Gerald the unicorn sat on my vanity, staring at me with his tiny, judgmental wooden eyes.
"So," I said, pointing a hairbrush at him. "What's his move, Gerald? Is this a declaration of war? A peace offering? A subtle commentary on my inability to recognize proper horn alignment?"
Gerald said nothing. He was good at that.
Mira entered, saw me interrogating a wooden figurine, and didn't even blink. "My lady, Lady Valeria requests your presence in the solarium. She says it's 'urgent conspiracy business.'"
I tucked Gerald into my pocket, for moral support—and headed out.
—
The solarium was a jungle of rare plants that probably cost more than my entire previous life's rent. Valeria stood in the center, holding the single white lily. She looked like a goddess of vengeance contemplating floral homicide.
"He sent a flower," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "A lily. Symbol of purity. Innocence." She crushed the stem in her fist. "He's either mocking me or he's denser than that book about rocks you carry."
"Maybe he thinks you're pure?" I offered weakly.
She shot me a look that could freeze lava. "I once made a duchess cry by criticizing her sleeve ruffles. I am many things, cousin. Pure is not one of them."
"So it's a challenge," I deduced, plopping onto a wrought-iron chair. "The Pineapple Prince is starting his campaign. And Cassian sent me... a craft project." I pulled Gerald out. "What's your read, co-conspirator?"
Valeria eyed the unicorn. "It's well-made. The horn is, as you noted, admirably straight. It shows observation. And a quiet sense of humor." A smirk tugged her lips. "Yours is better. Mine is just a passive-aggressive vegetable."
"So what's phase one of Operation: Chaotic Cousins?" I asked, spinning Gerald on the table.
"Phase one," Valeria said, leaning forward, eyes glittering, "is reconnaissance. We need intelligence. The Prince's schedule. Cassian's patrol routes. The heroine's favorite shade of morally superior pastel."
My eyes widened. "You want me to spy? Valeria, I can't even sneak a lemon tart from the kitchens without getting caught! My stealth stat is in the negatives!"
"Not you, you disaster." She rolled her eyes. "We have resources. Quiet, terrified servants who hear everything. All we need to do is listen." She paused. "But you do have a role. You need to be... visibly normal."
"Visible? But my whole brand is lurking!"
"Change the brand. Be seen in the gardens. Take walks. Smile politely at people you hate. Become a harmless, boring background character."
I gasped, clutching my chest. "You want me to be forgettable? That's worse than death!"
"It's tactical!" she insisted. "While everyone's looking at the dramatic red villainess and the glowing white heroine, no one will notice the quiet green cousin... who just happens to be in the right place to intercept a certain viscount during his patrol."
Oh. Oh.
A slow grin spread across my face. "So I'm the... stealth bomber of romance."
"You're the moderately suspicious shrub with good timing."
—
The next day, I embarked on my mission: Act Boring.
I strolled in the palace gardens at the precise hour when genteel ladies took genteel walks. I wore a soft gray dress. I carried a book of mild poetry. I smiled small, unassuming smiles.
It was torture.
Seen Lady Brinley walking her yappy dog. Wanted to tell her the dog looks like a mop that learned to bark.Smiled instead. My face hurts.
Lord Eamon pontificated about cloud formations for twenty minutes. Nodded. Thought about pushing him into a fountain. Nodded some more.
Saw Cassian across the rose maze. He was speaking with another knight. Did not wave. Did not wink back at the air. Just... kept walking. I deserve a medal. Or cake. Definitely cake.
I was so busy being normal that I didn't notice the figure approaching until he was right beside me.
"Lady Liriel."
I jumped, nearly tossing my poetry book into a hydrangea bush. "V-Viscount Veldt! You startled me."
Cassian stood there, the afternoon sun turning his hair to soft gold.
He looked... less tired today. "My apologies. I noticed you've been walking this path for three days now. At the same time." His amber eyes held a glint of curiosity. "It's... consistent."
HE NOTICED! HE NOTICED MY PATTERN! Is this stalker or strategist? both? i'm okay with BOTH.
My brain short-circuited. The "be normal" script evaporated. "I'm... studying the, uh, diurnal migration patterns of the... imperial ladybug?" WHAT? LIRIEL, NO.
He blinked. "Ladybugs."
"Yes. Very... spotty. Spotted. They have spots." I WANT TO THROW MYSELF INTO THE FISH POND.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "I see. And what have you discovered?"
"That they're terrible at poetry," I said, holding up my book in defense. "Not a single sonnet among them."
That earned a soft huff of laughter. Progress!
"Perhaps they express themselves through flight patterns," he offered, playing along.
"Maybe. It's probably very profound. All 'ode to an aphid' and such." I dared a glance at him. He was looking at me, not like I was a puzzle, but like I was a mildly entertaining, confusing bird. "I should let you return to your... guarding of things."
He nodded. "The ladybugs await your further research." He began to turn, then paused. "The unicorn. I hope it was... satisfactory."
HE MENTIONED GERALD!
"Very straight," I said, then cringed internally. "The horn! I mean the horn is very straight. Thank you."
He gave me one last, lingering look—a look that said you are strange and I am choosing to find it interesting—before continuing his patrol.
I floated back to my rooms on a cloud of giddy triumph.
—
That evening, Valeria slipped into my chamber, a scroll of notes in her hand. "Reconnaissance report."
"Ooh, do we have code names? Am I 'Violet Shadow'? Are you 'Crimson Fury'?"
"You're 'The Liability.' I'm 'The Professional.'" She unrolled the notes. "Prince Adrian holds private strategy meetings in the Sun Pavilion every Tuesday afternoon. He takes tea alone in the western conservatory after. He's a creature of habit. Arrogant, but predictable."
"And Cassian?"
"Viscount Veldt's duties with the Ash Council have increased. He's often in the archives wing past seventh bell. He takes a longer patrol route on Wednesdays that goes by the old clocktower garden. It's quiet. Isolated."
My heart did a little flip. "The clocktower garden... Is that... good for accidental meetings?"
"It's good for not being seen," she said meaningfully. "But that's phase two. First, we need to deal with the Seraphina situation."
"What about her?"
"The Ivory Court is hosting a charity musicale next week. Showcasing 'ladies of refined grace.' It's a trap. They'll pit her angelic harp against my 'villainous' talents. Probably expect me to play something dark and dramatic so she can shine brighter."
"So don't play their game!" I said. "Play something unexpected!"
Valeria's eyes gleamed. "Exactly. I'm not playing the harp. I'm playing the war drums."
I stared at her. "You're going to beat a drum at a charity musicale?"
"Figuratively, you turnip." She sighed. "I'm going to sing."
Record scratch. Valeria? Sing? In the novel, she had a voice like shattering crystal—beautiful but cold enough to give you frostbite.
"But," she continued, "I need a duet partner. Someone to soften the edges. Make it look like a noble collaboration, not a solo performance designed to crush a common-born girl's spirit."
I followed her gaze. It landed squarely on me.
"No," I whispered. "Valeria, no. You've heard me attempt to sing hymns at temple. The priest asked if I was 'experiencing a spiritual disturbance.'"
"That's perfect!" she said, a wicked smile forming. "You don't need to be good. You just need to be... endearingly sincere. The crowd will be so charmed by your enthusiastic effort that my technically perfect performance will seem less like an attack and more like... gracious support."
My jaw dropped. "You want to use my terrible singing as a smokescreen for your villainy?"
"It's genius! They'll say, 'How kind of Lady Valeria to carry her enthusiastic cousin!' Meanwhile, I still win."
I was torn between horror and awe. It was diabolical. It was brilliant. It was the most cousin thing she'd ever suggested.
"...What would we sing?"
She smirked. "A traditional folk song about a maiden and a knight. Simple. Harmless. Full of opportunities for meaningful eye contact with certain audience members."
My face heated. She meant Cassian. This was a conspiracy within a conspiracy.
"I'm in," I heard myself say. "But I'm not practicing. The authenticity of my awfulness is key."
"Agreed."
—
Later that night, as I was trying to quietly murder a folk song in my bathroom (for research), a soft tap came at my balcony door.
I froze, mid-warble. It was past midnight. I crept over, heart pounding, and pulled back the curtain.
On the balcony rail, illuminated by moonlight, sat a small, perfect model of a clocktower. Tiny, delicate, with a working miniature pendulum.
No note.
But the message was clear: Wednesday. Clocktower garden.
I brought it inside, my hands trembling. Gerald the unicorn stared at the new arrival from the vanity.
"Looks like you have a friend, Gerald," I whispered. "His name is... Tick-Tock. And he's inviting me to a clandestine garden rendezvous."
Gerald's wooden gaze seemed to say, It's about time.
~🫶