Alexander stopped in his tracks, his eyes scanning the cold room before landing on us.

“Emily?” he asked, his voice strained and quiet. “What is going on here?”

“This is my mother, Alexander,” I said, my voice steady but cold.

I gestured to the fragile woman in the chair.

“The woman Rachel told you died in a house fire ten years ago.”

Alexander took a step back, his boots dragging on the stone floor.

He stared at the woman in the armchair, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“That is impossible,” he whispered. “Rachel showed me the death certificate. I saw the records myself.”

“The records were fabricated,” I said. “She lied to you. She lied to everyone.”

My mother shrank back into the cushions of her chair, her thin fingers gripping the worn fabric of her wool shawl.

“Who is he, Emily?” she asked, her voice barely a breath.

“This is Prince Alexander, Mom,” I said gently, kneeling beside her again. “He is the man Rachel was about to marry.”

My mother shivered and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.