The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 92

Morning came slow and soft.

Elisha, the kitten, had made herself very much at home, having discovered Beatrice’s velvet slippers sometime in the night and decided they were her rightful bed. Beatrice found her there just after sunrise, a tiny ball of black fur snoring lightly against the toe of her shoe.

She didn’t move her.

Instead, Beatrice sat by the hearth with a cup of tea and watched as the kitten eventually stirred, stretched with dramatic flair, and began a campaign to conquer the rug by pouncing on invisible enemies. It was absurdly calming.

Lily entered mid-morning, carrying a new stack of letters. She paused when she caught sight of the kitten chasing her own tail.

"You’re spoiling her already," Lily said, amused.

"She deserves it," Beatrice replied.

"She’s barely bigger than your hand."

"All the more reason."

Before Lily could reply, another knock sounded at the door. Not the formal kind that meant summons or trouble, just the hurried tap of someone too excited to wait.

Beatrice gave a soft sigh. "Come in."

Princess Lila swept into the room, her cheeks pink from the chilly corridors. She spotted Elisha immediately and gasped.

"It’s true!" she said, rushing over. "Francois actually gave you a kitten?"

Beatrice grinned. "He didn’t give her. She chose me."

"You’re going to be completely useless now, aren’t you?" Lila knelt to scratch gently behind Elisha’s ears.

"Possibly."

Lila stood, brushing her skirts. "Well, if you can bear to leave your tiny tyrant, I was heading to visit Johanna. Wanted to see how her ankle’s doing. Thought you might like to come?"

Beatrice hesitated.

It would be easier not to. Simpler to stay tucked away in this room with a kitten and her tea and pretend the palace was smaller than it was.

But she could already hear the lectures about appearances, about alliances, about how easy it was to lose ground by staying silent.

"Give me a moment to change," she said.

Lila beamed. "I’ll wait."

They walked the halls together, the weight of winter heavy against the tall windows. Courtiers they passed gave quick bows, more out of habit than interest.

Beatrice listened absently to Lila’s chatter about the morning’s court gossip, about some minor lord’s disastrous poetry recital, about Johanna’s stubborn refusal to stay bedridden.

"She hates resting," Lila said, half-scolding, half-fond. "Always did. Even when we were children, she broke her wrist falling out of an orchard tree and insisted on racing ponies two days later."

"She sounds indestructible," Beatrice said.

"Only until you get close enough."

When they reached Johanna’s temporary chambers, her steps slowed.

The door was cracked open. A servant emerged with a tray of untouched breakfast and muttered something about stubborn guests.

Beatrice lingered just a little behind Lila as they entered.

It hit her then.

The layout of the room, the view from the window, the faint scent of sandalwood lingering in the drapes...

Her brother’s old guest suite. The room he’d stayed in during the king’s birthday festivities. The same room!

Beatrice swallowed down the twist of instinct in her gut.

Johanna sat propped against a mound of pillows, one foot bandaged neatly and elevated on a small velvet stool. She looked tired but still somehow composed, a book open in her lap.

"Visitors already?" Johanna teased lightly as Lila rushed over to hug her.

"You’re impossible," Lila scolded. "You’re supposed to be resting!"

"I am resting," Johanna said. "I just happen to find it incredibly boring."

"How are you feeling?" Beatrice hung back a pace, offering a polite smile.

Johanna shrugged. "Like someone cursed me to fall face-first in the middle of the royal court."

"It happens," Beatrice said smoothly. "Some people even manage it without a sprained ankle."

That earned a small laugh. Lila perched on the edge of the bed, launching into a story about the disastrous poetry recital she’d mentioned earlier.

Beatrice let herself fade into the background of the conversation, scanning the room again. Nothing obvious. No signs yet that anything had been disclosed.

But still...

A few more days. That’s all Johanna would need. A few days to grow curious, a few days to look where she shouldn’t.

Beatrice folded her hands neatly and said nothing.

After promising to return later with pastries and better entertainment, Lila finally allowed Johanna to rest.

They made their way back down the corridor, and by the time they reached the lower halls, a page in palace livery was already waiting.

"Her Majesty requests Lady Beatrice’s presence for noon tea," he said with a bow.

Beatrice inclined her head. "Of course."

She sent Lily ahead to fetch a fresh gown and followed the page through the winding halls to one of the queen’s smaller salons.

Queen Cecile waited by the hearth, a simple silver tea service set between them. No advisors and guards. Just two women and a heavy, deliberate kind of quiet.

They sat and poured their cups.

"I imagine you’ve heard the gossip already," the queen said, voice mild.

Beatrice sipped her tea. "About the stairwell incident?"

"About the crown prince carrying Lady Johanna through the palace."

Beatrice set her cup down with careful grace. "I hadn’t realized a sprained ankle carried such diplomatic weight."

The queen’s mouth quirked at the edges.

"Perception, Lady Beatrice. Even when intentions are harmless, appearances rarely are."

Beatrice said nothing.

The queen sipped her tea, watching her over the rim of the porcelain cup.

"You’ll have to be sharper now. Quicker to claim what’s yours."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And in the meantime... don’t underestimate affection, or jealousy. They are currencies as powerful as gold in court."

The meeting ended not long after, and Beatrice returned to her chambers, mind humming with thoughts she couldn’t yet untangle.

She found Lily fussing over Elisha, who was attempting to climb the drapes with catastrophic ambition. Beatrice scooped her up and sat by the hearth, letting the kitten curl into her lap.

A soft knock came not half an hour later.

She rose, smoothing her skirts, and opened the door to find Francois standing there.

He wasn’t in formal dress. No crown, no polished boots. Just a loose shirt, a tired smile, and a small packet tucked under one arm.

"For her," he said, nodding toward Elisha.

Beatrice took the package. Inside was a tiny black collar, soft as whisper. No bells, no tags.

She let the door swing wider.

"Come in," she said.

And this time, it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like building something steady. Something that might, if she let it, last.