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Last Day as a Fake Princess

SALLIE ROSE

That night, my father and I work side by side, peacefully adding the final touches to the last planter of medicinal herbs and flowers I had designed.

Then we stand to admire the castle garden, now fully realized.

It is no longer just limited to the terrace.

It is a kingdom of flora, a riot of color and scent unfurling like a dream across every inch of stone.

Vines spill over the black parapets, cascading down the obsidian mountain walls in waterfalls of verdant green dotted with jewel-toned blooms that glow faintly in the last light of the setting suns.

Petals as wide as platters unfurl beside tendrils no thicker than thread, all in sacred harmony.

On the next mountain over stand two new temples, their arching trellises linking columns sculpted from ancient root and crystal-veined stone.

One honors Eryx, the warrior moon, its grounds overrun with crimson moss and vicious, carnivorous blooms. The other belongs to Sylvos, the moon god of plants, and it is draped in flowering ivy.

Every bit of its surface is overrun with a wild, joyous melee of bloom and leaf.

As for the castle garden, it has long since spilled beyond the terrace walls.

Whispervine bridges stretch across the cliff’s edge like outstretched arms, anchoring the garden’s reach down the mountainside—an emerald staircase blooming its way into legend, setting the once-black mountain ablaze with color.

“You did well, daughter,” my father says, squeezing my hand as we survey all our work.

He wears a crown of flowers and stands a few inches taller than me now that he’s no longer stooped with a severe back hunch. Even more importantly, his fingers aren’t curled with ache, even though we’ve been magicking complex medicinal plants all day.

“I’m glad you could be here with me when I finished.”

“Me, too.” He lets out a contented sigh. “This is a good place to die. Perhaps bury me over there and plant an oak.”

“Oh, Dad, can we change the subject? I hate to even think about that.”

But he just takes my hand and says, “We all have to die sometime, Rosie, and you gave me such a good last act of life. You have nothing to feel sad about when I’m commended to Sylvos’s garden.”

My eyes flutter open as I wake from that bittersweet dream to find my wrists unfettered and the room not just speckled but drenched in sunlight.

And something cold on my arms, upper legs, and—perhaps most disturbingly—my nether regions.

With a gasp, I pull back the blanket to find my arms, thighs, and sex coated in a bright-blue adhesive paste. I’m still puzzling over it when I spot a notecard, written in delicate cursive and propped beside my pail.

Do not be alarmed. I’ve applied this special taarhorn tape to ensure you can garden on your last day. It peels off easily.

— Your Friend, Rinthiah

Gratitude floods my heart, even brighter than the sunlight.

I don’t remember Rinthiah coming in to tend to me, but her sweet note explains why I woke fully bathed, with no soreness in my muscles, despite what passed last night.

Now that I remember.…

Excruciating images inundate my mind. Flashes of Veyrion taking me everywhere.

The throne. The throne’s arm. Propped against a stone wall, his taloned hands cupping my breasts as he rocked between my legs.

Pressed against the window with my breast smashed to the glass, his shadows binding my heels to the back of my thighs.

Oh yes, I remember—especially the part where I kept climaxing again and again, like one of those actors in that adult play the real princess once made me sneak her into (despite the trouble I’d have been in if her parents ever found out).

But last night, I hadn’t been nearly so circumspect as I was hiding in the temporary tent that niche troupe had pitched just outside our kingdom’s borders.

My desperate cries of “Yes! Yes! Give it to me! I need it!” echo through my mind, along with all my “ Oh, moons. Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

And, of course, there was that bit where I actually thanked my future murderer for ensuring I didn’t die a virgin.

My mind threatens to collapse under the shame of acting so wantonly. But my clit throbs at the memory—totally traitorous. And greedy for more.

Moist, what is wrong with me?

I blame it on some kind of end-of-life delirium.

And I absolutely do not allow myself to look at the statue standing by the window as I rise to my feet and begin peeling off the taarhorn tape that saved my muscles—and nether regions—from what likely would’ve been a crippling amount of soreness had Rinthiah not intervened.

She even left another dress for me, folded neatly beside the blankets. And this time, it’s been cut and hemmed so the sleeves and skirt are much shorter.

More gratitude floods my heart as I pull it on.

I’m almost ready to go, but I can’t help casting one last glance toward the Stone Fae King’s statue before I leave.

Not so I can sneak another look at those seriously muscular buns I clung to last night when he took me on top of his throne.

At least… that’s what I tell myself.

But then I pause. The statue is gone, and the space before the window is empty.

Did he decide to stone up somewhere else?

But no, I don’t find him in the hall or the courtyard, where several of his soldiers are standing in what appears to be a formal formation, Commander Skorrin included.

I notice at least one seems to be missing.

Kinnarick, though—the soldier with midnight-black hair tied in a distinctive topknot who stood just behind the commander when he promised to clear the brambles—is nowhere to be seen.

Nor is the missing soldier in the garden, where even more of the servants have chosen to stone up, Rinthiah among them.

But I do find Brelliard, who has brought even more goats with him this time—at least triple the amount.

“Well, it took you long enough,” Brelliard complains just as I finish scanning the terrace. “We almost went home. We thought perhaps the king had finally found a way to bind you up.”

“Or worn you out from all the fucking,” his wife, Jaaliah, adds boldly.

And this is how I find out that fae have exceptional hearing—and love to gossip.

Apparently, the whole castle was abuzz over the sounds coming from the king’s chamber when the kitchen and dusting goats reported for their morning shift just before sunsrise. And the kitchen goats and dusting staff were more than happy to pass that gossip on to my volunteer crew.

Somehow, I manage not to die of embarrassment as I grit out, “Thank you for your patience.”

“What’s today’s plan, then?” Nettling asks. “Are we still filling the rest of the terrace with rose bushes?”

Yes, that had been the plan. A full quarter-yard blooming with rosebushes in every color: peach, white, yellow, pink, and, of course, deep-crimson bloodred. One last bit of legacy to ensure these people never forget I was here. And a final, thorny “mulch you!” to their killer king.

But then I think about the dream of my father in his flower crown.…

And the Mountain Goats, warriors, and servant fae who were so encouraging of my efforts, so eager to help me realize my dream.…

And how these last three days—building a garden with them watching and helping—have technically been the best of my life.

“Yes, rose bushes...” I answer Nettling slowly as a new idea blooms in my head. “But we’re also going to add sunlace, zesperbreath, moonspice, and thimblewish. Also, we’ll need to cut several lengths of whispervine.”

With the new vision bright in my mind, I quickly start assigning tasks.

There’s so much to do, I don’t even stop for lunch. And no doubt the poor Mountain Goats are exhausted from all the weaving and climbing to secure my parting gifts to the heads of every Stone Fae and warrior standing throughout the castle, inside and out.

But it’s worth it when the Stone Fae in the garden uncast with a high-pitched sound I can only describe as a collective squee .

Their reaction to the flower garlands we’ve placed upon their heads while they slept goes beyond delight. They compliment each other as they rush to the castle’s back window to check their reflections, then squeal even louder when they see themselves.

Not only do they thank me for their “nature jewelry crowns,” I find out—via the slightly terrifying method of being tossed into the air—that the Stone Fae also have music and dance.

The goats break out a glimberharp, along with a couple of woodwinds.

Meanwhile, the gleefully grateful servant fae start a circular dance that includes flinging me so high that one of them has to fly up to catch me.

I’m not sure I love being a human ball. But I’m laughing and teaching them a full-on ground-based head-and-shoulders dance that humans call the Wiggle Worm when someone taps me on the shoulder.

I turn to find Rinthiah, wearing the crown of pale purple luntunias and zesper we made her, along with a look of apology in her glowing silver eyes.

“Is everything alright?” I ask, immediately ceasing my dance.

“I am sorry, but I must dress you in a gown of white and paint your face for tonight’s ceremony.”

Oh.

The music comes to an abrupt halt.

And I realize there’s still so much I haven’t done.

I need to teach everyone how to manually make the crown without magic.

Let them know the sunlace can be boiled into a soothing tea.

Instruct the goats on how to mulch to prevent weeds and what to do when—not if—an invasive species comes through to disease or chomp on the garden.

“I need just a little more time,” I tell her. “To instruct Brelliard and Jaaliah about the garden’s upkeep. Though, where is Brelliard?”

I look around, realizing I haven’t seen the old goat who first signed on to help me since suns’ set.

“I’m afraid there is no more time,” Rinthiah says before I can find him in the crowd. “I waited…”

She visibly struggles with the next words. “I waited as long as I could. The ceremony—moonsrise—is only a tick away.”

A somber cloud falls over the garden.

And I realize… I need more time.

But it’s time to face my death.

I guess I have some pride left after all.

Without looking to Jaaliah or any of the other fae who will witness my sacrifice tonight, I raise my chin and pull my shoulders back.

“Lead the way,” I say to Rinthiah.

Somehow, I manage to keep my voice from cracking and the tears out of my eyes.

I follow her back into the castle. Back into the king’s chamber, where she dresses me in the wedding gown I arrived in. Only now, there are two strips of taarhorn cloth sewn into the sides to widen the corseted waist, and the skirt has been hemmed to just above my feet.

We remain silent. Neither of us dares to speak. But just as she begins to paint my face with what feels like a series of specific black markings, there’s a commotion at the door.

Without warning, Yilara bursts in—alongside Veyrion’s father, who didn’t introduce himself or even bother to look at me last night. A miserable-looking Brelliard trails behind them.

“Hello?” I say, frowning. “Are you looking for Veyrion? Because he’s not here.”

“How dare you call the king by his given name!” Yilara screeches.

“Okay, so I guess we’re doing this again.” I heave out a sigh. “Yilara, how many times do I have to tell you? The whole slaughtering-me-at-moonsrise situation means I don’t care who any of you are.”

Her eyes flare bright, but before she can respond, Veyrion’s father steps forward.

“That is exactly what we’ve come to confront you about.” His voice is low, dangerous. “I have been trying to reconcile why my son is so enamored with you. Why your looks and behavior bear no resemblance to the Aralyssean princesses who’ve come before. And now, the answer is obvious.”

“I am sorry, Sallie Rose,” Brelliard brays from behind him. “I thought it would help. I thought it would save you from the sacrificial altar...”

“Thought what would help?” I ask, heart starting to pound. “What’s obvious?”

“That you are not a princess at all,” Yilara hisses, her fangs flashing in a righteous sneer.

But it’s Veyrion’s father who seals my fate. His expression is colder than hers, and even worse, triumphant.

He holds up a crumpled piece of parchment.

The letter.

The one Seraphyne left behind in my trunk.

The one I’d all but forgotten since choosing to take her place to save my kingdom from being razed.

“Care to explain this,” the former king asks, “before I have you slaughtered for treason?”

My stomach drops.

I’ve been found out.

And that means Aralysse will be destroyed…

right along with me.