March 9, 1106
Dear Diary,
I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that being mildly ill does not, in fact, exempt one from the endless parade of palace obligations.
A tragic oversight in the design of monarchy.
The maids opened the curtains as if the sun itself had personally requested an audience with me. I considered ordering them to close them again out of sheer principle, but the Royal Physician was due shortly after and he becomes unbearably dramatic when he believes I am "not cooperating with recovery."
His examination consisted mostly of hovering over me with grave concern and insisting I drink a tonic that tastes like boiled tree bark. According to him, it is "for my throat." Personally, I preferred the medicine Clara prepared for me- it was far kinder to the tongue.
If that man truly wished to cure my throat, he would prescribe silence for the incompetent magic tutors who, in every conceivable way, are far less talented than I am.
Breakfast followed- though the word is generous. Fruit, tea, and bread arranged in the precise manner the palace believes royalty should eat. I endured it with proper dignity. Still, I cannot help thinking that Clara makes far better food.
Afterward came my magical instruction.
The Archmagister was particularly insufferable today because he was pleased.
He spent half the lesson praising my control over mana compression, which, according to him, is "far beyond expectations for a student at my stage."
Naturally. I- Veronica von Aethelgard- would hardly be expected to perform at anything less than excellence.
Still, I allowed him his moment of academic pride.
If he wishes to believe my speed is the result of diligence, I will not correct him. The sooner I complete these exercises, the sooner the lessons end.
And the sooner I am free to do something more interesting.
This is purely a matter of efficiency, of course.
Clara has recently developed the irritating habit of turning my afternoons into something resembling entertainment. Her lessons do not resemble the court tutors at all. Instead of lecturing endlessly, she asks questions. Worse, they are questions that require actual thought.
It is terribly inconvenient.
I find myself finishing my magic exercises faster simply so I can argue with her.
Not that I enjoy the arguments.
She is simply very wrong about many things, and someone must correct her.
Clara also continues to behave with a complete and utter disregard for the proper intimidation one should feel in the presence of royalty. She speaks to me as if I am a person rather than a royal. I found it utterly shameless that this cute, dimpled girl- from the country-bumpkin Barony of Valeria, which I hadn't even known existed until now- dares to speak to me as though we were equals.
I initially considered this unacceptable.
Now I find it… less intolerable than expected.
Today she disappeared for several hours under the excuse of "returning a tray."
When she failed to reappear within a reasonable timeframe, the room became unbearably quiet.
This is not a sentimental observation.
The woman talks too much. Without her constant chatter, the chambers feel unbearably empty.
Naturally I demanded to know where she had gone.
It turns out she was in the kitchen.
With my little sister Victoria.
This alone should have warned me something suspicious was happening.
My sister arrived shortly afterward carrying a tray of Thermora-glazed madeleines and a lecture on chemical ratios that lasted several minutes. Apparently the glaze retains warmth while cooling the throat during consumption.
It was ridiculous.
Also effective.
Victoria claimed the calculations were hers. Clara admitted to contributing the baking itself.
Which explains the end result.
I noticed Victoria had burned her thumb and had flour dusting the tip of her nose. She tried to explain the entire process with the solemnity of a royal scientist presenting a groundbreaking discovery to the academy. Deep down, I found it quietly amusing- how this little gremlin could outwit any advisor I've ever met.
Well… not quite as wise as my tutor Clara, of course.
Clara stood behind her with the expression of someone who had orchestrated the entire event.
I suspected she had. I could see right through her intentions. She wants to mend my relationship with my little sister. She even had the audacity to glare at me- me! How dare she. Yet, part of me wanted to play along, so I accepted the madeleines she offered, hiding my amusement behind careful composure.
I also suspect she knew exactly how I would react.
This is another irritating trait of hers.
She observes everything.
When I tasted the madeleine, my throat stopped hurting.
I informed them it was "decent."
Victoria nearly glowed with pride.
Clara looked unbearably smug.
I have to admit, they were unbearably adorable, going to all that trouble just for me.
I have decided not to comment further on the matter. However, I may request they be made again.
Strictly for medicinal purposes of course.
My life has been… fun. Somehow, annoying the advisors and staff has lost its appeal- I no longer feel the urge for my usual pranks.
Being with Clara is enough; it feels like all I need.
***
Veronica couldn't sleep. The corridors of the palace were unusually quiet, save for the distant rustle of the guards' footsteps. Still, it wasn't the silence that drew her out- it was a tug in her chest she refused to name.
She moved like a shadow, her slippers whispering against the marble floors, silver hair catching the moonlight, pale strands brushing her shoulder as she advanced. The library door was slightly ajar, spilling golden light into the hall.
And there she was.
Clara.
Slumped over a heap of parchment, honey-brown eyes half-lidded beneath furrowed brows, quill drooping, ink smudged on her fingers. Loose strands of chestnut hair fell into her face. Veronica's gaze flicked to the subtle curve of her lips, the faint dimple that appeared when she exhaled, and the way her shoulders slumped with fatigue. She forced herself to inhale.
Yet her pulse betrayed her. The dimple, the slight tremor in Clara's fingers as she reached for the parchment, even the faint scent of tea lingering on her sleeve- it all pressed against her awareness.
Why does this affect me? She's… merely a daughter of an unknown Baron. I am the Imperial Princess. I am unmoved.
"If you fall asleep on that scroll," Veronica said, her voice low, teasing, "the ink will stain your face for a week. And I refuse to be taught by someone whose forehead maps the failures of the Fifth Era."
Clara jerked upright, blinking at her. Honey-brown eyes, wide and earnest, met silver. A faint dimple showed as her lips parted in surprise. Veronica's chest fluttered. Even this- her startled look- is irritatingly charming.
What in the world is this woman doing to me?
"Your Highness! You- you're like a ninja! Do you always sneak around like this?" Clara exclaimed, quill clattering softly to the table.
"I am the Imperial Princess," Veronica replied, voice crisp, projecting her usual haughty poise, "trained to move with grace-not stomp about like a common peasant."
Yet her eyes lingered on Clara's jawline, the soft shadow under her cheekbones, the subtle tension in her neck.
Clara's gaze flitted nervously from paper to her again. Veronica noticed the small tremble of her hand as she reached for a stray page. So small, so meticulous… Her chest ached.
This is inconvenient. I am untouchable. And yet, I… observe her endlessly.
"You've been here for hours," Veronica continued, taking a careful step closer. The warmth of her presence brushed Clara's shoulder almost imperceptibly.
"Even my archmagister doesn't work this hard. Why?"
Clara lifted her gaze, honey-brown eyes wide, flecked with gold in the lamplight, dimples faintly deepening as she gave a soft, tired smile.
"I… stayed up preparing for your lessons," she admitted, voice low, hesitant, earnest.
For me… Veronica's chest tightened. She straightened, attempting the imperious posture of a princess, yet every detail of Clara- the hair catching the lamplight, the way her brow furrowed in thought, the gentle curve of her lips-pulled her gaze like a magnet.
I am indifferent. I am composed. I am… not affected.
"So you're telling me," Veronica said, tilting her head, "That you… help me because you want to?"
Clara's eyes flickered, cautious yet unflinching. "Y-yes," she murmured.
Veronica felt a tug in her chest, a warmth she would never admit aloud. Every movement Clara made- the subtle tilt of her head, the soft brush of hair from her face, the dimpled smile trying to hide exhaustion- was electric.
Stepping closer, Veronica let her fingers brush against the back of Clara's hand, resting lightly, deliberately. The contact was faint, almost imperceptible- but enough.
Enough to make her chest flutter, enough to make her pulse hammer against her ribs.
Clara didn't pull away. Her fingers shifted, tilting instinctively toward Veronica's, dimples softening, a small, barely-there smile tugging at her lips. Veronica's chest constricted, a surge of heat spreading through her.
I am composed. I am dignified. I do not feel… this.
"Maybe I'm just… overwhelmed by the company," Clara said softly, voice low, lacking its usual sharpness.
Veronica's thumb traced a circle over Clara's knuckles, deliberately slow. "I don't like teaching someone who looks like they're about to collapse," she murmured, voice tight, resonating in the quiet of the library.
"It's… distracting."
Distracting. That word hummed through her chest. Every small movement- dimples, ink-stained fingers, brows drawn in thought- was magnetic.
I… cannot look away.
Clara's gaze lifted, dimples softening, eyes flicking toward her. Veronica's heart thudded, mind spinning with something she could not name. Every quirk, every faint flicker of expression, every flutter of breath-impossibly affecting.
Veronica straightened, maintaining her princess-like composure, but did not step back. Her hand slid down Clara's arm, deliberately lingering, before she let it fall.
"Go to bed," she said, quiet but firm, carrying a tension she refused to acknowledge. "The Empire can survive without your exhaustion. Your dull lessons can wait."
Clara blinked, honey-brown eyes reflecting surprise and a subtle relief, dimples faintly visible.
"But the geography-"
"Will be postponed," Veronica said, silver hair catching the lamplight.
"State of emergency. You are officially exempt."
A soft laugh escaped Clara, mingling with the quiet library. "Fine… a royal decree it is," she murmured.
Veronica's gaze lingered, memorizing every movement, every small detail- the hair that caught the lamplight, the faint scent of tea on her sleeve, the way her shoulders eased as she rose.
I am… utterly captivated.
Finally, Clara turned toward the door, casting a last glance over her shoulder. Veronica's chest tightened, pulse hammering.
The quiet library held its breath with them, and deep inside Veronica, a stubborn, unacknowledged yearning began to bloom, despite the mask of haughtiness she wore so flawlessly.