They stood at attention as we approached, their silver breastplates gleaming under the wall sconces.

One of the guards opened the door.

Rachel sat on a low velvet bench in the center of the room.

Her wedding dress was torn at the hem, the white silk stained with gray dirt from the airfield.

Her hair was half-undone, blonde strands hanging loose around her pale face.

She looked up when the door opened, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anger.

“Emily,” she said.

“You did this.”

I stood near the door, my hands clasped behind my back.

“You did this to yourself, Rachel,” I said.

“You stole our father’s legacy and tried to buy a crown with it.”

“It wasn’t a lie,” she said, standing up.

The silk of her skirt rustled loudly in the quiet room.

“I loved him.”

She looked at Alexander, her hands reaching out toward him.

“Alex, you know me,” she said.

“You know who I am.”

Alexander did not move toward her.

He kept his distance, his face tight.

“I knew the woman you pretended to be,” he said.