Chapter 10 - Her Serene Highness Ascends
Three weeks later.
The sun shone brightly over the ancient stone towers of Mont-Valen, a sovereign principality nestled high in the green, snow-capped valleys between France and Switzerland.
Flags of crimson and gold fluttered from every balcony in the capital city. Thousands of citizens lined the cobbled streets, throwing white rose petals into the air as the royal procession moved toward the Cathedral of Saint-Michel.
Inside the cathedral, organ music thundered through ancient vaulted arches.
Clara walked down the center aisle.
She did not wear a white slip dress.
She wore a breathtaking gown of restored ivory Chantilly lace—her mother’s dress, painstakingly brought back to life by six royal artisans who had worked for two weeks to remove every trace of red wine, replacing the damaged threads with gold silk.
Over her shoulders hung a sweeping crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine. Upon her head rested the Sovereign Crown of Mont-Valen, its diamonds catching the light of a hundred altar candles.
As she reached the High Altar, Baron Henrik step forward, bearing the golden scepter of state.
He presented it to her, bowing low.
Clara took the scepter in her right hand. She turned around to face her people, her posture regal, her eyes clear, her breath deep and steady.
The crowd inside the cathedral rose as one, their voices echoing off the centuries-old stone in a joyous, deafening roar:
“LONG LIVE HER SERENE HIGHNESS! LONG LIVE PRINCESS CLARA!”
Outside, across the ocean, in a tiny, noisy one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, Arthur Harrington sat alone on a folding chair near an unlit radiator.
A television set mounted on the wall was playing the live international broadcast of the coronation.
On the screen, he watched Clara—the girl who had once made him tea in a chipped mug, the girl who had loved him in the quiet rain—standing under a golden canopy, crowned as a sovereign ruler of an ancient world.
Arthur reached out a trembling hand toward the screen, his fingers touching the glass right over her face.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, dropping onto a cold bowl of boxed pasta resting on his knee.
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On the television screen, Princess Clara lifted her head, looking directly into the camera lens with a calm, radiant, unbreakable smile.
She turned away from the past, stepped into her power, and finally claimed the life she was born to rule.
