I paced back and forth like a caged animal, my mind racing beyond consciousness. The Queen was in labor, and had been for several hours. Though I called a maze of rooms my own, I hovered in one room, near one wall. I stared at the telephone and waited for it to ring, waited for it to make any sort of noise at all. I felt as if I could almost will it to ring, to hear the words “She’s given birth, it’s over” to hear my destiny fall apart or over me… anything other than this uncertain limbo I was stranded in. Not that things had been all that secure before, but at least I was able to settle my mind enough that I wasn’t constantly insane. This waiting, not knowing, torture… It was all driving me mad. My thoughts sputtered and flew through my brain before I could pin them down and divine some sort of meaning from them.

It could have been me, I thought. I imagined her in a small room surrounded by servants, her tiny body arched and wracked with pain and pride, limp blonde hair pasted to her forehead by sweat and scented oils that her ladies used to soothe her. Everyone there would be terribly affectionate, supportive, kind to her. They all loved her—and if they didn’t, they were smart enough to not let it show. If it had been me giving birth, I would most likely have been left alone with the midwife. There would have been no pride, only fear and pain. The child would not have been important; just another child brought into the world, another mouth to feed. There was only advantage I might have had that I could forsee (aside from my superior hardiness and strength of mind, that is—but possessed by a Queen in her position, I suppose those traits would have been disadvantages), and that was that the King may have occasionally poked his head into the room to see how everything was progressing, if it had been me giving birth.

He was too ashamed to even check on his own wife as she gave birth to his child; I knew it, though the rest of the court only suspected. I could see the little Queen, the Queen who coveted her position so much, wondering where her husband was. I could see him, sitting in a chair in his study, listening to music or a talk show, anything to take his mind from what was happening. He and I were both pacing right now, I could feel it in my bones and it made me smile wryly.

Alastair was young when he was mine, but we loved each other with a passion not often felt between teenagers in love. It went beyond infatuation, into the dangerous realms of truth. I, I was made to love, though I only did so cautiously. Once I was in love, I was gone; I would just go on loving forever. Alastair did not want to love, but he fell more quickly than I did even. And then…. It was over. He had spoken of marriage, though we both knew that was unlikely. But still, I thought he was serious. And a few years went by, he grew up, grew out of me. He told me he didn’t love me anymore, not “in that way,” though he still loved me. I was crushed, devastated. Though I didn’t feel the same as I had before, and hadn’t for some time before the end, I was committed to loving him, even if the love I felt waxed and waned at times. My life was shattered and everything I thought to be true became tarnished.

The affair continued by some miracle. I was too weak to turn him away, too emotionally dead to care about the physical aspect of things. And though we were no longer in love, we still cared about each others. We were still friends. Making love became something we did, not something that defined us. It was better that way. Our relationship was no longer so destructive, we didn’t feel a twisted responsibility to each other. And besides, I was too strong-willed and independent; I never would have made a good queen, and with Alastair’s swift ascension to the throne, that would have posed a problem. He had always been a flirt, but I managed to ignore it. I never saw him groom a replacement, so I never worried. It was hard to explain what I felt during that time. I suppose that some part of me was relieved to still have a special relationship and intimacy with him. I became his confidante, his guide, his best friend, as well as his lover. I was still free to dream that my knight in shining armor would come along and sweep me off my feet, take me away from Alastair and his wonderful callousness, plant me in a suburban paradise. I dreamed of a love even better than what Alastair and I had once shared. Alastair seemed happy enough to be alone and able to flirt with whomever he pleased. Being tied down didn’t suit him, though he had been loyal enough to me.

It came as quite a shock, then, when I learned that he got married. There had been no warning. I hadn’t even met the girl, hadn’t even seen her. I was practically the last to know. Alastair came to me after he knew that I knew and tried to explain things to me. He said things between us wouldn’t change. He also said that he did not love the girl and only married her for practical reasons: her genes. She was bright, pretty, sweet. Their children would have it all; Alastair’s charm and leadership qualities, her looks and disposition, and their combined intelligence. She had been the perfect candidate for marriage, and therefore he had married her. Once again, I became too emotionally numb to care about whether or not what Alastair and I continued was wrong.

Everyone knew I was “the other woman.” Everyone but her, that was, everyone but April, the beautiful, popular blonde Queen. I was the good-enough looking auburn with the surly temper, sharp wit, and biting sarcasm. For some reason no one liked me as much as they liked her, but I was tolerated because I am a good person at heart. Besides, I gave everyone something to gossip about. No one quite understood what the King saw in me, especially when he was married to such an angel—but he had a reputation as an asshole, so I just went along with the theme.

Alastair and I remained friends, we remained lovers, April never knew. He kept telling me that he didn’t love her, and I believed him. He didn’t even seem to like the poor girl all that much. I don’t suppose she was ever very happy, but she was simple enough and innocently enough and certainly naïve enough to believe that since she was his wife, he must love her, despite the fact he never gave her any evidence of this. The entire court suspected otherwise, but was too kind to hint towards the truth. I knew otherwise, but was too scared of hiding myself from her knowledge to do anything about it. Though there was a sadistic part of me that wanted her to know that his heart may not be mine any longer, but it was at one point, which is an achievement she has no claim to whatsoever.

But no matter, all my thoughts and memories came to nothing. Only facts remained. Alastair loves no one, I am loved by no one, and April is more alone than she could ever imagine. She has the illusion of power to keep her company; my friendship with Alastair and sexual hold on him gives me more power than I want, but not more than I enjoy. Today was the day that balance could change, and I was terrified. Once Alastair had a child (Oh God, I cringed to even dare to think the word “son”) would he love its mother? Would he respect her with a respect he had before reserved for no one? I knew how desperately he wanted a son, an heir, a companion…. Someone to share his interests with, a son… The telephone rang shrilly and my hand was on it before I had even registered the noise.

“Hello?” I answered cautiously.

“She’s given birth. It’s over,” The voice said, the decisive and cold click ending my wait and sending me twirling into sheer terror. I tore out of my apartment and ran down empty corridors, my footsteps ignored and alone.

When I burst through the Queen’s door like a madwoman, no one said a word. April was passed out, beaming stupidly in her sleep. Two nurses and the midwife looked up at me and set the child down in its bassinet for me to see. Two cautious steps forward. The baby looked up at me, her googly blue eyes harsh and critical. At least it was a girl. I was safer because of that. But in the moment, all I could feel were strange emotions mingling and bubbling to the surface. At first I felt disgust and hatred—it was her child, perfect little April’s child. And then I felt love, because it was also his, also Alastair’s. I loved it so purely and wanted only to protect it from its mother because of that. And then I realized what it was I was really looking at; the combination of April and Alastair, the incarnation of all I hated; this was the thought that plagued me made flesh. The hatred and fury I felt burn within my chest was more intense than any I had ever felt before.