July 22nd, 1622

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

I will preface this entry by saying that we have not spoken yet, although I have ended my self-imposed isolation. We crossed paths only once, and seeing me surrounded by the female members of the ton, he did not dare approach. That was wise. I believe he would have been attacked had he tried.

I did not intend to draw any attention today; my plan was to have breakfast with the servants and go for a walk, but when the princess and her cousin heard about that, they promptly rearranged my schedule. We started by having breakfast together, then visiting the garden. Word of our exploits spread very quickly, and before lunch, half of the ton had joined us. It warmed my heart to see so many women, who might not otherwise have wished to see each other, coming together just for me. Their solidarity brought tears to my eyes.

I do feel like a bit of a fake, though. Many of them have only shown compassion for me because they are under the impression that I have rejected the prince, when that is not the case. He never asked, therefore, I never turned him down. I am not even sure that I would. I know it is dishonest of me to accept everyone’s love and affection while effectively lying to them, and I do intend to correct this mistake; I was just a bit overwhelmed at the time. Frankly, in my fragile state, I needed all the care that they were willing to give me. I shall address this issue post-haste.

We practically spent all day talking about him. I had a lot of grievances to air out, which prompted the other women to talk about not only him, but their own male-related issues as well. I learned so much. Princess Charlotte surprised me with how frustrated her title makes her, turning marriage into a strictly political affair. While it is and always has been, most women have some room to pick and choose, but not her. Her father and the prince are the ones who decide who her future husband shall be, reducing her to a mere tool at their disposal. That is why she is always surrounded at balls; bachelors are not allowed to approach her. She is not available.

Talking of the prince eventually led us to the topic of his mama and the tragedy that had befallen their family. That was when I learned that, when the prince was only ten years old, he had nearly joined his mama in her watery grave. Whispers discussed this topic, trying not to use the word ‘drowned,’ because he had not. Daughter Angela had saved him. She had been there during both tragedies, too late to intervene. It is no wonder that he cares for her as deeply as he does. It was after that last incident that the king had sectioned off that part of the kingdom.

I am positive that nearly drowning in the same lake where Queen Anne had died has done irreparable damage to the prince. I am unable to substantiate my claims, of course; there is no proof. It is merely a feeling that I have. The darkness inside him is too unique, so it must have come from a personalized experience, something that no one else has access to. What is a more suitable place for that than the Sacred Lake?

**

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

We have just spoken. It is the evening now, not too long after dinner. My disappearing act has brought him over to my door. He knocked, and still outside, told me all that he had been meaning to say for the last two days.

“I do not understand why you are upset with me. I have done nothing wrong. All I wanted was to be close to you and meeting on the Moon was the only way that I knew how. Why are you punishing me for that? I did not defile you. I did not touch you. We were together in a different way. Yes, it was impure and sick and blasphemous, but do you not agree that it was also quite clever? What else could I have done? Tell me.”

I heard the women as he spoke. Despite our grievances, there is nothing to be done about the men in our lives; the most we can do is be in our feelings for a moment, then move on. Prince Nikolai did not mean to upset me. His intentions were good. I feel guilty for making such a big deal out of this when it was basically nothing.

My lack of response caused him to change his approach.

“I am sorry for what I did,” he continued, softer now. “Please, Addie. Please, forgive me. I miss you. I miss you so very much.”

That last part softened me.

“I have a hard time dealing with what I cannot control. I understand that I should not have looked for a loophole. What I did was completely misguided, a bad attempt at making something happen. Something that I know cannot truly happen, not how I would like it to. I just needed… to be close to you. I was desperate. I have the Devil inside me and I cannot help but listen to him. He says exactly what I wish to hear. I am weak and I listen when I know that I should not. I know better but I cannot control myself. Please, do not shut me out. Your silence and your distance will kill me. You must forgive me. You must. Please.”

I opened the door just a gap. He stared at me wide-eyed and red in the face. I did not expect to be affected by that, but seeing him debase himself for me, any ill-will that I had harbored toward him promptly turned into fondness.

I decided to forgive him. The other women are right; I can only punish him for so long and it has been two entire days already. It is time to move on. He will say and do whatever he wishes; I am the one who should learn to deal with that. I explained that the distance I had put between us was only so that I could heal. After all, he had upset me rather deeply. He understood that and once again apologized. Then, we just sort of stood there for a minute, not even looking at each other; he avoided my gaze completely.

He had worn another doublet today, unbuttoned from top to bottom, and no hat. I had missed his shaggy hair. After fidgeting for a moment, he bid me goodnight and left. I watched him walk away with a vague feeling in my chest, not only that I had wanted to hug him, but that I regretted missing my chance to. He had been at his most likeable—and, strangely enough, most attractive—while blushing and failing to look me in the eye. Why do I enjoy seeing him flustered? I have always thought that confidence was supposed to be a man’s most attractive trait.

Well, I suppose it is time to talk about what happened after the ball. I should not put it off any longer. I am ashamed by how much I have let it affect me. To recap: the prince and I spoke on the deck, he asked me to hit him and I did. He got quite drunk after that; I watched him down glass after glass of champagne until he could barely walk straight. Then, he rejoined the guard and they left.

I did not understand why we should meet on the Moon if he was going to the brothel. I was surely not going to accompany him. I returned to my room and bathed anyway, looking for that inner peace that I like to experience before a spiritual meeting. Calm and centered, I lay in bed, placed my hands over my heart and began resonating. I find it very rewarding to be able to connect with the other daughters and soothe anyone in need, even if they have already gone to bed. It matters not.

Prince Nikolai joined me soon afterwards. He was very agitated; his energy sparked like it might catch on fire, worsening as I soothed him. His light has never been strong; he is a mere flicker in the distance, so it took me a minute to really understand what that feeling was, but then, I should have already known. I only connected the dots when he exploded with light, pulsing a few times before shutting down completely. I could almost feel that same ecstasy on my own skin. It frightened me. I felt… used. Why would he include me in that moment? Knowing that he had been thinking of me as he climaxed did nothing to lessen the disgust that I felt. I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.

When he returned to the palace, I bolted straight for his apartment. I had never confronted anyone in such an agitated state, shaking like a leaf, mortified. I did not know how to proceed or even control myself. I do not usually act on impulses, but I knew that if I did not do something right away, I never would.

Once he had opened the door, however, I simply froze. I do not remember the look on his face or what he might have thought about my visit; my altered state cast a thick fog in my mind, so recalling exactly what happened is a struggle. All I know is that I tried my best to express just how hurt and upset I was that he would do something so intimate to me without asking me first. His response was gleeful; he was proud to have thought of such an ingenious workaround. He had even chosen a girl who looked like me. The more he talked about her, the worse I felt. I did not understand how he could think that any of what he had just done was okay or that I wished to know the details. It hurt to think of him with someone else.

My less than joyful reaction soured his good mood. I did not do a very good job of explaining myself; I went in circles and stuttered, coming to the same question again and again— “Why did you not ask me?” I might have said yes. After everything that he had said on the deck, one confession after another, I might actually have said yes. I do not know.

“I did ask you,” he told me, sober now. “I told you I would be there at twelve. You know I was going to be with a girl. What else should I have done? Asked you to come with me? You would cease speaking to me completely.”

It was I who had failed to read between the lines. I was so distraught by that point that I did not know what else to say. I am not even sure if what we did counts as sinning, although it certainly felt like it. There is no precedence for spiritual coitus on the Moon, but I have to assume that is one of the most sinful and blasphemous things a man and a woman could do.

He grew quiet, finally understanding the extent of my panic.

“But I did not touch you,” he told me. “You are not compromised.”

Hearing him say that was bittersweet. It had hurt so, so terribly, yet I had enjoyed it. I still find myself mulling over his confession and cherishing every second of it, knowing that I should not. It is impossible not to. The Devil inside him might have visited me briefly. I am also to blame.

Aware of my inability to articulate my thoughts any better than this, I simply told him, “You are moving too fast. I do not need you to slow down; I need you to stop. Completely.”

He scowled. “But I care for you. I care so very deeply for you. You know that. I do not wish harm upon you. I do not wish to disgrace you. Why are you upset with me?”

Unable to explain myself, I simply returned to my room.

Recounting what happened has really put into perspective just how much of a nonissue it really was. I had felt so strongly at that moment, so disgusted with myself, convinced that he had violated my boundaries and ruined my purity, but I had been the one to join him. I had done it voluntarily. If he is to blame, then so am I. We sinned together.

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