//CLARA//

Palacio Real, Madrid October 12th, 1879

My dearest Eleanor,

Since my return to Madrid, I have found the halls of the Palacio strangely hollow. It is a curious thing. We shared but a handful of days in Newport, yet those fleeting hours have rendered the familiar sights of my home quite dull by comparison. I never realized how much I had grown accustomed to the music of your laughter until I was forced to live without the sound of it.

I write to you with the most excellent of news. My father has granted his formal blessing for my visit to the States. My bags are already being prepared, and I shall be on a vessel before the month is out. It seems impossible that so brief an acquaintance could leave me so restless, but I find myself staring at the horizon, wishing the tides would move faster.

I find I have little desire for the cold formality of a hotel. If your formidable uncle Mr. Guggenheim would permit it, I should like nothing more than to be received at your mansion in New York. To wake under the same roof as you, even for a short while, would be a mercy I find myself craving. I can only hope that you have been counting the days with the same restless anticipation as I.

Until I am at your side once more,

—Felipe de Borbón

I read the letter three times.

The first time, I felt nothing but the dry crinkle of the parchment. Honestly, it was a bit much.

Music of my laughter? If he was trying to play Prince Charming, he was overacting. It was sweet in that way that makes your teeth ache, a little cringe, and entirely too much pressure for a girl who hadn’t even finished her morning coffee.

The second time, something flickered. Guilt, maybe.

By the third time, I realized I was doing that pathetic thing where I searched for Casimir’s name between the lines. As if he’d hijacked the royal post just to scrawl Don’t expect. I’m going to kill him in the margins.

He hadn’t.

And by the way, I go by Eleanor now. He’s no longer calling me Clara.

My fingers traced the elegant script. The sharp corner of the paper dug into my skin, a tiny reminder of the mess I’d made.

It was almost comical. Here I was, being pursued by a Spanish royal while the man across from me—who’d literally made me scream in bed—was currently treating me like a ghost he’d forgotten to exorcise.

I looked up from the letter, my gaze drifting to Casimir. He just turned a page. The crisp sound of paper slashed the air.

"Well?" Aunt Cornelia’s voice sliced through the tension like a butcher’s knife. "Are you going to stare at that letter until it self-combusts, or are you going to enlighten us? Or is the mystery meant to be our morning entertainment?"

I bit back the retort. I wanted to tell her exactly where she could shove her enlightenment. But she wasn’t wrong. If the prince was coming, the household needed to prepare. The last thing I wanted was to give her ammunition to blame me for another scandal.

"Prince Felipe is coming to New York," I said, my voice as flat as the horizon. "Before the month is out. His father has given his blessing. We are expected to receive him."

Aunt Cornelia’s face underwent a terrifying transformation. The sour, pinched lines of her mouth vanished, replaced by a look of predatory glee.

"The King’s blessing?" she breathed, her fork clattering against her china. "Magnificent! Simply magnificent! Casimir, do you hear? The prince—"

"I heard." His voice was hollow.

"A royal visit. We shall need the Blue Suite aired, have the entire wing cleared, the gold service polished, and Eleanor, we must see the modiste immediately. We cannot have you looking like a common housemaid when a future crown is at stake."

Aunt Cornelia was already off, her mind a whirlwind of seating charts and menu cards.

"I suppose we’ll have to endure the Goulds’ jealousy, which will be a treat in itself. And the wine cellar, Casimir, you must ensure the 1840 vintage is moved. We’ll also need to move the ugly vase. The one your mother—well. Never mind. It’s going to the attic."

Casimir finally set down his newspaper. He folded it with sharp motions.

"I will be traveling to the West," he announced in cataclysmic coldness. "A railway project in the territories requires my personal oversight. I may be gone a month."

A month.

The words landed in my chest like stones dropped into a well.

"A month?" Aunt Cornelia waved a dismissive hand, her eyes already scanning the room for things to redecorate. "Well, do what you must, Casimir. Business doesn’t wait for royalty, I suppose. Leave Eleanor to me. We’ll manage the Prince quite beautifully without a man’s cluttering presence."

I felt the blood drain from my face. It’s going to be a death sentence. Under Aunt Cornelia’s thumb, I wouldn’t be a ward. I’d be a prize mare being prepped for the slaughter.

And Casimir knew it. He was throwing me to the vulture to save himself the sight of me.

He stood and walked out of the room. The door clicked shut, and I felt the air in the room vanish with him.

"He’ll miss all the excitement," Aunt Cornelia chirped, her eyes glittering with a horrifying, newfound affection for me.

She was actually beaming. The first time I had ever seen her truly happy to look at me. She was thrilled to finally be rid of her nephew so she could sell me off in peace.

"But that’s just as well. You and I will manage, won’t we, Eleanor?"

"Of course, Auntie," I whispered.

Three nights later, I stood outside his bedroom.

The door was closed. No light bled through the gap at the bottom. He was leaving tomorrow morning.

I raised my hand to knock. My knuckles hovered an inch from the wood. I never knocked. I never asked for permission. I barged in. I threw doors open. I made myself impossible to ignore.

But that was before.

Now, I just wanted him to say yes. Even if it was just to let me in.

My hand hovered.

What would I say?

Don’t go? He’d already decided.

I’m sorry? I was.

But sorry didn’t undo the weeks of silence. Sorry didn’t make him look at me like he used to. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

I lowered my hand. My forehead touched the wood with a soft thud. I stayed like that for a long moment until my knees gave out. I slid down the door, my back scraping against the wood.

My skirts pooling around me like a puddle of silk on the floor. I just wanted to be near him. Even just for a moment.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Minutes. Hours. Time had stopped meaning anything.

At some point, I must have dozed off, my head tilted back against the door, my mouth slightly open.

Somewhere in the deep, I felt... something. Arms holding me tight. I was floating, drifting through the dark hallway like a ghost. I remember the faint scent of sandalwood, tobacco and the scratch of wool against my cheek.

I dreamed of being laid down on something soft and a press of something warm on my lips. It lingered longer than the rest. Long enough for me to miss it before it was gone.

It had to be a dream. I was too tired to open my eyes, too deep in the abyss to wake up.

When I jolted awake, I wasn’t on the floor anymore. I was in my bed, tucked beneath the heavy duvet, my skirts smoothed out and my shoes placed neatly by the side of the rug.

My heart stopped. I hadn’t walked back. I couldn’t have.

A frantic, desperate hope flared in my chest. I scrambled out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floorboards as I ran toward the door.

I had to see him. I had to know if the arms that had carried me were real—

But then, I heard it.

The crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel. The impatient stamp of horses. The heavy thud from the front door. My heels pivoted and I sprinted toward the window.

I stood frozen at the glass, hidden behind the curtain, watching the black carriage pull away. He didn’t look back. He didn’t look up at my window.

It had to be him. But now, he had walked out of my life for a month without a single word.

Thirty days.

Seven hundred and twenty hours.

I went back to bed and rolled to my side and pressed my face into the pillow. I closed my eyes and waited for an answer.

The pillow didn’t speak. The mansion stayed cold. And for the first time in my life, I realized that being with a Prince felt a lot like being buried alive.