The Bloom of Violet

Anne was the king’s maid. It was exceedingly rare for a king to personally appoint a maid, though not entirely without precedent. However, in such cases, the maid was usually a high-ranking noblewoman, or at the very least, the daughter of a lower-ranking official.

Furthermore, when referring to the king’s maid, it typically meant a concubine—a woman who served the king in a more intimate capacity.

But Anne was not the king’s concubine. She wasn’t even a noble. She was a commoner and an orphan, with no ties to aristocracy. Unsurprisingly, many within the court disapproved of her presence. Regardless of rank, whether noble or servant, most saw her low status and ambiguous position as a problem.

“If only I had stayed as the Dowager Queen’s maid… Why did Lennox bring me here?”

She couldn’t understand him. In truth, she didn’t want to. If he had even a shred of understanding or consideration for her, he wouldn’t have placed her in such a precarious position. With a downcast expression, Anne fiddled with the edge of her embroidery.

Her unease showed in her work, and the stitching was a mess. It might have been acceptable if it were for her own use or a gift for her friends. But this lace embroidery was intended as a birthday gift for the Duchess of Valenska, who resided in the Tulip Palace.

“…Nothing extravagant is necessary. A gift should convey one’s feelings. But if I had to choose a gift from you, it would undoubtedly be your beautiful lace embroidery,” the Dowager Queen had said.

“Would something like this be enough?” Anne had asked hesitantly.

“Of course! Don’t you know how much the noblewomen adore your lacework? Even Sofia was thrilled when you gave her the Argentum lace recently!”

Anne had noticed a sharp-eyed woman with thin, pursed lips staring at her. The expression was closer to envy than anger, but it made Anne uneasy. Helena de Valenska, the Duchess, was the Dowager Queen’s cousin and the only person the queen truly trusted. She had also helped raise Anne alongside the queen.

Even so, Helena wasn’t someone Anne could feel comfortable around.

“I gave it to Countess Herbon because she specifically asked for my lacework as a birthday gift,” Anne explained.

“Well, then I’m asking for the same,” Helena said with a smile.

Anne nodded. Making lace embroidery wasn’t difficult. What troubled her was whether it was truly sufficient as a gift.

As a maid, Anne’s wages were modest. Most of the king’s maids were either from wealthy families or unpaid volunteers, chosen more for their family status than financial need. Consequently, Anne’s monthly income was barely enough to live on, let alone buy a suitable gift for a noblewoman’s birthday.

In Sofia’s case—the Countess of Herbon—her request for lace had likely been out of consideration for Anne’s circumstances. But Helena’s request felt different. Was she being considerate, or was there another motive?

“…And yet, this is all I can manage,” Anne muttered with a sigh.

The embroidery was too plain for a duchess’s gift, and her sloppy stitching had made it worse. She slumped her shoulders and tossed the lace aside, resolving to start over.

Dragging herself to the bed, Anne flopped down with a groan.

“This is all Lennox’s fault,” she muttered.

Thinking of him drained her energy. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the memories of three days ago only made her more upset. Or perhaps, more accurately, melancholic.

She couldn’t pinpoint why. Was it because Lennox had caught her preparing for a date? Or because Charlotte had subtly tried to keep her in check? Or because Bottelock had been avoiding her ever since? Or was it because she had witnessed Lennox and Charlotte’s affectionate interaction?

No. None of that. Especially not the last one.

Anne had known Lennox and Charlotte for a long time. Charlotte had been engaged to Lennox since childhood—since he was five years old. Their bond was decades old, far predating Anne’s connection to Lennox.

Even three years ago, when “that incident” happened, Lennox had never entertained the thought of anyone other than Charlotte as his queen.

“Hey, Lennox. Do you… like Miss Charlotte?”

“Hm?”

A memory from her early days at the palace surfaced. It was winter, a year after she had met Lennox. The young prince, whose features had grown slightly more masculine compared to the previous year, looked up at her with his brilliant violet eyes, more dazzling than the summer’s fullest cornflowers.

“Miss Charlotte. Do you… like her?”

“Of course. Charlotte is a good person. She’s perfect for the role of queen,” Lennox had replied with a bright smile.

Anne felt her face harden at his smile. Unable to maintain her composure, she lowered her head and murmured, “I see.” But her wounded heart didn’t settle.

Why had she assumed Lennox didn’t like Charlotte? She had thought, like many nobles, that it was merely an arranged marriage.

What a petty, disgraceful thought.

Ashamed of herself, Anne turned her back on him, mumbling an excuse about work for the Duchess of Valenska. But as she tried to leave, Lennox asked where she was going and insisted on accompanying her.

Anne tried to brush him off, feigning annoyance, but Lennox refused to leave her side.

“Are you upset? Why?”

He followed her all the way to the Dowager Queen’s palace, repeatedly asking the same question. Anne denied it, insisting she wasn’t upset. Yet Lennox wouldn’t stop probing.

“Then why do you look like that? Did I do something wrong?”

The idea of a prince admitting to a mistake was baffling. Lennox, who was arrogant and unapologetic to everyone else—even Charlotte—showed an entirely different side to Anne.

“I’m fine. Go study,” she said curtly.

“There’s no class today.”

“Didn’t Sir Bilmore have a lesson planned?”

“Bilmore left for his hometown two days ago—his mother’s ill. He’ll be back in four days.”

“Then…”

“Why are you sulking? You were fine when we went sledding earlier.”

Lennox frowned as he spoke, leaving Anne at a loss for words. How could she explain that she was upset because he liked his fiancée? That she was jealous?

She couldn’t.

Fortunately, the Duchess of Valenska called for her from a distance. Relieved, Anne turned away, her face lighting up at her rescue.

Lennox scowled at her reaction.

“Anne, what are you doing here? Her Majesty the Queen Dowager is—”

“Anne is with me,” Lennox interjected.

“Oh my, Your Highness,”

The Duchess of Valenska’s voice, tinged with a hint of frost, wavered slightly as Lennox interrupted. She visibly flinched at his sudden interjection.

Unbothered by her reaction, Lennox paid her no mind. Instead, he reached out and firmly grasped Anne’s wrist.

“Today, she’s staying with me until six o’clock.”