In the Dutchy

"The time of death is 4:14." The old man wiped his hands clean on his smock, stained with blood and bile and phlem among other odd colors. "Inform Lady Miranda." The younger man in uniform by the door bowed slightly and turned to exit the room. He walked down the long corridor nervously, the paintings of all the former Dukes and Dutchesses looking down at him with what appeared a mixture of pity and scorn. The last one was of the recently passed Dutchess, Lady Drema. The man adjusted the neckcloth of his court uniform and gently cleared his throat.

Before his hand could reach the finely painted wood to knock, he heard a soft voice come from within. "Francis? You may come in, I'm just playing." The man looked down at his well polished shoes, frowning deeply. He collected himself, and opened the door. There, on the ground, sat twelve year old Miranda Gravesford, daughter, and now only child, of Dutchess Drema. She had a cloth-woven doll in each hand, one with long, curly blond hair and one with short black hair. They represented her brother and her, and were the only toys Miranda would play with since her older brother had gone missing in the wilderness. "How is Momma, Francis? Has the doctor finished the appointment with her?"

"Francis inhaled a lightly as he could, taking in just enough air to push forth the words he had to speak. "Lady Miranda" he trailed off for a moment, before breathing in more sharply. "My Lady, the Dutchess has passed away." He frowned deeply, against his best efforts at self control, and through building tears was able to finish "I am sorry, Lady Miranda."

Miranda's expression did not change for what felt like minutes, until suddenly it ran through the gambits of grief. From a look of shock, to disbelief, to horror, to finally deep sobbing and crying like an infant. Those emotions all seemed to pass over her in less than a second, and now the girl openly wept into her regal pink dress. Francis stepped forward, only for her to look up and inhale deeply. "It is okay, Francis." Snot dripped from her nose to the tops of her lips and her eyes were red and puffy. "I'll be okay. Please...leave me for a moment."

Francis bit into his lip and bowed. They both knew what this would mean: With the viceroy who had been acting as the advisor for the Dutchess currently imprisoned for conspiracy in the disappearance of her eldest son, and said eldest son missing, the rulership would pass to Miranda, a young girl of twelve who had spent more time skipping her lessons on royal etiquette and diplomacy and more time playing with dolls into her tween years. He left, knowing he would have to come and fetch her soon.

Miranda cried for a minute more, before taking several deep breaths and rubbing her eyes. The footsteps in the hallway were gone now. Miranda stood up and put her dolls up back by her bed where they always stayed. She looked down, picking back up the one resembling her big brother. "I hope it wasn't painful for you, brother." She frowned for a moment, before a wide grin crossed her face and her eyes turned up. "What those men I had hired did. I hope it was quick." She danced around the room before stopping. "Oh, I should change. I can't be wearing this when I'm declared ruler of this land."

Two years of planning and subterfuge, but Miranda had accomplished her goals. She had moved the two major pieces out of the way on the board to place herself in the position of Dutchess of Gravesford. Now all that was left was to accept her spot on the throne. "Now comes the difficult part. I've taken the piece, but now I must win the match."