Great bells chimed melodically, faintly audible through the glass windows. Isabella opened her eyes, looking toward the origin of the pleasant noise. She tried to turn her head… but she couldn’t. Her illness had sapped all of the energy out of her, and now she could barely watch and listen. Eight different bells, eight different tones. She couldn’t see them, but she’d never forget them.

  Those… are the royal bells, Isabella realized. They only ring upon the rise of a new monarch.

  Isabella’s already-troubled breathing hastened. She was queen. She had fallen ill, yes, but she hadn’t yet died. What was the meaning of this? Her faithful paladin, Gaspar, was ruling with a council in her stead ever since her illness developed months ago. The only claimant to the throne was three years old—they couldn’t possibly stage a coup. Gaspar had helped her win the throne. Why would he betray her?

  As her mind tried to reason out what was happening, the door opened. A woman in a solemn black mourning dress walked in with an eager gait, coming to stand over Isabella’s bedside. When she pulled back the veil covering her face, Isabella felt some relief. Bernadetta was her closest cousin—she would explain things. But her rich purple eyes… they stared down at her maliciously.

  “I can’t stay long, dear Isabella. I have to attend your funeral,” she said, her voice a thin whip. Isabella almost couldn’t believe this was Bernadetta.

  “I had to see you for myself… my proud cousin, daughter of Edgar the Great, one last time,” Bernadetta said venomously as she sat down by her bedside, studying Isabella’s face. She pulled a hairpin out of her hair, letting her black locks fall down. She seemed to push the hairpin down into the bed, but eventually stopped with disappointment. “It’s true, what they said. You can’t even feel pain anymore. Such a shame…”

  Her cousin put her hairpin behind her ear—its tip was red with blood. Isabella realized what she’d been doing: stabbing Isabella’s hand. She hadn’t felt a thing. She had never seen this side of Bernadetta.

  “Sometimes people are so far behind in the race, they think they’re leading.” Bernadetta looked at her ponderously. “But victory isn’t enough for me. I want you to know. You need to know. You need to suffer.”

  Isabella tried to fight against her illness, but it was fruitless. It had an ironclad grip over her body.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Bernadetta leaned closer. “You aren’t ill, cousin. You were poisoned by the man you trust most. You had no true supporters—you had only sycophants, who propped you up as a stepping stone for the man who will become my husband.” She placed her hand on Isabella’s cheek. Once Bernadetta’s touch had been comforting, but now it was nauseating. “Officially, you died three days ago. Your body will be burned because of your ‘disease,’ and cast to the wind. Ah… but it gets better.

  “We’ve been making good use of your name, Queen Isabella,” Bernadetta smiled widely. “You’ll be remembered as the tyrant that revoked countless privileges, that raised the taxes to record highs, that executed political opponents, that undermined the church… my, my. I could go on and on about the things we did under your name. If you could look out the window… you’d see the masses cheering for your death.”

  Isabella, through sheer force of will, managed to wheeze out one word that was half-question, half-indignance.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Bernadetta’s face turned to rage. “You ask me that? You?!” She grasped Isabella’s shoulders, and launched into a fast-paced tirade. “You, all high-and-mighty, lording your supposed ‘virtue’ over everyone. Acting sooo self-righteous, like nothing could shake you… even when your life kept getting dragged through the mud.”

  Bernadetta’s nails dug into Isabella’s shoulder as she pushed her down harder. “Did you think we couldn’t see that you thought you were better than us? Always proud, always regal, always aloof. Never erring, never indulging. But it was all ego, all about your legacy. Well…” Bernadetta smiled. “I want you to know who precisely who will write your history, who will close your book.”

  Isabella closed her eyes, not giving Bernadetta the satisfaction of more rage, of more entertainment. She wanted to cry, to despair… but as ever, she wouldn’t allow herself.

  “You sacrificed so much. Endured so much. I was curious to see how you got out of this one, frankly,” Bernadetta said with a rich laugh. “But it’s good to finally know that you’re lesser than me. I’d always thought as much, but the confirmation… it tastes sweet. Like frosting on sugar cookies, hmm?” She sighed wistfully. “Well… enough.”

  Bernadetta rose to her feet, and Isabella opened her eyes to watch her walk out. The woman practically skipped to the door, but at the frame, she hesitated. She looked back, then walked over once more with purpose.

  “They won’t like this, but…” Bernadetta reached behind Isabella, pulling the pillow out from behind my head. “But I’m going to be a queen. What they think doesn’t matter much. I need satisfaction.”

  Bernadetta stuffed the pillow over Isabella’s face. The velvet pillow pressed firmly against her face, and though she couldn’t feel the pain, she could feel the air catching in her mouth and her nose, struggling both to escape or intake. As Isabella’s already weakened breath faltered, the blackness of sleep consumed her.

  This promised to be the longest sleep she’d ever known.