The Bloom of Violet

“Thank you, Countess… and I’m sorry,” Anne said softly.

“What do you have to be sorry for? If there’s anyone to blame, it’s only one person,” the Countess of Herbon replied with a firm yet gentle tone.

“……”

“I know you must be tired of hearing this, but as I grow older, I can’t help but scold more often. Still, Anne, I care for you as if you were my own daughter, so I must say this again.”

“Yes, Countess,” Anne replied obediently.

“No matter how much His Majesty thinks highly of you, remember that your conduct is always important. Lady Charlotte is kind-hearted, but that patience won’t last forever.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“His Majesty has no siblings, which is why he cherishes you so deeply. But when he starts his own family, things will change. That’s just the way of men.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good. Remember, everything I say comes from a place of care. Don’t take it to heart,” the Countess said, patting Anne gently on the back.

Anne glanced briefly at the woman, who was shorter than herself, before lowering her gaze. She waited until the Countess turned and walked away.

Not long after, a letter arrived from Bottelock. He proposed a meeting the next afternoon, at two o’clock, under the wisteria trellis in the Tulip Garden. Unlike his earlier demeanor, the letter was devoid of emotion, leaving Anne with a lingering sense of emptiness.

While she wasn’t truly hurt, the hollowness was undeniable.

“Miss Rosenthal,” a low voice called out.

Anne turned to see Bottelock standing behind her, clearing his throat awkwardly as he met her gaze. She smiled faintly. He looked thinner than before, his cheeks slightly sunken.

“Hello, Mr. Bottelock,” Anne greeted, folding her parasol.

Bottelock asked if she’d like to take a walk. Anne nodded, and the two began to stroll slowly beneath the wisteria trellis. The blossoms hung like icicles, fragrant and beautiful.

Anne tilted her head upward, admiring the lush green leaves and thick vines arching overhead. The pale lavender blooms growing in abundance along the rounded canopy were mesmerizing.

The sight reminded her of a summer long ago—a summer when the wisteria bloomed just as vividly, coloring the world in soft purples. She had been fifteen at the time, and Lennox was thirteen.

Though they hadn’t been children exactly, they were young enough to run hand in hand beneath this very trellis, tumbling through the Queen’s garden and playing hide-and-seek in the Stäroffe Garden. They roamed the palace without shame, their innocence making their antics seem almost foolish in hindsight.

Back then, Anne had thought she and Lennox would always be together. It was that naive belief that led her to make such a foolish promise, unaware of how it would become a shackle. Why had she sworn to stay by his side forever?

As she stared at the cascading blossoms, she could still hear the young boy’s voice in her memory.

“Anne.”

“Yes?”

“Promise me something.”

“What is it?”

“Promise you’ll stay by my side forever.”

Lennox had been solemn, his tone unusually heavy. Anne had been baffled by the gravity in his expression, so unlike the playful boy she knew. He had looked as if he were issuing an edict, his face devoid of his usual humor.

Caught off guard, Anne hesitated before nodding. “Alright.”

“Promise seriously,” he pressed.

“I am serious,” she replied.

Lennox, now taller than her, furrowed his brows. Anne pursed her lips in mild annoyance. Until recently, he had always been slightly shorter than her, which made sense given their two-year age difference.

But then, after visiting his maternal grandparents at the Ducal House of Elier, he had returned noticeably taller, his frame beginning to resemble that of a young man.

He would only grow larger, she knew. His father was a man of impressive stature, after all. But she couldn’t help feeling a pang of nostalgia. At ten years old, Lennox had been far less intimidating. Back then, she had thought of him as a cute, feisty little acorn. Now…

“Then seal it with a kiss,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

Lennox tightened his grip on her wrists. Anne, flustered, tried to pull away, but his hold only grew stronger. Her cheeks flushed hotly. What on earth was he thinking?

“See? You can’t do it,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she retorted.

“You have to seal a promise with a kiss. Even knights kiss my hand when they swear loyalty,” he explained matter-of-factly.

“Then I’ll kiss your hand,” Anne offered, trying to negotiate.

“No, you’re a girl, so you have to kiss my lips,” he declared, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Anne stared at him, dumbfounded. His casual tone made her wonder if this truly was the proper thing to do.

Desperate to free her wrists, she reluctantly agreed. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“What? You’re the one who should close your eyes!”

“Now that I think about it, since you’re the girl, you should be the one to close your eyes.”

Anne felt a surge of irritation. First, he wanted her to do it; then he wanted to do it himself. She decided it would be best to get it over with and escape quickly. She shut her eyes.

Something soft and warm brushed against her lips. Was it Lennox’s lips? The sensation was gentle, almost tender, as if someone were tickling her heart with a feather. Her toes curled, and tension shot to the tips of her feet.

Anne’s eyes flew open. Lennox’s violet eyes sparkled like shards of glass, and the sight sent a wave of heat rushing to her face. Flustered, she pushed the boy away and bolted.

“Miss Rosenthal.”

Bottelock’s deep voice startled her, and she froze mid-step. Turning slowly, she found him standing there, his expression firm as he looked down at her.

Anne stiffened, meeting his gaze. He was a striking man, with a defined jawline and almond-shaped eyes. Though his nose had a slight curve, it added character to his face. His brown hair was thick and well-kept, and his broad shoulders completed the picture of someone meticulously chosen by the Countess of Herbon.

“Anne, the Dowager Queen will undoubtedly ensure your marriage is well-matched. So, don’t be so wary. Accept the introductions, and at least meet the candidates,” Belinda, her friend, had said one day, chiding her for her hesitance.

Anne had always felt awkward about the process of selecting a husband through introductions arranged by the Queen’s maids. But perhaps Belinda was right. As someone who had served the Dowager Queen for so long, Anne’s marriage would reflect on her. A poor match would be a stain on the Queen’s dignity.

With that in mind, Anne stopped refusing recommendations. Bottelock was the third man she met after making that resolution.

“Yes, Mr. Bottelock?” Anne replied politely.

“About the other day… I owe you an apology. It was wrong of me to…”

“Oh, no, Mr. Bottelock. I’m the one who should apologize. I should have been more mindful of His Majesty’s feelings and acted with more caution.”

“Not at all. How could you have been more careful than you already were, Miss Rosenthal?”

Bottelock’s furrowed brow softened, and he let out a sigh. Anne, finding it difficult to meet his gaze, tilted her head slightly downward.

Her eyes landed on the polished tips of his shoes. Bottelock was a good man. While he had a sensitive side unusual for a man, Anne saw it as a sign of the sheltered, refined upbringing of someone from a good family.

Besides, he was fundamentally kindhearted, with a cheerful and untroubled nature that made it easy to grow fond of him.