Chapter Five
The Vanilla Bouquet
The morning of Clare's birthday arrived gently.
Sunlight slipped through the windows of her home, and the smell of fresh bread and honey filled the air. Her father had invited neighbors, a few academy teachers, and some close friends. It was not a grand royal celebration — just warm and simple.
Clare wore a pale cream dress her mother had stitched carefully for the occasion. Her younger brother, still small and always curious, followed her around proudly as if it were his own celebration.
There was laughter.
There were small handmade gifts.
There were warm wishes.
Clare smiled the entire time.
But the day was not meant only for celebration.
As planned, after the small gathering ended, Clare and her family walked to the church to host the event for the orphan children. Food had been arranged. Simple toys were prepared. Her father spoke kindly with the priest while Clare helped distribute bread and fruit.
She felt happy. Truly happy.
Then the church doors opened again.
Clare turned.
Daniel stood there.
He was slightly out of breath, as if he had hurried. In his hands, carefully held and slightly uneven, was a small bouquet.
White.
Soft.
Vanilla flowers.
Clare's eyes widened.
"You came?" she asked, surprised.
Daniel nodded. "It bloomed yesterday."
He held the bouquet out toward her.
"I thought… since it grew because of you… it should be yours first."
Clare took it carefully, her fingers brushing the stems.
"They're beautiful," she said softly.
Her smile was wide and genuine — the kind that makes children forget everything else around them.
But others did not forget.
A few women in the church exchanged glances.
Some whispered.
"The Crown Prince brought flowers himself?" "For the poet's daughter?" "Hmm…"
Clare's parents noticed.
Her father's expression shifted slightly.
Her mother's smile faded just a little.
To Clare, it was just a gift from her friend.
To the watching world, it looked different.
Daniel didn't notice the whispers. He only saw Clare's happiness.
But her parents saw the future forming in people's assumptions.
And they grew uneasy.
That night, after the children were asleep, Clare's parents spoke quietly.
"She is only eight," her mother said.
"And he is the Crown Prince," her father replied.
Silence filled the room.
They were not angry.
They were afraid.
Afraid of gossip.
Afraid of social boundaries.
Afraid of their daughter being hurt by expectations she could not yet understand.
The next morning, Clare was called to sit beside her mother.
"You will be going to France," her mother said gently.
Clare blinked. "France?"
"For schooling. For better opportunities."
Clare frowned slightly. "But… why?"
Her mother smoothed her hair back.
"It is better for you."
That was all she said.
Clare waited for more explanation.
None came.
She didn't fully understand, but she obeyed.
Children often do.
She went to her room quietly and began packing her books and small belongings.
Her younger brother, still younger than Princess Elza by a few months, waddled in and tried to help by placing random items into her bag — a wooden toy, a ribbon, even a spoon.
"You come back?" he asked innocently.
Clare smiled and nodded, though she wasn't sure how long she would be gone.
The following day, she traveled to France.
The journey felt longer than it was.
When she arrived at her aunt's residence — the home of Laura Martin, her father's sister — she was welcomed warmly.
Her aunt rushed forward the moment Clare stepped from the carriage.
"My dear girl," Aunt Laura said, pulling her into a tight embrace.
The Martin household was lively but lacked one thing — a daughter.
And now Clare stood in their doorway.
"You will stay with us," her aunt said kindly. "You are not a guest. You are family."
Clare looked around the unfamiliar house.
Different language accents.
Different streets.
Different air.
For the first time since her birthday, she felt something heavy in her chest.
Not fear.
Not sadness exactly.
But confusion.
She turned once more toward the carriage that had brought her.
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