Chapter 30 Aug 18, 2025 Celeste The birthday cake sat untouched in the nursery while I held vigil in the King's chambers. Five candles had been meant for Arielle's celebration, but instead they flickered beside Alexandre's bed where he lay burning with fever. The irony wasn't lost on me-my daughter's fifth birthday marked by her father's dance with death. "Mama?" Arielle whispered from the doorway, her party dress wrinkled from hours of worried waiting. "Is Father going to die?" "No, sweetheart." I smoothed his damp hair back from his forehead, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. "He's just… resting." "He looks very sick." Dr. Beaumont had called it a sudden onset-the kind of fever that could take even strong men within days. But Alexandre was stubborn, always had been. He fought the illness with the same determination he'd brought to every battle of his reign. "Will you read to him?" Arielle climbed onto the chair beside me, her small hands folding properly in her lap. Even at five, she understood the gravity of sickrooms. I picked up the leather-bound reports I'd been reading aloud-grain distributions, trade negotiations, the mundane business of running a kingdom that continued even when kings lay dying. My voice had grown hoarse from hours of maintaining normalcy in the face of crisis. "The northern provinces report adequate harvests," I continued where I'd left off, though Alexandre's breathing remained shallow and labored. For three days, I barely left his side. Ministers brought documents to the royal chambers, accepting my directions with the unquestioned deference they'd shown for years. The court understood what Dr. Beaumont dared not say aloud-if Alexandre died, the transition would flow through me before reaching Arielle. "Your Highness," Lord Beaumont said on the fourth morning, finding me arranging fresh orchids while Arielle colored quietly in the corner. "The fever has broken." Relief flooded through me so completely that I had to grip the edge of the table for support. "Is he…?" "Asking for water and complaining about the bedsheets. I'd say His Majesty will recover fully." That evening, after Arielle had finally been convinced to sleep in her own bed, I sat reading by candlelight when Alexandre's voice startled me. "Céleste." His eyes were clear for the first time in days, though his voice carried the weakness of a man who'd traveled too close to death's door. "You're awake." I set down my book and moved to his bedside. "How do you feel?" "Like I've been trampled by horses." He tried to sit up but thought better of it. "How long?" "Four days. You had us worried." He studied my face in the flickering candlelight, taking in the circles under my eyes, the careful way I held myself upright despite exhaustion. "You stayed." "Where else would I be?" "You ran the kingdom while I was…" He paused, understanding dawning. "The reports. The decisions. You were reading them to me, but you were making them too." "Someone had to." He closed his eyes, and for a moment I thought he'd fallen back asleep. Then his hand found mine in the darkness. "I should have made you Queen," he said simply. The words hung between us like a bridge across five years of careful silence. I smiled, brushing a strand of silver hair back from his forehead. "You did," I said softly. His grip tightened on my fingers. "Céleste-" "Rest now. We'll talk when you're stronger." He closed his eyes, but his hand remained in mine until dawn painted the windows gold. Spring arrived with unusual warmth, and with it came changes that surprised no one while shocking everyone. Arielle began attending council meetings, sitting in a specially crafted chair beside mine as I guided her through the complexities of statecraft. "Why do they all bow to you, Mama?" she asked one afternoon as we walked through the portrait gallery. "Because respect is earned, not given." "Will they bow to me someday?" "When you've proven you deserve it." She nodded seriously, already understanding that power came with responsibility. At five, she possessed Alexandre's sharp intelligence and my unwillingness to accept anything less than excellence. During one particularly tedious meeting about tax collection, I felt small hands placing something on my head. I reached up to find a crown of daisies, woven with the careful precision only children possess. "Now you look like a real queen," Arielle whispered, settling back into her chair as if nothing had happened. Around the table, ministers pretended not to notice, but I caught the small smiles, the knowing glances. My daughter had done what protocol never could-acknowledged the truth. I wore the daisy crown through the rest of the meeting, feeling its weight no heavier than the responsibilities I'd carried for years. When we adjourned, Lord Beaumont lingered. "Your Majesty," he said quietly, then caught himself. "Forgive me, Your Highness." "Don't apologize for truth, my lord." He bowed deeply. "As you wish… Your Majesty." That evening, as I tucked Arielle into bed, she looked up at me with Alexandre's storm-gray eyes. "Mama, what's the difference between a queen and a princess?" I considered the question, thinking of all the women who'd worn crowns through accident of birth, and all those who'd ruled without ever wearing one at all. "A princess is born," I said finally. "A queen is made." "How is she made?" "By surviving everything that tries to break her." Arielle nodded as if this made perfect sense, then closed her eyes and drifted toward sleep. I stood in her doorway for a long moment, watching my daughter breathe in the soft candlelight. Born of scandal, she would inherit a kingdom I had helped shape through sheer force of will. Not because I'd married into power, but because I'd survived everything that tried to steal it from me. And perhaps that was the only crown that truly mattered.