Blood Velvet

Charlotte pulled her chocolate brown hair into a low bun. Her mother brushed a few strands off her face and smiled. "You look perfect, sweetie," she said.

Charlotte scrutinized her reflection in the mirror. "I'm not sure about my dress. Isn't sage green a bit mundane? I thought I was supposed to be starting a revolution, not going to a garden party."

Her mother shook her head. "Stealing the Queen's wedding gown and wearing it to her ball is a bold statement in any color. Might as well make it match the dress code."

"Well, there's nothing to do about it now. Do you have the...?"

Her mother pulled a sheer beige duster jacket and threw it over Charlotte's dress.

"How could I forget? And for the final touch..."

Charlotte's mother pulled her nacre hair comb out of her hair and pushed it into Charlotte's bun. Wearing her mother's comb made Charlotte feel she was carrying the world's weight in her messy bun. It was the only thing from her mother's home country. It was the only priceless thing she owned. When her mother stuck the comb in her hair, Charlotte was making a vow. However, Charlotte didn't sign anything, so if she lost the comb running from the law, she couldn't be held accountable.

"Now, the duke will arrive any minute, so do you think you're ready? Remember, only take off the jacket when it's time. And sit to the left of the duke in the car..."

"...so he doesn't feel my thigh holster through my dress. I have this under control. You trained me, after all." Charlotte finished.

Her mother smiled softly. "You look like a princess."

"Well, I am to be a duchess come March."

Mother and daughter exchanged a glance, knowing Charlotte would never become a duchess.

Suddenly, her mother threw her arms around Charlotte, engulfing her senses in powdery Arabian perfume. Even if she never hugged her again, her mother's soul would cling to her clothes.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Charlotte smiled.

"I believe my ride is here."

"Your father would be proud," her mother whispered.

Would he? Charlotte thought as she pulled away and ran towards the door. She had dedicated her life to avenging him, but she wasn't sure this was her father's wish for his only child.

Charlotte never met her father, but she felt she knew him well. The way her mother spun it, their love story seemed theatrical: a deployed soldier meets a girl during a war, they fall in love, try to elope, and then the soldier is executed for treason when the girl is two months pregnant. It was a true Shakespearean tragedy. But even from the scraps her mother threw her, Charlotte pieced together a barebones idea of her father. She knew he valued love, and he was brave. To her, that seemed like enough to know he would be disappointed in her. He gave his life for love for his daughter to get engaged to a duke who she didn't love so she could assassinate the king.

No, no. The king carried out his execution. I am doing the right thing. Charlotte tried to persuade herself. She still wasn't sure she was doing the right thing as she stepped into the back of a limo. It didn't matter that Charlotte thought this was doing the right thing. It just mattered that she did it.

Charlotte's mother walked after her but stopped when she reached the limo. Her mother began waving as if she was trying to give herself carpal tunnel syndrome. Charlotte smiled and waved back from the tinted window, even though her mother couldn't see her. Unlike her frantic mother, her wave was graceful, a queen's wave. When her mother was out of view, Charlotte pried her eyes from the window and began to study her lap.

All her life, Charlotte felt like her life was never in her control. Her mother had turned her into a puppet held by a million invisible strings. Whenever something got in the way of Charlotte's purpose, she snipped it. Charlotte only had two strings left: she could either carry out her life's goal and take out the king or ditch the plan and live as a duchess. The bullet that killed the king would snip both strings in one go. She would have nothing to live for. Killing the king would kill her, too.

Charlotte glanced at the duke. I must stop calling him 'the duke' in my head, Charlotte thought. His name is Henry, and he is my fiancee.

Charlotte glanced at Henry. She wondered if he would look at her the same if he knew the actual Charlotte: The unsuitable girl who lived in a boutique with her mother, the fearsome woman with a Kevlar baseball cap in her evening bag. She wondered if her thick, luxurious hair or tan glow would be alluring to him if he knew who she got it from. Charlotte knew the man who called her beauty otherworldly would unabashedly call her mother an alien. Perhaps she had no right to be hurt by this. Charlotte had practically thrown herself at the duke, no, Henry, to get closer to the royal family. She and her mother had planned their "chance meeting" for three weeks. Charlotte told him everything he wanted to hear. She fed him porcelain lies on a golden spoon. Soon enough, he was on one knee. Charlotte feigned shock as he slid his mother's ring on her finger.

Suddenly, Henry noticed her gazing intently at his left ear.

"Lottie, are you alright?" he inquired.

Charlotte's gut wrenched as it always did when Henry called her that. "Of course, dear. Why would you think otherwise?"

Henry looked as if he wanted to respond but knew better. Instead, he asked, "Who was the peculiar foreigner waving to you? Is she the reason you've been acting off? Or he, for that matter. You never know with them..."

Charlotte twisted her grimace into an unconvincing smile. "She's my stylist, dear," she said a bit too forcefully. "We're very close."

Henry chuckled sheepishly, clearly taken aback. But he did not attempt any more conversation. Charlotte sighed, satisfied by the tranquil silence. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. The world in Charlotte's dreams was more pleasant than her current reality.

In a flash, it was dark. Gradually, periwinkle clouds drifted through her eyelids. She was falling from the sky into a sea of inky black. When she hit the surface, she felt a thousand fingers grabbing her. Charlotte kicked to the pearly white shore. She failed to notice the people following her. Every inch of her skin stung.

Suddenly, Charlotte saw men dressed in the same drab jumpsuit crawling after her. Charlotte shrieked as they approached her, but she froze. One of the men strolled towards her and touched her shoulder. Charlotte continued shrieking but stopped when she realized who he was.

"D-dad?" Charlotte stuttered, "It's me, your daughter."

Charlotte's father silently looked at her. She decided to continue anyway. "I know this is all in my head, and this isn't you talking, but I want to ask you something."

He stared blankly at her. She realized she saw him like this because her only picture of him was his empty gaze.

"Are you proud of me? Are you watching over me, pleased? Even if it isn't the truth, tell me. Tell me anything," Charlotte pleaded.

Looking at her father's clothes, she noticed all the men wore prison uniforms. They had all been executed and then buried at the same graveyard. She had wanted to visit, but her mother forbade her. It would raise eyebrows, and the press would start to dig. Plus, the graves were unmarked, identical mounds of dirt. Why bother looking for her pin of a father in a colossal haystack?

Charlotte looked up at her father, but as soon as he began to respond, Charlotte began to float into the sky. Charlotte looked down at the beach she had lain on. The pitch that had dripped from her clothes spelled 'It's Time' in blotchy letters on the shore.

Before long, she was going through the clouds, now a floating conflagration of smoke and fury, scorching her ink-stained skin.

As soon as she emerged from the haze, she was back in the limo. Henry was looking at her, a concerned expression on his face.

"Are you alright, Lottie? You were out cold for an hour."

Charlotte's face reddened with embarrassment. "Really? I hope I wasn't a bother." Charlotte pulled her hands from under her. They were the same scarlet as her face.

"Not at all, dear. You sleep like a lady." Charles responded.

Charlotte resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. She was sure such a straight-laced man wouldn't know how any woman slept. However, she responded with, "You are too kind. I hate to ask, but have we arrived? The drive shouldn't be this long."

Charles chuckled. "This is the event of the decade. People have flown in from all over to come. Naturally, there is a bit of traffic," he said with a patient voice as if talking to an uncooperative child.

Charlotte was slightly annoyed. She knew far more about this ball than he did.

Henry, clearly bored with her, pulled his phone from his pocket. Charlotte didn't bother peering at the screen. Even the way he browsed news articles seemed so artificial.

Suddenly. Henry's phone began to ring. Charlotte laughed internally as the national anthem trilled from the phone's speaker. That atrocious ringtone was treason in her book. To be fair, Charlotte was far from patriotic.

Henry answered the phone with an urgency Charlotte didn't like. He murmured "Yes" and "I see" repeatedly for one minute until he hung up. Charlotte bit her lip. She could tell this was serious from the look on his face.

"Ronald," Charles intoned. The chauffeur glanced at him, recoiling at his grim expression. "Turn the car around."

If the situation hadn't seemed so dire, Charlotte would have snorted at the way Henry called the limousine a mere 'car'; Aristocrats were abnormal. But now, all she could think about was the phone call. When she was young, her mom taught her to ask questions if she wanted answers. And Charlotte wanted a lot of answers. So she asked the only person she could: herself. Where who when why what just happened? Was it about me? What am I supposed to do?

The drive back was smooth and eerily silent. Charlotte was smart, strong, witty, beautiful, humble. She wasn't supposed to feel so small and helpless. She remembered what her mom had told her when Charlotte was nervous about hot-wiring a jet: When it's time to do the job, lose the jitters. What you're doing isn't a piano recital. Some feelings aren't doing anything for you.

Charlotte took a deep breath in. Lose the jitters, Charlotte. Some feelings aren't doing anything for me. She felt her mother's resonant voice ricochet off the walls of her mind and breathed out.

As the drive neared its end, Henry broke the silence. "I didn't know how to say this, and I still don't, but I have to," he said. There was magma in his eyes.

Charlotte's eyes widened. She wanted to scream, "Out with it already!" but if she slept like a lady, she would live like a lady.

Henry took a long breath. "The king died, Lottie. The reason is unknown, but they believe it was painless."

At that moment, the world broke. Charlotte felt her corneas shatter as she blinked. The road disappeared from under the limo. Charlotte's lungs floated out of her mouth like two balloons. Her stomach filled with tar. Charlotte melted like ice cream onto the limo's leather seats on that frigid December day.

Shockingly enough, only Charlotte could recall the unraveling of the universe. Perhaps everyone else had lost their sanity.

But Charlotte excelled at regaining her composure. It was part of her training. When Henry asked her if she was alright, she said, "Of course. Just shocked. We will feel His Highness's absence. Ronald, would you drop me off at the boutique? I'll need suitable clothes for mourning." Ronald seemed confused but obliged.

Henry stepped out of the limo to open the door for her. He stole a peck on the cheek as she stole the flask he kept in his coat pocket, relishing its sinister weight in her hand. She had some hard decisions to think about.