Chapter 5
The heavy oak wardrobe doors stood wide open in Cassandra’s bedchamber, revealing rows of silk evening gowns, woolen coats, and neatly folded riding breeches that would soon be useless against the damp, biting chill of the Scottish highlands. Two royal maids moved quietly around the room, folding items into heavy leather trunks with brass fittings, their movements hurried and silent, as if afraid that speaking aloud might summon the king's wrath. Cassandra sat at her antique vanity table, watching them in the mirror. Her lower lip was still slightly swollen, a tender reminder of the previous night’s catastrophe, but the shock had given way to a quiet, bitter clarity.
A soft knock rattled the door before it swung open to reveal General Thomas Vance, a trusted veteran of the royal guard who had served Edward for over thirty years. His uniform was immaculate, his graying hair cropped close to his scalp, but his eyes held a sympathetic warmth that contrasted sharply with the coldness of the palace administration. He dismissed the maids with a subtle flick of his wrist, waiting until the heavy door clicked shut before stepping further into the room. "The transport is being loaded in the subterranean garage, Your Highness," Thomas said quietly, keeping his voice low. "You leave in twenty minutes."
Cassandra turned slowly on her stool, resting her hands in her lap. "Am I traveling alone, Thomas? Or are you assigned to make sure I don't jump out of the carriage on the way to the airfield?" Thomas offered a faint, sad smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "You know I would never let harm come to you, Cassandra. I watched you learn to ride horses in these very gardens. The King is acting out of fear, not malice, though the distinction is becoming increasingly difficult to perceive." Cassandra let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Fear? My father fears nothing except losing public approval. He built an empire out of polished glass, and I am the stone that finally cracked it."
"He fears losing his family, even if he doesn't know how to show it," Thomas corrected gently, stepping closer to the vanity. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, old-fashioned brass key, placing it quietly on the polished wood beside her perfume bottles. "What is this?" Cassandra asked, looking up at him with sudden suspicion. "The key to the restricted archive in the lower cellar of Balmoral," Thomas whispered, leaning down slightly. "Your grandfather left papers down there. Things the Crown spent decades burying. If you are going to survive your exile, you need to understand why your father is so desperate to control every narrative surrounding this family."
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Cassandra stared at the brass key, her heart beating a little faster against her ribs. The illusion of a simple, quiet punishment was instantly shattered. This was not just an exile to get her out of the public eye; it was a tactical removal from the center of power, executed precisely because she was getting too close to truths she was never supposed to uncover. She picked up the key, its cold metal heavy in her palm, and slipped it securely into the deep pocket of her travel coat. "Thank you, Thomas," she said softly, standing up to face her future. "I suppose it is time to see what ghosts my family left behind."
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