July 21st, 1622

7 a.m. at the time of record-keeping

Breakfast is soon. I cannot sleep. I have been awake for the better portion of last night, shaking and sweating cold, humiliated and confused. I feel truly sick to my stomach. I had never felt this way before, but then, I had never known… a man! Worse than a man, a bachelor. I know now that they are selfish and entitled creatures who are simply incapable of considering anyone’s feelings other than their own. And in the prince’s case, who has never even had to try.

I find myself starting sentences that I cannot finish and thinking thoughts that I do not mean. I am unable to accurately describe how I feel about him, because most of it is truly just awful, yet the keyword here is most. Most of it is, while the rest… is not. The rest is strange and awkward and wrong. He makes my life so much more difficult, yet somehow, not any worse. I am not going to say that it is better with him in it, because it is not. I wish we had never met. I yearn for the simplicity that I used to know before him, but now that we have crossed paths, I cannot picture a future that does not include him too. I am his nurse. I am his confidante. I am the object of his desire and knowing that has never made me feel so powerless. He should not have told me. Hearing it straight from his mouth made it so much more real. Undeniable. He has put me through the wringer and I cannot get out. I wish that I did not want him too.

Is this what it means to be a woman? To love to be humiliated and tortured? To surrender completely? Why does it feel so good to know that he wants me to the extent that he does? There is no simple answer as to whether the risk of knowing a man is truly worth it, although it is painfully erotic. He pulls me in and I am unable to stop it. I do not hate it. Last night was an excruciatingly lovely evening. Excruciating because he hurts me, lovely for that exact same reason. I do not wish to be near him. I do not know who I am under his gaze.

**

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

A footman has just come over. I am officially not going to attend breakfast; I simply cannot stomach the idea of seeing him right now. I do not want him looking at me nor speaking to me. I wish to evaporate into thin air and utterly disappear. I am not coming out of my bedchamber at all today. I am ill and indisposed. If a terrible accident befalls him, I do not wish to know about it. Let fate carry out its premises undisturbed this time. What is sown is reaped and he should know that. After trying so hard, he has successfully managed to push me away.

**

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

I apologize for such a chaotic start to this entry. I feel a bit better now, after having had a cry and some breakfast. Reginald was kind enough to bring me some fruit and a tall glass of milk. Prince Nikolai was there with him, but I kept the door tightly pulled, as not to see him. I feel a bit childish about that. They were both worried about me, asking what had happened as if the prince did not already know. I simply told Reginald to ask him and shut the door. I have no patience left. Begone!

Not long after that, Princess Charlotte and Lady Joan stopped by. I let them in, of course; they sat on my couch and cradled me. That was when an intense need to cry promptly burst forth. They held me as I wept with nothing to say. It was such a wonderful moment. Their love for me brought me back to the convent, where we hold each other and let ourselves be held. I cannot remember the last time that I had been the one in need of it.

They soothed me until my heart quelled and my breathing returned evenly. I still have not told them anything. They are here now, talking of last night’s ball and today’s long list of visitors as I write quietly near them. Since I do not know how to put my feelings into words, I shall write what has happened and show it to them here.

When we left for the ball, Lady Joan made a curious comment that I am very embarrassed to relay, but that is necessary to paint a full picture of my humiliation. She told me to have a pineapple slice. I still am not sure what she meant by that; when I asked, she said it would be so the prince could have a snack of his own. I do not know how my having a pineapple slice would transfer to him also having it. Would he taste it on my lips? I would rather not think of that. In the end, I am afraid that her advice went to waste, even though I did, in fact, have a slice or two. Confessing to that is making me feel quite stupid in retrospect.

We did not see each other right away. I looked for him in secluded corners with plenty of food; the thought that he might be mingling did not even cross my mind. Princess Charlotte and her married friends kept me company as I only marginally paid attention to their discussions. It was one of them who mentioned how dashing he looked, startling me. I asked her where he was. She gave the crowd a pointed look that I followed, surprised to find him at the end of it. He was so sharply dressed that I struggled to recognize him. While his doublet was unbuttoned at the top and no whisk adorned his shirt collar, the fact that he was wearing a doublet at all, let alone a hat, shocked me to my very core.

The longer I stared, the quicker the royal guard took notice of me. Polite smiles came my way, which I reciprocated with one of my own. Out of earshot, I could not hear what they said, but one of those comments turned the prince around to briefly glance at me. Not immediately recognizing me either, he had to do a double take, and when our eyes locked for the second time, I watched as my identity dawned on him. He looked me up and down, sort of scowling. Now I know that was a positive reaction, although it did not seem that way back then.

It pains me to say that he did, indeed, look very handsome last night. Then again, had he worn his old ripped up shirt and muddy boots, I would probably still have thought the same. An outfit does not make a man; I have been nurturing these insidious feelings for far longer than that. His intimidating looks and general seriousness do nothing for me; it is when he suddenly turns into an entitled brat, fighting me every step of the way that I find myself charmed. I do not know why. Our arguments frustrate me in the moment, but after they have passed, I look back on them with fondness. It is mind-boggling. There is absolutely no reason for me to find this twenty-two-year-old brat endearing, and yet—!

We kept stealing glances at each other like timid children, never actually gathering the courage to approach. I asked Princess Charlotte and her friends if he should not be the one to approach and they informed me that he should be. But he did not. He spoke to the guard while having a glass of champagne and glancing my way, but never actually left their company.

I soon grew impatient, wondering what the hold-up was, after all, he had been the one to invite me. Insistently too, may I add. Should we not be dancing? Properly vexed, I excused myself and went around the room to clear my head. That was when I came across the infamous pineapple slices. Do they have some hidden meaning that I should know about? I would never have thought that a pineapple could be an aphrodisiac, if that is what Lady Joan had been hinting at. I had a few slices, wondering what would happen; if they would summon the prince or send some kind of message, but I waited and waited and nothing came of it. They remain a mystery to me.

When I rejoined Princess Charlotte and her entourage, the prince was gone. One of them said he had stepped out, so I followed. I was not supposed to, despite how vehemently they had alluded to it. I believe that was merely what they wished to see. I indulged them—and the royal guard—by accident, my biggest mistake. I did not know it then, but as I left, about half of the room had turned and watched.

I found him out on the deck, watching the fountain. He was not upset to see me; that was all I could tell from the look that he gave me. It was particularly difficult to read him; the champagne he had had glazed his eyes over. He watched me with a half-lidded stare that I failed to interpret, but I will say in advance that, at this point, he was already in a state. I do not remember exactly how I started this conversation, but it was an innocent remark that he responded to just as innocently.

That only lasted for a second, however. I am not even sure how to describe the sharp turn that our conversation took right then; the atmosphere changed so quickly that it shocked me. With the wisdom that I have now, I understand that, at that point, he had been housing those perverted thoughts for quite some time, so going from how pleasant the night was to his inner demons made perfect sense to him. I did not, of course, expect it.

“Your unavailability, priestess, can be… so very distressing,” he rather bluntly told me, as if I knew what to make of that. “I am used to having my way and getting what I want and the fact that I will never have you is so… frustrating. You cannot imagine how it feels to want you as badly as I do and know that that is the reason why none of our rituals will ever take. That no matter how hard we try, we will never find a cure, because the intensity of what I feel for you is stronger than my desire to get better. I am quite aware that the darkness inside me was born there, that I have created it. I am wicked and impure. I always have been. You shine so brightly… yet all I want is to put you out with the weight of my body. It is evil.”

I was already shaking by then. I did not know what to say. Even now, I struggle to write down his exact words. And here I had thought that my crush on him was sinful. It seems so childish in comparison to how he feels.

“I do not know how to act around you,” he confessed. “I see you and I wish to touch you. I know you will wither and die if I do, so I have not. I am trying so very hard to be good.” He glanced me down again. “But you look so beautiful tonight. I am running out of self-restraint. You have done nothing wrong; I am sick. I wish I could say that I am tempted by nothing, but you are… quite the opposite of that. You are every thought that I have ever had. No one has managed to affect me like this, to get in my head. I am not quick to anger. But when you talk back to me, something inside me flares up and I devolve into a complete animal. I raise my voice and say things that I do not mean. I fight you like I have any right to. I cannot control myself.”

In retrospect, it is very clear that he only desires me because he cannot have me. If he could, he either already would have, or he would never have garnered an interest in the first place. He enjoys the way I talk back to him the same way a masochist enjoys a slap. It is the offense that attracts him, the nerve that I have to talk back to the Crown Prince of Vyerno. But my point of view is different. I am talking back to my impossible patient.

As he went on, his eyes wandered from me to a spot above my shoulder that I did not realize was the ballroom where all of high society spied on us. He was very aware of the attention that we were getting. The mere fact that we were rendezvousing without an escort was enough reason for scandal. I am assuming that they expected to see a stolen kiss, but we ultimately gave them something better. More scandalous.

“I am going downtown after this,” he told me. “I do not wish to defile you, so I will be taking care of myself like any gentleman would. I am, despite everything, still trying to be good. I will be on the Moon at twelve.”

While I was unable to formulate a single straight thought this entire time, this last part had shocked me speechless. I did not know why he would tell me that.

“Have you ever been with a man?” he asked me and I came right back to. I still cannot believe that he would ask me such an absurd question. Offense had furrowed my eyebrows and parted my lips. I could feel my chest burn. Nothing came out of my mouth at all.

That was not what he had meant. As I write this, I realize that he was flirting with me. He wanted to hear from my mouth how it is that I like it in the bedroom so that he could picture it for himself. Pervert.

“Should you very much like to hit me?” he asked, grinning stupidly. He clearly enjoyed my rage.

Suddenly aware of myself, I calmed down. “No, I should not.”

“Do not look.” He trained his eyes on me. “But the ton is watching. Should you not like to prank them? I have offended you greatly, after all. It is only right that you slap me. Hit me as hard as you can and walk back as if nothing has happened. Indulge me. That would be a laugh.”

At this point, he had shocked me so very deeply that I somehow took this strange turn of events right in stride, hoping it would distance ourselves from the previous topic. So, I agreed to hit him, and even tried. I really did, but my arm would not rise and my fingers would not spread. I had never hurt anyone before; this went against my very nature.

My reluctance prompted him to provoke me, and as he got close, I squirmed and shied away. He had to seize my arm to keep me from scurrying off. Noticing my skittishness, he tried a different approach next, gently coaxing me to do it. Begging me, almost. His voice lowered and his brow furrowed, twisting upwards. His eyes were big and round.

I am very ashamed of this entire interaction; his gentle tone was so enticing, yet the thought of hitting him sickened me. This torture went on for way longer than it should have, and when he finally broke me, I slapped him across the face. I still remember the sting on my palm. Oh, I feel ill. Too guilt-ridden to look at him, I turned around and finally saw the crowd that watched us. They promptly scattered. I did not see any humor in that, nor in their pretending not to notice my return. I regret my participation in it.

I rejoined Princess Charlotte and her entourage as nonchalantly as I could, and smiling politely, asked what I had missed. The crowd did not stop buzzing; they kept looking at us, gossiping when they thought we were not paying attention. I had to force myself to stop shaking. It was practically impossible to act normally.

Okay, now that I have written down what I wanted to share with the princess and her cousin, I shall pause here and return later.

**

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

There is something to be said about the way we address each other. Princess Charlotte and the rest of her family use each other’s Christian names, while everyone else addresses them by their titles, myself included. Until last night, Prince Nikolai had only ever addressed me either as priestess or by my full name. Then, he hears Daughter Angela call me Addie once, and suddenly, we are on a nickname basis. That is, of course, false. I shall never call him Nik. We are not family and we most certainly are not friends. He may call me Addie if he so desires; it matters not. He will do whatever he wishes anyway. I have no say in that.

While Lady Joan and the princess discussed what I had just read to them, he had knocked on my door, and calling me Addie, asked to speak to me. His cousin promptly ordered him to leave, triggering an explosive response, that she has no right to keep me away from him. In his own words, I am his nurse. Telling him that I am her friend, she once again ordered him to leave. Princess Charlotte, the more level-headed of the two, opened the door just a gap and kindly explained to him that I was not in any condition to see him yet. He had to be patient. I can only imagine that he acquiesced with reluctance. More centered now, he told me to please come see him at my earliest convenience, that he would very much like to talk, and left.

It is the evening now and I am alone. My quarantine has caused a rift in high society. I did not think so many people would notice my absence or even care, but nearly all the women have lined up at my door throughout the day, offering me kind words and delicious cakes. Word of the prince’s actions has spread much further than I had intended; I had only told the princess and her cousin, both of which swore that they had not told anyone. I do not wish to accuse them, which leaves the prince telling on himself. At this point, I do not doubt that he would, since common sense would have advised him otherwise. I still have not spoken to him. Half of my visitors have eagerly asked me whether I will, while the other half have gravely advised me against it. I certainly feel that I should.

Once Princess Charlotte and Lady Joan had heard what had happened, they gave me the reassurance that I had been looking for, that my distaste for him is entirely warranted. They do not like him either, never had. Lady Joan was far more vocal about it than the princess, telling me of all the horrible things that he has done and said to them over the years. He had fought her when she tried to get her title, calling her a man in all ways but one. She says that she is over it, but I could hear the pain in her voice during her recollection. He is not any kinder to his sister, belittling her for her powerlessness and lack of influence in the kingdom. He has told her that, if he ceased to exist, the entire kingdom would collapse, but if she did, life would continue unchanged. It chilled me to hear it.

Theirs is a strange dynamic. While the girls deeply resent him, their feelings are largely ignored at Ivory Palace; they must simply not let such comments affect them. It is in the prince’s right to say whatever he wishes. No one has ever admonished him for that, even if they do not agree with it. He is not criticized or held accountable. In fact, his title as the crown prince forces the kingdom to celebrate him regardless of how they feel or think about him. His sister and cousin are so frequently urged to forgive and forget that finding excuses for his behavior has become part of their daily lives. The hurtful nature of what he has said is not the issue; it is the recipient’s feelings that must be dealt with. They should simply move on.

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