her voice to carry.
“You,” she said, eyes locked on me. “Joselline Marque. Elira was my friend. People whispered things about you at the academy. Maybe they should have listened. Maybe you’re the reason she’s in that box.” This chapter was taken from novelping.com without permission.
The words landed in the quiet like a dropped glass. Several heads turned. The tall yellow-haired woman (Marise Valcour, someone murmured) caught Joselline’s arm and pulled her back with visible force.
“Not here,” Marise said under her breath. “Not at her funeral. You’re making a scene.”
Joselline’s face twisted, but she allowed herself to be drawn away. The two of them disappeared toward the outer path. I remained still, hands folded, expression carefully blank. Inside, an old memory surfaced. Academy corridors. Soft rumors that never quite took shape. Suggestions of attachment, of looks held too long, of a red-haired girl who watched Elira with something sharper than ordinary friendship. Elira herself had shut the talk down with quiet firmness. At the time I had paid it little attention. Now the connection settled into place. Joselline Marque had wanted something from Elira that she had never received. Grief had turned the old wound into accusation.
I filed the names away and turned my attention back to the service.
When the rites ended the crowd began to thin. The crown prince found me near the stone steps.
“Seraphine.” His voice was rough. “I keep thinking I have lost a best friend. She was… she listened. She never made me feel like a title.” He stopped, jaw tight. “I do not know what to do with the space she left.”
I placed a gloved hand lightly on his arm, the gesture measured and appropriate.
“She would not want you to carry it alone,” I said. “Grief is heavy enough without adding guilt for feeling it.” This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
He nodded, eyes bright, and after a moment excused himself to speak with an elderly relative. I watched him go.
Best friend. The words sat poorly. He had never looked at Elira the way a man looked at a valued companion. He had looked at her the way a man looked at a door out of an unwanted future. I had seen it at the ball in the way his attention lingered, in the careful way he created reasons to stand near her. He had been preparing to set me aside. Annul the engagement. Take Elira instead. The kingdom would have accepted it with enough pressure and the right story. That possibility had lived in the air between us long before I put a body at the base of a cliff.
The thought of her being taken from me had been unforgivable. Not the loss of a title or a political arrangement. Her. The idea that she might stand beside someone else, wear someone else’s claim, answer to someone else’s voice. I would not allow it. I had not allowed it. The prince could mourn a best friend if that fiction helped him sleep. I knew what he had actually wanted, and I knew what I had refused to surrender.
I felt nothing that resembled remorse. The woman he mourned was still breathing behind a locked door. The fact was mine alone.
I had almost reached the edge of the grounds when Elira’s parents approached me directly. Her mother’s face was swollen from crying. Her father walked with a small wooden box held carefully in both hands. The lid was closed, but the way he carried it suggested something of value inside. A necklace, I guessed. Perhaps a family piece meant for a daughter who would never wear it now.
They stopped in front of me. For a moment none of us spoke. I kept my posture open and my expression soft with the correct amount of shared sorrow. Behind that surface my mind moved quickly. They had sought me out at the end of the funeral for a reason. The box was not an accident. Whatever they intended to say or offer, it would bind me further into the role of the trusted family friend. That could be useful. It could also become a complication if they asked questions I did not want to answer.
Her father cleared his throat. The box rested between us like a quiet accusation.
I waited, face composed, and prepared to receive whatever came next.