July 14th, 1622

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

On my quest to capture Prince Nikolai’s attention, I have discovered why none of the best-informed women in the palace have anything to say about him whatsoever. Apparently, he scares them, so they keep quiet. It is self-preservation. It does not mean that there is nothing to be said. I noticed how they cowered when his name came up, quickly changing topics. A large group in the sunroom is not very subtle. I figured, then, that they would feel more covert, and therefore safer, on their own, where attention is not so easily drawn. But who to interview?

Lady Hodge is the marquess’ daughter. She does not live here; her presence only lasts as long as her father’s visits. He is a member of parliament, so he comes about quite a bit. It seems that he only allows his daughter to have audience with dukes and princes, which renders her quite free during courting season, seeing as those titles comprise hardly any eligible bachelors at all. She is a sweet young girl, as innocent and impressionable as any child. When her elders speak, she listens. I had not heard her voice before approaching her today, a shy and quiet tone that barely disturbed the silence.

Even though we spoke in secrecy, she was still reluctant to mention the prince. I had to ask her precise questions that she could answer as curtly as possible, preferably without saying his name. This behavior had given me the impression that he was a woman-beater, but as I questioned her further, I realized that his infractions at Ivory Palace are mostly verbal and gender nonspecific. Whenever he speaks, he berates others. He seldom has any positive comments to make about anything. He is rude and unpleasant, oft making others feel small for his own gratification. He sneers and laughs at their misfortune, punching down if given the chance. Since he is a prince, these opportunities frequently present themselves.

That is congruent with previous statements that I had heard from the common folk while working at the hospital. He seems to be the one sent by the king to deal with troublemakers and rioters. Many pass away in these conflicts, and the ones who do not are sent to a number of available hospitals. First to heal the body, then to heal the soul. The broken men that I treated were never the same again.

Lady Hodge has only ever interacted with the prince once, at last year’s first ball of the season. Her face reddened as she recounted what had happened. When girls first debut, they present themselves before the king and queen, communicating their availability to the bachelors of high society. Prince Nikolai happened to be there too, and looking her up and down, confirmed that she was indeed the marquess’ daughter. Even though he did not say anything else, the disgust on his face spoke for itself. That moment was talked about for two weeks straight. Bachelors lined up to jokingly propose to her, laughing when the marquess turned them away. She was so humiliated that she cried several times a day. She has not worn green since.

Hearing this, I could not help but offer her my condolences, which she dismissed completely. That was over a year ago; she is perfectly over it now. There have been many other instances since, aiding the ton in forgetting what has happened to her. Now, they gossip and laugh at somebody else. There is a rapid rotation of targets, mostly young girls who are debuting for the first time and who have yet to understand adult spaces. Their inexperience with bachelors makes for easy punchlines. Too naive to realize that they are being made fun of, they usually laugh along, unknowingly adding to their own ridicule.

It briefly occurred to me whether young bachelors are also the subject of ill intent, but I fail to recall any negative comments about them. All I ever see are women fawning over their innocence.

I ran into the prince while returning to my bedchamber. It is right next to the front door, so anyone that comes in must walk past it. That is where he was when I saw him. I curtsied as soon as our eyes met, uttering his title in passing. I thought no dialogue would follow, considering our track record of exactly none, and went on my way. Then, he called my name, or rather, my title. I turned. Looking me in the eye, he said that I mean nothing to him. What am I to make of that? If he has no need for me, then I shall resign from my current position and return to the hospital.

That is my response now, after having some time to process what he said, but upon hearing it, I must admit that it hurt me. What could I have possibly done to receive such contempt? I sort of mulled over dinner, absently watching him eat. When he caught me staring, he stared back. I could not read any ill will on his face; we simply stared at each other for a moment. It soon became evident that he would not back down, challenging me to look away first, but I did not. Childish games like this are my specialty. I grew up with twelve very stubborn little girls.

Ironically, that prompted him to finally speak to me. I will relay our conversation here. In case the reader of this journal is not aware, one of the perks of being a skilled soul nurse is having the ability to recollect memories with prayer. I am able to delve deep into my mind and relive recent memories with precision. That is why I am able to write down what we said to each other verbatim. I am not fabricating these events and would never put words in the prince’s mouth. That is treason. Here is how our awful talk went:

“May I help you?” he asked me.

“Oh, no, I am quite alright. May I help you?”

“Yes. Go ahead and finish your dinner, if you please.”

“I am not very hungry this evening, I am afraid.”

“Oh? Has a terrible illness befallen you, priestess?”

“No, no. I would not call him that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I would not call him that,” I confidently repeated.

He scowled. “I see.”

“If Your Highness has no use for me here, then I shall take my leave.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Your Highness.” I stared at him. “I mean nothing to you.”

“You wish to leave?”

“If there is no use for me here, yes.”

“What difference would that make? Your leave?”

“Daughter Angela would send you a more suitable nurse.”

“More suitable than you?”

“Well, yes. If Your Highness finds me ill-suited for this position, then Daughter Angela will send you someone better suited for it.”

“Who could possibly be better suited than you?”

“Your Highness…” I gave him a confused look.

“You misunderstand. Your capabilities were never in question. You are not Angela and you never will be.”

“I was not trying to be her. I will never…”

That was when I finally understood what he meant. Daughter Angela holds a special place in his heart. He does not see her as a priestess or a nurse, but a member of his own family, even if unrelated by blood. She raised him.

“I am not trying to replace her,” I told him. “This is a job to me.”

“Precisely.”

Looking back at this conversation now, I see how Daughter Angela’s retirement must have seemed to him. She has essentially stepped down as his mother figure and appointed a complete stranger to take her place. His resistance to the idea is perfectly justified. I will never be his mama.

I remember feeling quite abandoned when I left the convent, even though it had been my choice. I would have liked Daughter Angela to fight me a bit, showing that she would miss me if I were gone. That is the closest parallel that I can draw between his life and mine, although I am aware that it is not a very good one. I could not imagine Daughter Angela leaving me of her own free will, as if motherhood were a role that one could retire from.

We did not really speak for the rest of that evening. I, for one, was far too shocked by this realization to know what to do next. Now, I understand that my success hinges on my ability to make a difference. I must find a way to be meaningful to him, to show that Daughter Angela’s retirement has nothing to do with him at all. She still loves him. That is not something that one can merely say, however; it is something that must be shown, or better yet, felt. I must find a way to make him feel held.

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