July 12th, 1622

3 p.m. at the time of record-keeping

I understand now why none of the other priestesses coveted this position. Earlier today, as we gathered in the king’s office, Prince Nikolai looked at me with rage in his eyes. We have never spoken a word to each other. It would be remiss of me not to mention my knowledge of his reputation, although I do not believe it accurately depicts anyone’s true self. His inappropriate behaviors are merely that—behaviors. They do not make him who he is. He does, however, choose to act this way. Why? He sat in a very unusual manner, slouching in his seat with his arms on the armrests and his head tilted down, eyes boring into me, peering intensely from under his hair. I could not help but utter a quick prayer when I saw that. He is quite unnerving, or rather, he can be.

His hair is short and wild, always over his forehead, as if he were trying to hide behind it. It is unfortunately true that he does not appear to adhere to nobility’s dress code, or any code at all, ripping the sleeves off his shirts and wearing them with no doublets to account for. The warm climate grants him such freedom. His arms are covered in battle scars. The blond of his hair is so dark that it matches the tan of his skin. The scar on his right cheek is just as large and gruesome as I was told, but I cannot in good conscience call it ugly. Nothing about him is. I’ll concede and say that that particular scar is intimidating, but then, not much about him is not.

Princess Charlotte was kind enough to show me around Ivory Palace after the meeting. She is a sweet girl, significantly younger than I. She does not resemble her half-brother at all; her hair is dark, her skin is pale and her features are delicate. She is a perfect copy of her mama, Queen Emilia, and the prince is a perfect copy of his, the late Queen Anne. Their father, King Nikita, seems to have gifted them one thing only: eyes darker than the night.

She bounced on her feet when I accepted her invitation, pulling me by the hand. Her high spirits remind me of some of the younger girls in the convent that I grew up in, my sisters and daughters. When orphans grow up together, they become every member of each other’s families at once, mama and papa, brother and sister. I have not seen them in such a long time. Six years, to be exact. But I used to be a teacher there, and at night, I was their mama, reading bedtime stories to the little ones. I miss watching them drift peacefully asleep in my arms.

I cannot help but smile in Princess Charlotte’s presence. She fills me with the sort of longing that is both bittersweet and entirely false, for I did not raise her and I do not know her, but I feel as if I did. She is all the girls that I left behind, some of which should be about her age now. I wonder if they remember me.

I write from the deck today. The summer air is warm and pleasant, sickly sweet with roses. The princess’ beautiful yellow skirt drags along the floor as she prances about. This is a quiet palace, despite how many people live here. They seem to prefer whispering, a different reality from the convent, where shrieking laughter is constant. I never thought I would miss it. There does not seem to be any children here. How?

Prince Nikolai has given me quite the scare just now. Watching his sister prance about, my gaze suddenly fell on his frame, partially hidden in the shadows. He watched us from inside the palace. It would not have been so startling had he stepped into the light. As soon as our eyes met, he disappeared from the window. I was not able to properly study his features; that encounter was far too brief. My guess, however, is that he was not very happy to see me. He never is. That poses quite the issue, seeing as I have only been stationed here on his account.

The convent school where I’m from is run by the Catholic Church. When students graduate, they either become nuns or nurses. I graduated six years ago and became a nurse, not of the body, but of the soul. I worked at a soul hospital founded by the church my entire life; I have only just moved to Ivory Palace. I arrived this morning.

Nearly every nation in Ibroa is Christian. Most of the religions present in the peninsula have their roots in Christianity, but their unique histories have forced them to branch out over the centuries. The Kingdom of Vyerno, for example, was home to Queen Anne, martyrized twenty years ago, and thus, the posthumous founder of the Congregation of Queen Anne, a subdivision of the Catholic Church.

When Queen Anne’s first child was born, she hired a wetnurse to help her with motherhood, who went by a different name at the time, although I do not know what it was. She had a close relationship with the queen and raised both of her children with her, young Princess Sasha and baby Prince Nikolai. Their wetnurse experienced the queen’s kindness firsthand. Her boundless love, her infinite empathy. They became such close friends over the years that the wetnurse was routinely addressed by nobles at Ivory Palace as the queen’s favorite. It was she who recognized Queen Anne as a martyr after her tragic passing and founded the Congregation of Queen Anne in her honor. She remained at Ivory Palace long after the queen had passed, raising her only remaining child, the prince.

Today, Queen Anne’s wetnurse goes by Daughter Angela, and I am succeeding her at Ivory Palace. Not as a wetnurse, but as the High Priestess. The title change came when Queen Anne’s children were far too grown to need a wetnurse anymore, but since she did not wish to take a rest from her wetnurse, she gave her a different role. Nowadays, the High Priestess is any member of the Congregation of Queen Anne that is summoned by a member of the royal family to work as their spiritual guide. That is why High Priestesses are always soul nurses.

While I have more responsibilities at Ivory Palace than I did back at the soul hospital that I worked for, I care for far less people. I used to tend to a large number of patients, but now, I am only responsible for the royal family and the nobles who also live here. More specifically, the prince. It is important to notice that I was not summoned here. It was Daughter Angela who, upon retiring, chose me to succeed her. She tells me that she was quite close with the prince, which is why he is my priority. I am to aid him in his spiritual growth, and if necessary, administer sacraments. These are usually blessings, confessions, confirmations and communion; tools to keep the soul healthy and strong.

Not all the noble women at Ivory Palace are members of the congregation, of course; some have dissented out of respect for Queen Emilia, King Nikita’s current wife and our current queen. There is a misguided belief that, simply because the congregation is named after Queen Anne, we do not respect Queen Emilia’s reign and authority. That is false. We do not consider Queen Anne to be our literal queen. She is dead. Not only would that be treason, but also quite delusional. What we do is admire her and the life that she lived. How she remained pure of heart, loving and caring in the face of tragedy. That is what we shape ourselves after. We worship her infinite love.

I would never try and convert Queen Emilia, her daughter or anyone else. They are Catholic and that is what matters. We are not enemies. I believe that Queen Anne was chosen as the Daughter of God the same way Jesus was chosen as the Son of God. They both taught us to love one another and they both died for our sins. Those are the only comparisons to be made between Queen Anne and literally anyone. She is a martyr. Queen Emilia is a sovereign. How are they comparable? They shared a title and a husband. That is the extent of their similarities.

**

8 p.m. at the time of record-keeping

I have returned to my bedchamber, and reading this back, I must apologize for getting heated; this topic is of extreme importance to me. It is my whole life. Even though Queen Emilia did not say a single word to me at the meeting this morning, I did sense some hostility from her. So, I approached her after dinner and made it clear that she is my queen. Smiling, she waved me off. I hope that she at least took my words to heart. I meant them.

Daughter Angela has failed to tell me that this position comes with a seat at the king’s table. It seems that he enjoys hosting and frequently hosts every meal in his apartment, all of which I have only now learned I am expected to attend. I was utterly surprised to find my name across from the prince’s at dinnertime. He stared at me with the same intensity as before, only tonight, his rage simmered quietly. I have never dealt with anyone like him, and thus, felt a bit adrift. I tried starting conversations, but they did not take. Everyone but him spoke to me. Why?

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