Chapter 104: Seven Crimes and a Dinner Plate

Chapter 104: Seven Crimes and a Dinner Plate [Lavinia’s POV] "He’s gonna grow like some model," I muttered into Marshi’s fur, clinging to it like a lifeline. "I swear, the female lead of this novel is damn lucky to have him. A glorious disaster. Walking perfection. Sword-wielding heartbreak. I’m suffering." "Talking about me, Lavi?" I jerked up like I’d just been electrocuted by the ghost of etiquette, my entire soul flinging itself into panic mode. Osric was suddenly there—right beside Marshi, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel that should honestly be confiscated for crimes against hormonal stability. He looked confused. Innocent. Like he hadn’t just committed a visual felony by being that handsome in public spaces. "NO!" I squawked, way too loud, like a chicken being startled mid-lay. "I mean—yes—but not like that—I mean—I was talking to Marshi. About the weather! And politics! And—and—MARS!" He blinked. "Mars?" "Yep! Big, red, angry planet. Very warm. Kind of like you. I MEAN—NO—not like you-you. You’re not a planet. You’re just very... swordy. Yes. Swordy." Please bury me in Marshi’s fluff. Immediately. Make it my royal tomb. Carve "She died as she lived—awkward and sparkling" on the stone. To his absurd credit, Osric didn’t laugh. He just tilted his head, that adorably confused puppy expression in full force, and said, "You okay, Lavi?" Oh no. Now he sounds mature too. He’s growing up. His voice is deeper. He’s got cheekbones. A literal protagonist jawline. Is that emotional nuance I hear? "I’m fine!" I chirped, hopping off Marshi with the grace of a stunned squirrel falling out of a tree. "Totally fine! Just came to see you! You know. As friends. Very normal. Platonic. Absolutely non-obsessed with your face. Yep. Friends!" He smiled. And said, "Shall we go sit at our usual spot?" I nodded so fast I nearly gave myself a royal whiplash and followed him toward the bench. The Bench of Platonic ProximityTM. Our sacred spot is shaded by a dreamy silverleaf tree and exactly 13.2 feet away from the sparring grounds. We sat down. He looked at me, still smiling like some ancient Greek deity of sunshine and emotional stability, and said, "I heard you’ve started lessons with Lady Evelyne?" I nodded. "Yeah. I did." "You’re growing up, Lavi," he said warmly. UGHHHHHHH.... STOP SMILING, MAN. Why is he smiling like that? Why is there a main character glow around him? This isn’t fair! He’s sparkling. Sparkling with puberty and plot relevance. I’m not supposed to be the heroine here! I squinted at him like he’d committed some divine-level offense. "Oh gosh," I muttered, shielding my eyes with my hand like I was staring into the sun, "Stop blinding me, for god’s sake." He blinked. "Huh? What do you mean?" I blurted out, without brain-to-mouth filtration: "You’re glowing too handsomely." ... ... And just like that—awkward silence fell upon us like a royal tax audit. His cheeks flushed. Not just pink. Not "oh I’m a little embarrassed" pink. We’re talking sunset-petal-strawberry-smoothie-panic red. I need a shovel. I need to bury myself. I need a portal to a different timeline. Why does my mouth keep doing this? Why can’t I speak like a normal future empress? Why am I like this? Time to activate Emergency Topic Diversion No. #002: Cute Animals. "I—I heard there are snow foxes in our empire," I blurted. Osric, mercifully grabbing onto the new topic like a lifeline, nodded. "Yes. In the northern region, we have the empire’s largest snow fox sanctuary." "WOW..." I gasped, eyes turning into literal anime stars. Marshi’s ears twitched. His tail, which had been elegantly draped to the left, thwacked to the right like someone had mentioned his ancient, adorable rivals. I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don’t get jealous. You’re still my number one giant majestic fluff monster." Turning back to Osric, I leaned in. "Have you seen them?" He nodded again, smiling that gentle-knight-soft-boy smile that made the temperature rise ten degrees. "I have. I visit the North once a year. I see them often." Wait. What? He visits the North? Since when? Why? How come that was never in the— "They’re fast," he continued, his voice quiet. "Hard to spot unless you’re very still. They’re beautiful. Ghost-like." "Really?" I asked, enchanted. He nodded. Then I tilted my head. "But... why do you visit the North?" And that’s when the air changed. His shoulders stiffened—yes, those shoulders, the ones that had been personally responsible for my mental derailment twenty minutes ago. The ones I was going to sue for emotional damage. His eyes lost their shine. He looked down, his hands folding in his lap like he needed something to hold on to. "My mother was from the North," he said softly. "She grew up near Foxridge Valley." I blinked. That... that hit like a snowball. Right to the soul. His mother? Wait. WAIT. Hold the royal teacup. I’ve read this novel. I know this novel. And not once—not in the glossary, not in the tragic flashbacks, not in the villain backstories—not ONCE was Osric’s mother ever mentioned, even though he was the main lead of this novel. It’s like she was erased. From the narrative. From his life. From the entire plotline. Why...? But wait... that wasn’t the only weird thing, was it? I sat back, stunned. My engagement. I was supposed to be engaged to Osric. That was a whole plot arc. A political alliance! An arranged engagement! Angst! Royal tension! I was supposed to beam in a hallway at the announcement! There was supposed to be a celebration. But... it never happened. Not a whisper. Not a mention. Not even an accidental gossip in the garden like, "Ohoho~ I heard Princess Lavinia and Sir Osric—!" Nothing. It’s like someone hit delete on that entire subplot. Wait. Waitwaitwaitwaitwait— Did Papa do something? Did he delete the engagement lines straight from the author’s outline? Anyhow...that’s not what’s on my mind now. It’s about—Osric’s mother. I glanced at him. He was quiet now. Not stiff like before, but thoughtful. Like he was looking at a memory that had no photograph to go with it. Why... was she never mentioned? Not once in the entire book. No tragic monologue. No locket holding her picture. No sad "my mother died giving birth to me" trope that makes the readers go awww and the main character go broody. Just... nothing. Not even a name. Even I got a tragic backstory. My mother died giving birth to me. Classic. Tear-jerking. Very page one, very heroine-core. Grandpa Thalein wrote sonnets about it. But Osric? Nothing. It’s like his mother was a blank page. A character that was never allowed to be written. *** [Royal Dining Hall – 7:03 PM, Danger Level: High] Dinner. A sacred time. A blessed hour. A moment for chicken, steamed dumplings, delicious desserts, and emotional healing. Except, apparently... not tonight. Because tonight, my royal dinner was seasoned not with salt or saffron—but with unholy fatherly judgment. I could feel it. Papa’s eyes. Boring into my soul like twin catapults launching flaming arrows of "I-know-you-did-something." My spoon shook as I lifted a bite of potato-and-something stew. (I didn’t know what the something was, and at this point, it was probably guilt.) I chewed. Papa didn’t. He just stared. Lips tight. Brows furrowed. That same terrifying expression he wears when dealing with tax evaders or suspicious suitors. "Papa..." I tried, side-eyeing him through a mouthful of trauma-stew. "Did the royal chef accidentally dump the entire kingdom’s salt reserves onto your plate?" A pause. Then, with a voice carved from stone and ancient fatherly disappointment, he replied: "No." I blinked. "Then why aren’t you eating?" And before I could add, "Are you on a cleanse or something?"— HE. SNATCHED. MY. PLATE. I GASPED. A full royal gasp. Offended. Betrayed. STARVING. "M-my dumplings!" I yelped, reaching dramatically like they were my fallen comrades. "Papa! That’s a diplomatic offense!" Papa slammed the plate down in front of him and leaned forward, arms crossed like a cross-examining god. "Don’t you think," he said slowly, dangerously, "you have something to tell me?" The entire room went still. Even the soup paused mid-simmer. I stared at him. Blink. Blinkblink. ERROR 404: MEMORY NOT FOUND. Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Think, Lavinia. THINK. What could a charming, sweet, slightly chaotic seven-year-old princess like me possibly have done wrong? I mean... today was pretty normal, right? I only rode Marshi inside the palace once. Okay, twice. And technically, it was a hallway. That’s not illegal....I think. Papa still hadn’t looked away. His stare was practically drilling into my royal soul like he had x-ray vision powered by pure, concentrated disappointment. I squirmed in my seat. Tried to butter my bread. Dropped the knife. Sighed. "Papa," I said sweetly, folding my hands like I was posing for a stained-glass window painting, "Is this about accidentally breaking your favorite pot in your study?" His eyes narrowed so sharply they could slice bread."What happened to the pot?" "...Nothing," I said too fast, voice twelve octaves too high. "Absolutely nothing. It just... um... fell. Because of the wind." "There are no windows in my study." "...Then maybe it was a ghost?" A silence followed. The kind of silence that feels like it has teeth. Papa inhaled deeply, like he was summoning every ounce of royal patience passed down from generations of annoyed monarchs. I tried again. "Okay, wait—was it the time I glued all the royal seals together to make a friendship bracelet?" His expression didn’t change. At this point, I wasn’t even sure he had expressions anymore or if they all got packed away in some emergency "Why Me?" box. "Or when I... maybe... sneaked out of the royal gate for one teeny-tiny second?" Knuckle tap. Knuckle tap. Oh no. "You went out of the royal gate?" Oops. I’ve been caught. My spoon stopped stirring. My soul left my body. Marshi, under the table, gave me the emotional support snort of a tired alpaca. Papa tilted his head up to the ceiling like he was praying. Or calculating how many guards he’d need to glue me to the floor for a week. "Papa," I said earnestly, leaning forward with my most sincere war-crime-innocent face, "you’re going to have to narrow it down. I do at least seven questionable things a day." He opened his mouth, probably to say my full royal name in all its syllabic horror, but I beat him to it. "OH GOD," I blurted, panic rising like bad soup, "Did you find out I told the King of Nivale that he looked like a roasted turnip with big ears?!" Pause. Papa blinked. And then—his lips twitched. "...He does look like that," he muttered, eyes gleaming. I gasped. "I know, right?! I didn’t mean to say it out loud—it just popped out! I bumped into him during the birthday banquet, looked up, and boom. Vegetable face. I apologised later! He laughed!" Papa nodded and then...the stare continued. Ughhh.... If it’s not the broken pot...Not the gate...Not the turnip king...Then what? What in the Queen’s frilly curtains could I possibly have done this time to deserve the Look? I stared at him. He stared at me. My brain was buffering. Still buffering. ERROR: REASON FOR X-RAY STARE NOT FOUND.