Chapter Text
Contrary to common public belief, Princess Ragatha Castille of Ellesmyre was no perfect royal—and particularly not in the early morning.
There was a certain persona she’d worked hard to convey in her nearly eighteen years of waving on balconies and giving toasts during grand celebrations. That persona would evoke the image of a young woman, dazzling in her morning glory, throwing open her windows, and perhaps bursting into song as forest animals—pretty blue birds and friendly squirrels, not those disgusting little insects—flitted about, chirping in time with the chimes of a morning bell.
Her loving subjects would be shocked to find that their golden-hearted, exquisitely mannered crown princess was drooling upon a silken pillow she’d wrapped herself around in sleep. A mop of wild, fiery curls coiled like springs about her face in an unkempt halo—certainly not the proper young woman whom Ragatha advertised herself to be.
Still, in her very own chambers, Ragatha knew she could afford snatches of impropriety. And oh, how she adored sleeping in! It was her guilty pleasure—as guilty pleasures went. As she snuggled into her blankets contentedly, she was sure that anybody who would even attempt to wake her would be cruel, would be mad, would be—
A sharp rap sounded at her chamber door, followed by a careful, familiar voice.
“Your Highness?” Pomni called, knocking again. “It is morning!”
Ragatha turned her face into the pillow as she was roused from her deep sleep, and let out a loud groan.
The knocking paused, only to resume a moment later, somewhat more insistently. “Your Highness, the queen requested you break your fast with the court this morning.”
Another muffled sound emerged from the bed which could only be interpreted as despair. Ragatha felt Pomni’s change in demeanor from the other side of the door.
“I’m coming in, Ragatha,” She said, all pretenses dropped as the heavy chamber doors creaked open to reveal the princess in all her improper glory to her lady in waiting, and, quite possibly, only friend.
Ragatha barely lifted her head to look at Pomni, who was in stark contrast to the princess. Pomni was put-together, as usual, in her palace uniform. She wore a fitted dark-blue dress with modest sleeves, a pale sash tied neatly at her waist, and a small silver brooch denoting her station. She took great pride in a pristine appearance, and Ragatha could only wonder how she managed to be so chipper at such an ungodly hour.
Ragatha dropped her head back to the mattress with a mumbled greeting.
“Good morning, then,” Pomni patted Ragatha swiftly on the back. “Up we go.”
Ragatha cracked open one eye. “Go away.”
“I’m afraid I cannot.”
“I’m sure you can. I believe in you.”
Pomni sighed, already crossing toward the towering windows lining the chamber wall. With a great flourish, she wrenched apart the lacy blue curtains, golden sunlight spilling into the room at once.
Ragatha hissed and buried herself deeper into the bed.
“There she is,” Pomni smiled dryly. “The future queen of Ellesmyre.”
“I rescind my claim to the throne, then,” Ragatha proclaimed, but dragged herself out of bed. As much as she would’ve enjoyed continuing her moaning and grumbling, she didn’t want to trouble Pomni.
She sat at her vanity, and Pomni began to work her hands through Ragatha’s utterly catastrophic mess of hair, tugging and brushing. Ragatha didn’t complain—but Pomni was not very well-equipped to deal with her wild curls.
“Pomni?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll do my own hair,” Ragatha gently took the brush from Pomni’s hands, but it was promptly snatched back.
Pomni shook her head rapidly. She had far too much pride for her job to allow her princess to do a task so lowly as styling her own hair. “Don’t be preposterous,” She laughed, accidentally yanking hard on a knot. Ragatha swallowed a yelp, but managed a practiced mask of serenity.
This was the routine of every morning since Pomni was promoted to the position of Lady in Waiting. Ragatha had been a bit thrilled when she heard of this: a girl her very own age to spend time with. Her Lady in Waiting before Pomni’s arrival had been a crabby old maid with a screechy voice Ragatha simply could not stand. She'd retired a year ago, and Pomni, in turn, had been hired.
Ragatha had, a bit naively, thought they could be best friends. They were the same age, after all, and Ragatha was very rarely allowed out of the palace. But Pomni kept her job strictly professional, and no matter how many little gifts Ragatha sewed for Pomni, her hope for a closer relationship had been squashed a while ago.
That didn't stop her from trying to make pleasant conversation as Pomni jerked the comb through Ragatha's hair, gathering it atop her head in a bun.
"Isn't it a lovely day out?"
Pomni replied with a distracted, noncommittal hum. "These unruly curls...keep falling out..."
"I think I should like to go out today."
That got the attention of her lady in waiting, who had just managed to tie her hair somewhat neatly. Pomni pulled her up with a huff of laughter, fetching Ragatha's corset as she stepped into a chemise. "Your Highness," She wrapped the corset around Ragatha's waist, "You haven't the time to go out. You've much to do today."
"Do I? My, I thought my schedule was free today."
"Yes, well, that was before the ambassador from the Gloink Kingdom's wife took pregnant, and he needs to be home as soon as possible."
"Oh, I understand...say, didn't she just have a child? When I last met with him, he was fawning over her, showing me pictures..."
"Princess, that is none of your concern."
"What is my concern, then?"
"Sucking in so that I may tie your corset."
"You see? Corsets and bows. That's all I ever bother with. There's such a disconnect between the people and I, Pomni, and I say I ought to go down to the vill--" She was cut off with a choked gasp as Pomni pulled the laces tight, the satin ribbon smoothing against steel-boned back, pulling Ragatha's waist in with every rhythmic tug, and stealing away her breath.
"Gods," Moaned Ragatha when Pomni finally relented with the yanking, pulling in a short pant of air, which was all she could manage through her newly restricted airflow. Pomni smoothed the fabric, then pulled her bustle up to her waist. "In my perfect world, everybody walks around in...in their nightgowns!"
Pomni's eyes bulged in shock, looking utterly appalled at the concept. Ragatha laughed at her revolted expression, then nearly doubled over trying to catch her breath. Pomni, unbothered, began to fasten Ragatha's dress onto her body—today, a blue, frilly ensemble. Her pale fingers flew down Ragatha’s corseted spine. She first cinched her gown, began the tedious task of the hooks and eyes. She then knelt, tugging at the layers of lacy ruffles around the hem and smoothing the long, sweeping curve of the back. Ragatha caught her reflection: she looked encased in blue icing, the delicate lace at her throat and cuffs quivering with every shallow breath.
As this went on, Pomni rattled off the many things which had suddenly sprung up in her daily schedule. Breakfast with the court, tea with the duke, and the thing she dreaded the most: history lessons with Mr. Caine, her eccentric tutor with an even stranger assistant, Bubble, who liked to walk around speaking utter nonsense as Caine attempted to teacher her through 'adventures', which mostly consisted of him bringing her to random areas of the palace and telling her to do 'educational' treasure hunts, explorations, etc.
Ragatha was, to say the least, not a fan.
Pomni guided Ragatha to sit onto the chaise, sliding silk slippers onto her feet. She was slightly out of breath, which made perfect sense. Putting together her daily gowns was no easy task, and Pomni executed it with flawless speed. Ragatha commended her lady in waiting for her skill.
"There you are...wait," Pomni clapped her hands together, quickly regaining her composure to straighten some of Ragatha's seams. She licked her finger before twisting a stray curl around it, giving it a shapelier coil before tucking it into her bun. "Now, there you are."
Pomni continued her fussing, now walking about the room, straightening pillows and such. Another maid, a mousy girl named Gangle, had come in, darkening Ragatha's lashes and painting her lips before layering creams and powders upon her face. Gangle had quite the talent for applying elaborate maquillage, which Ragatha had taken note of—perhaps, in another life, Gangle would be a famous artist, painting beautiful portraits rather than Ragatha's face.
“Thank you, Gangle,” Ragatha smiled once the maid was finished. Gangle’s cheeks went beet red, a little squeak escaping her as she fumbled for a reply.
“It—I—Your Highness—my pleasure—“ She stammered, then bowed frantically before bolting out, slamming the door behind her. Then, she yelped, ran back in, squealed: “I’m so sorry, Your Highness!” before gingerly closing the door with unmatched prudence.
There was, suddenly, a loud thump, followed by a yell. Ragatha jumped, and Pomni frowned.
“Gangle may have fallen down the stairs again,” She offered. “I ought to check on her. I’ll be only a moment.”
Pomni left, calling Gangle’s name sharply, clearly not pleased by her earlier display. Ragatha attempted at an unsophisticated but much needed gasp of air, feeling suffocated in her frilly gown. She was sure these were invented for the sole purpose of tormenting princesses much like herself.
She staggered to her window, gloved hands resting against the sill as she gazed into the open courtyard, which held towering plants, vines, and flowers. They seemed to reach for her, clinging to the stones of the Ellesmyre palace, beckoning her to the open fields.
Ragatha tried not to want for much. But oh, how she longed for only a day outside of the palace walls, on horseback. And beside her—she dared to let herself dream—perhaps, someone who wanted to be there with her. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
Because they wanted her.
Ragatha was shaken out of her reverie by the sight of two guards running through the courtyard, laughing loudly. She narrowed her eyes. Weren’t they meant to be at their posts? What were they doing?
That question was quickly answered by the cook, Chef Bizco, running out of the back exit of the kitchens, hands waving in the air as he yelled. He was absolutely caked in flour and dragged a chubby arm over his face to clear his line of vision.
Ah. So that had been the reason for the thump.
“Who dared to dump flour on me?! Who?!” He roared. “I’ll get you for that, you lowlived thieves!”
However, he didn’t make much good on that threat, since he just stomped back into the kitchen to clean up the mess. Beneath Ragatha’s window, the knights, now standing with a third accomplice, were laughing mischievously amongst themselves.
Ragatha frowned and tried to wrench open her window to say something. But just then, Pomni walked back into the room.
“Your Highness!” Pomni cried, dashing to her side and prying her hands off of the window. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I—“ Ragatha floundered, then pointed out at the courtyard. “Some guards—were causing trouble—I...”
Pomni sighed, exhausted. “Your Highness, how many times must I tell you? The people are none of your responsibility. Please, we must leave now. The Court is expecting you.”
“But—but they will be my responsibility one day,” Ragatha shot back weakly, but she was already letting herself be pulled away.
“That day is not today. Your parents shall take care of the problem. Come, now.”
Ragatha let out a resigned breath, nodding and letting Pomni lead her to breakfast, feeling everything like the princess the people knew her as—prim, proper, and utterly uninvolved in the lives of her people.
-────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────-
5 minutes earlier
Sir Jax Acrasia was, unfortunately, awake. And, worse: so were his responsibilities. Standing at his morning post outside of the Princess’s window, he found himself gazing up through the glass, catching glimpses of flowing lace curtains. He scoffed. She was probably up there, lazing around, eating grapes imported from a southern isle (or whatever it was that princesses did in the morning.)
Jax did not care much for the Princess. He wasn’t partial to snooty royals—especially not ones who had given him daily headaches when they were children, wailing and complaining about every little thing he did to attempt to bring just a morsel of fun into the palace.
He’d grown out of his childish pranks, save for the occasional centipede under the Princess’s door...and only because those always got a rise out of her, which could always brighten the darkest of his days. Jax was no sadist, but something about riling up haughty nobles always delighted him, though he’d limited those antics since becoming a true royal knight.
Princess Ragatha, however, never seemed to grow out of her snobbishness, still just as hoity-toity as when she was a little girl, nose in the air, back when she wore her flaming red hair in these silly little braids he got a kick out of tugging. Even if she now acted like some perfect little princess, Jax knew the truth of her—in fact, he was the only one who did. He liked the royal family well enough, but the Princess was another world of outlandish pretension which he simply could not stomach.
What he despised most of all about her, though, was not her hauteur, but the way she didn’t seem to think she was uppity at all. The Princess presented herself as some pure, kindly maiden with a heart of gold, a face carved by the heavens, and a voice that could make birds sing, as if kindness were something she, and she alone could possess—though Jax often wondered where that kindness had been when the village baker’s shop burned to ash, or when half the lower quarter went begging at the gates and were met only with silence.
Well, so what if she sat on her throne of hypocrisy? She could waltz around in her frills and lace as much as she liked. He would never bow to her.
Jax frowned to himself. He disliked her so much, yet he was always thinking about her–she was always some dull throb within his mind.
Like a sweet, persistent melody, perhaps.
Or a parasite eating away at his brains.
Suddenly, to his left (in the kitchens, he believed) came a loud thump, accompanied by a startled yell. And out from the cookhouse, two foolish knights careened their way into the courtyard, the smaller one crashing into Jax. She pushed up her burgonet, revealing an impish smile which Jax knew all too well.
These two fools, after all, happened to be his best friends: Kaufmo and Ribbit.
“What did you do?” Demanded Jax, keeping his voice hushed and attempting to seem chastising, but he was fighting off a wolfish grin. Simply because he didn’t take part in a prank didn’t mean he was above revelling in its success.
Ribbit smacked at Jax’s armoured gut, making him lurch a bit. “Quiet!” They hissed, then pulled their helmet back down, leaned against the wall, and began to whistle an innocent tune as Chef Bizco stomped outside, made some good-for-nothing threats toward the heavens as his flour-caked fists shook with rage, and then turned back to the kitchens. All throughout Bizco’s rampage, Kaufmo was shaking with silent laughter, and Jax noted that Kaufmo should’ve thanked his personal gods that his station required a helmet to hide his positively uproarious expression.
Once Bizco retreated, Ribbit and Kaufmo dissolved into a fit of laughter, Kaufmo doubling over, clapping a hand over his face.
“Ha—oh, gods—…His face—“
Ribbit righted herself after a few more laughs, though Kaufmo was still cackling into his hands. At last, his lanky frame steadied, though the crooked smile still splitting his freckled face betrayed his composure. He swatted at his straw-colored hair, trying to get remaining tufts of flour out of it.
Jax smirked, crossing his arms. “Bizco is going to be very angry. He may make that awful stew to get back at you two. We’ll all have to suffer for it.”
“It was well worth it!” Ribbit waved a chocolate-brown hand in Jax’s face, “I wish you would’ve come.”
Kaufmo nodded, still messing with his hair. Ribbit leaned up with a snort of laughter, ruffling through his blonde tresses. A puff of flour drifted into the air like dusted sugar.
Jax shrugged. “I didn't think it to be worth my time.”
Ribbit and Kaufmo exchanged a glance before a contemptuous smile grew on both of their faces. Kaufmo ventured a glance up at the Princess’s window, and Jax immediately stiffened.
“Gazing up at Princess Ragatha’s window, though—that’s worth all the time in the world to the honorable Sir Jax.” Ribbit said sarcastically. Jax’s smile dropped.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I understand having a crush when you two took classes together as children, but it’s a bit different now, isn’t it?”
“I—“ Jax’s golden skin flushed a deeper maroon. “I never had a crush on Raga—on Her Highness.”
Ribbit stuck out their tongue. “Wasn’t it only you two? No one else in the classes?”
Kaufmo snorted. “I feel sorry for you, Jax. Being all alone with that little snob. Your father’s a real ass for making you take classes with her!”
Jax ignored the comment about his father, instead choosing to fix attention on discussing the Princess’s snobbishness. He’d never pass up an opportunity to speak of her.
Jax caught himself as Kaufmo and Ribbit pitched their voices up high and stuck their noses in the air to mock Ragatha.
He’d never pass up the opportunity to speak ill of her.
Yes. That was what he had meant.
The three began to laugh again, though they all cut off when Ribbit’s eyes go wide as saucers and her lips snap shut, looking behind the boys’ shoulders. Jax turned just as the subject of Ribbit’s terror spoke up.
“Is there something amusing, knights?”
The laughter died at once.
Captain Scratch stood behind them, broad-shouldered and imposing in dark armor polished to shine. Even in the morning light he appeared to be carved from iron, severe-faced and sharp-eyed beneath the crimson plume affixed to his helm. His gaze swept across the three young knights, lingering upon the flour still dusting Kaufmo’s hair and the white handprints staining Ribbit’s sleeves.
“No, Captain.”
Captain Scratch’s eyes narrowed. “Curious. Chef Bizco and I were just discussing an unfortunate incident in the kitchens, and he seems to believe otherwise.”
Kaufmo swallowed hard, and Ribbit began to take great interest in a loose cobblestone, picking at it with the tip of their boot.
“The kitchens are in disarray,” Scratch continued, voice cold as drawn steel. “The servants delayed, the cooks behind schedule, and one of the scullery boys claims he saw two Crown knights fleeing the scene like common criminals.”
Scratch’s gaze zeroed in on Ribbit and Kaufmo, excusing Jax from the blame.
Ribbit opened their mouth to come up with some flimsy excuse, but Scratch merely held up a hand. She immediately shrunk back in on herself.
“I expect this behavior from squires,” Scratch said. “Not from knights entrusted with service to the crown. Ribbit, Kaufmo—this is no isolated incident, either. Perhaps you two would prefer to be working at other stations, separate from each other.”
Jax couldn’t take it any longer, and stepped forward. “It was my fault.”
Ribbit and Kaufmo’s jaws dropped comically, but Jax did not relent, his brows set in a determined line. He would not have his friends stationed elsewhere.
Scratch’s gaze shifted slowly. “Yours?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You organized this?”
“I did, sir.”
There came a thick silence before the captain stepped toward Jax. “Do you find disgrace amusing, boy?”
“No, I do not, Captain.”
“You wear the crest of the Crown Guard upon your breast, yet conduct yourself like some tavern fool.” Scratch’s voice lowered further. “Every action reflects upon this order. Upon me.”
Jax kept his jaw tight. He preferred to endure a lecture than allow Ribbit and Kaufmo to take the brunt of their prank. Jax, after all, would not be punished as much as they could, and he did not want them to be moved.
The early morning rotation was the only post with all three of them together. Once the breakfast hour was over, Jax would need to move to the southern staircase by himself, splitting up this trio. He needed to keep this post for all of their sakes. Jax managed a curt: “I understand.”
“You may be young, but I thought you to be capable. You are not a child anymore, Jax. One day these halls may fall into your protection, and I will not have incompetence standing watch over this kingdom.”
Jax nodded rigidly. Beside him, Ribbit looked faintly ill with guilt, and Kaufmo’s gaze was empty as he started ahead.
“I have spent years ensuring you are not weak,” he said. “Do not make me regret the effort.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Scratch narrowed his eyes, and Jax felt a familiar pressure upon his chest. A pressure he knew well since he was a child.
“Yes,” Jax corrected tightly. “Father.”
-────-·-ˋˏ-༻𖤓༺-ˎˊ·-────-
Breakfast with the court was just as dull as Ragatha anticipated, though she always enjoyed the company of her parents, who were usually too otherwise involved in political dealings to spend meals with her.
Ragatha didn’t blame them, of course—Queenie and Kinger were beloved by all of Ellesmyre, and, whenever they could, they did their best to spend time with their daughter.
However, the noble company they kept was so terribly boring. Ragatha thought herself capable of many things, but a breakfast this dull was a difficult feat, even for her.
One of the dukes had spent nearly twenty fabrics discussing imported curtains. Curtains! Whilst Ragatha understood that politics often involved matters far less glamorous than songs and swordfights, she could not imagine dedicating one’s life to discussing fabric patterns over poached eggs.
Was that truly to be her future? Shut away in the palace, far removed from the subjects who swore every ounce of loyalty to her—as, all the while, she debated which carpet model she preferred?
Still, Ragatha’s expression betrayed none of these feelings. She remained serenely composed, offering the occasional nods of understanding and empathy, or a polite giggle for another dry joke.
By the time breakfast concluded, Ragatha felt half dead behind the eyes.
Pomni, however, remained entirely alert as she guided the princess through the eastern halls of the palace, one hand balancing a stack of neatly-bound schedules against her hip.
“You are expected in the south library within fifteen minutes,” Pomni informed her briskly, “Mr. Caine has apparently prepared a ‘special instructional adventure’ for today’s history lesson.”
Ragatha visibly wilted. “I see…”
Her lady in waiting flipped to the next page. “And then tea with the ambassador at midday.”
“Mhm.”
“And afterward, embroidery lessons with Lady Loolilalu.”
Ragatha let out a saddened sigh. She would certainly not have time to go riding today.
Pomni did not notice—and even if she did, she did not seem willing to entertain Ragatha’s disappointment, flipping through another page. “Hm…and then, Duke Spike would like to run some things by you regarding the…”
Pomni ran through a few more responsibilities before finally putting away the book. Ragatha muttered something deeply unprincessly beneath her breath.
“Pardon me, your Highness?”
“Nothing…something in my throat.” She cleared her throat for emphasis.
They turned down the eastern corridor, where the palace halls widened into long galleries lined with portraits of former rulers. Ragatha scarcely glanced at them anymore. She had spent her childhood wandering these very halls beneath the painted gazes of long passed monarchs, forever reminded that she would, someday, join them.
The future Queen of Ellesmyre.
What a frightening thing to become.
Ahead, standing at attention beside the entrance to the royal wing, was a knight clad in the dark colors of the Crown Guard. Silver armor gleamed beneath the morning light spilling through the windows, polished so immaculately she could nearly see her reflection within it. A crimson sash crossed his chest beneath the steel breastplate bearing the insignia of Ellesmyre—a rearing stag crowned in silver laurels.
At first, Ragatha paid him no mind, until she caught his face in her peripheral vision. Lovely! Now a run-in with her childhood nemesis who haunted her still. Why not make this day even worse before the clocks even chimed for midday?
Sir Jax Acrasia, who had not yet realized Ragatha’s presence, looked profoundly displeased to be there.
Though…Ragatha supposed he always looked profoundly displeased.
His hands rested behind his back in proper posture, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact he appeared to be leaning against the wall unceremoniously. Dark curls fell untidily across his tan brow.
And then, his almond eyes landed upon the princess. He smiled ruefully—a wicked grin which she greatly despised.
Ragatha straightened at once, sticking her nose in the air. She would ignore him. She would glide past him. She was a Princess, high above him in every right. Ragatha would not be bothered by his childish taunts—
“Your Highness,” Jax greeted lazily, inclining his head just enough to remain technically respectful in terms of palace etiquette.
“Sir Acrasia,” Ragatha replied frostily as Pomni glared daggers at Jax. Palace etiquette terms were not up to par with Pomni’s regulations.
“You shall bow to your Princess,” Pomni reminded him distastefully.
Ragatha’s brows knitted together. “That isn’t necessary—“
“Oh, no!” Jax cut in at once, placing a hand to his chest, lips curling in disgust as he shook his head dramatically. “I insist, Your Highness. Forgive me, oh, forgive me.”
He stepped back with theatrical gravity and executed an exaggerated bow—deep, sweeping, one arm outstretched as though presenting her to an invisible court. His armor clinked loudly, and Ragatha’s face flushed with embarrassment at his idiotic showcase.
“That’s enough, Sir Acrasia.”
“Oh, perhaps I ought to go lower?” he added, still bowed. “I would hate to offend the royal sensibilities.”
“Sir—“
“While thus occupied, why don’t I kiss your feet and grovel?” He sneered at her. “Your Highness, forgive me. Forgive me for muddying your garments with my sniveling, dirty hands.”
“Jax!” Ragatha finally snapped. Jax’s pupils blew wide, and he stood frozen. Ragatha lifted her chin imperiously, collecting herself. “If you are quite finished entertaining yourself, I have much to attend to. Good day to you.”
Jax’s lips were parted in shock at Ragatha’s use of his name, and Ragatha knew it was improper. She hadn’t referred to him that way since they were schoolchildren.
Jax’s father was Scratch, the Captain of the Royal Guard—and, coincidentally, one of Kinger’s closest allies and confidants. Kinger had insisted that Scratch’s son be taught alongside Ragatha, so for both their childhoods, the only friend they could have had, in theory, was one another.
Ragatha had tried her best to befriend Jax, but he would not accept any olive branches she’d extended to him. He, instead, made it his only purpose and only entertainment to make her life difficult in any way he could.
Centipedes in her slippers, dipping the bottoms of her braids in ink—the average. She only got back at him one time, when she flung her supper of sweet corn at him and he started screaming. She still did not understand why it scared him so.
Once they were older, Jax became tolerable enough, and Ragatha even believed that they could be friends. For a moment, she foolishly thought they were.
But she was wrong.
Sir Jax Acrasia was nothing but trouble.
Jax snapped his mouth shut, stood back up in royal posture, and trained his eyes on the wall ahead of him. Ragatha had gone invisible. It was now only Jax and his duties.
Pomni fixed Jax with another glare before leading Ragatha through the stairwell to her next meeting, but the Princess’s mind was far from Caine’s nonsensical lessons.
What had she been thinking?
Ragatha tried to push the thought of Jax’s expression away from her heart. He looked as if she’d slapped him simply by referring to him by name.
She was able to rid herself of the nagging embarrassment with one reassuring thought: she was not forced to endure him so often anymore, for their paths had long since ceased to cross—for the betterment of herself, and for the worsening of his character.