"Jenna, Jenna! Wake up! It's already nine o'clock — you've missed your bus again! Hurry up and get to school!"
Bella's voice echoed through the small, sunlit room.
"Just five more minutes, Mom… please," Jenna mumbled, pulling the blanket over her face.
"No more excuses," Bella said firmly, tossing her a toothbrush. "Here. Go take a shower and get ready."
After a quick shower, Jenna stepped out of the house, but something in the air made her stop. The weather was calm — peacefully cold, almost comforting. Instead of heading toward school, her feet turned toward the town library.
"Forever Love…" she read aloud from a nearby shelf, chuckling. "Seriously? Who even writes this kind of stuff? Boring, boring, and— oh, look, another boring one."
"Excuse me, ma'am? Can I help you with something?"
Jenna jumped, startled. "Oh my god, you scared me!"
The man behind the counter smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
Jenna sighed. "Every book here looks so dull. Just look at these titles! Can you show me something good? Otherwise, I'll just go back to Netflix."
"Alright, let me see what I can find," he said, walking toward an old, dusty cabinet wrapped in cobwebs. He brushed it off and pulled out a faded book.
"Maybe you'll like this one," he said. "It's an old edition — about twenty years old, actually. Hardly anyone reads it now. But hey, if you don't like it, Netflix is always there until the new editions arrive."
Jenna took the book and read the title softly to herself.
"Famoura Felòenz and the Town… wow. Sounds interesting… and a little weird."
She smiled faintly. "Well, my phone's dead anyway. Guess this will do for now."
And with that, Jenna opened the book and began to read. A woman leaned close to the newborn's ear and whispered, "Famoura. Famoura Felòenz."
Five years passed in the blink of an eye.
"Today is my birthday, Mummy — I'm so happy! I wish God blesses our family with love and happiness." The little girl laughed as she ran to her father.
"My little one is five today," Charles said, pride softening his voice.
"Our little one," Catherine corrected, and she and Charles both kissed Famoura's cheek.
Famoura darted across the room and flung herself into Marie's arms.
"Hey — my second mommy," she giggled, the bright sound of a child's laughter filling the room.
Marie scooped her up and hugged her tight, pressing a kiss against Famoura's hair. "Happy birthday, little Felòenz," she murmured, blessing the child with everything gentle in her voice.
"Hey, she's not your mum — she's Auntie," Philips teased, holding up a wrapped present. "Here, meet Henry. He made this gift for you."
"Thank you, Captain Henry," Famoura said politely.
"My pleasure," Henry replied with a grin.
From the earliest days, Famoura had been closer to Aunt Marie than to her own mother — that was why she called Marie her second mummy. Now she ran about behind the Château de Chumbord, playing with the other children.
"These are my toys!" Anne declared stubbornly.
"No, these are my toys!" Famoura shot back. Anne shoved her, and Famoura fell. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Catherine appeared just then, expression sharp. "Famoura, are you all right? Did you get hurt? I told you — don't play with those common children."
Anne's mother sneered. "Your Marie — she's below even the common folk. What good is a princess who ended up second? There will be no inheritance for her."
Famoura opened her mouth to answer, but Catherine clamped a hand over her lips. A single tear slipped from Catherine's eye as she led Famoura away.
"Mummy," Famoura whispered later, voice small and fierce, "my name is Famoura Felòenz. Why does everyone call me 'Marie'? And why do they call my grandmother 'simple'? I don't like it — I'll make them pay."
Catherine slapped her hard and then locked her in a room. Through her sobs, Famoura heard Catherine say, cold and decisive, "Your name is not Famoura. It is Marie."
Years passed, and Famoura grew into a thoughtful young woman of fifteen.
"Why don't you let us study further?" she asked one morning, standing before her grandfather's desk. "Why do such unfair rules even exist?"
Francis looked up slowly, his voice calm but firm. "Because, my dear, I am not only your grandfather — I am the King."
Famoura met his gaze, unafraid. "Then you are the king of this town, not of the people's hearts."
"Famoura!" Catherine interrupted quickly, placing a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder. "That's enough." She led her away before her words could offend the King further.
Outside, Catherine turned to Marie, exhausted. "You handle her for a while. I can't reason with her anymore."
Marie sighed and brushed a loose strand of Famoura's hair back. "Why are you becoming more stubborn day by day, my dear?"
Famoura smiled faintly. "I didn't know speaking with logic had started to look like stubbornness."
Before Marie could answer, Famoura walked away from the castle, her mind heavy with questions.
As she reached the edge of the town, she noticed a man speaking harshly to his wife. The woman stood quietly, holding her hands together, eyes lowered in fear.
"Excuse me," Famoura said firmly. "Why are you scolding her like that? She deserves respect — not shame."
The man looked uncomfortable. "Princess, it's just a family matter. Our traditions allow this."
Famoura shook her head. "Traditions that silence kindness are not worth keeping."
The woman looked up at her, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you, Princess. No one has ever spoken for me before."
Famoura turned away, her heart stirring with something new — a quiet fire of courage.
As she walked back toward the castle, the man's words echoed faintly behind her:
"These laws, Princess… they were made by your own grandfather."
Famoura paused. The air around her seemed still. For the first time, she realized that change might have to begin not outside the palace — but within it.Famoura was making her way back toward the château when an old woman stepped into her path. The woman's eyes fixed on Famoura with a hard, accusing stare.
"Sorry, ma'am," Famoura began politely, but the old woman's face twisted with anger.
"You're just like your grandmother, Margaret," the woman spat. "She was burned for what she did — her ashes flew into the air and landed in you."
A ripple of murmurs went through the passersby. "She's right," someone muttered. "Don't you know what happened? Stop pretending."
Famoura felt the laughter and whispers like stones at her back. She turned and fled, straight to the castle, her chest tight with disbelief and shame.
"Aunt Marie — tell me the truth," she demanded as soon as she burst through the doors. "What happened to Queen Margaret? If you don't tell me, I'll leave this castle forever."
Marie looked at her, pain in her eyes. "Please, don't ask me this now. I told you before… it was an asthma attack." Her voice trembled.
"No," Famoura said, voice breaking. "Everything here is a lie. Inside the castle one story is told, and outside there's another. Which is the truth?"
Without waiting for an answer, she ran back out into the square and confronted the old woman again.
"You say my grandmother stole? That she tricked the villagers and took their gold?" Famoura's voice rose, but she stayed calm, desperate for facts.
The old woman's expression softened only a touch as she recounted the town's version. "Your grandmother stole from us. She fooled the villagers and took all the gold. She was caught. King Francis listened, and together we decided her punishment. That is why we follow the king's orders — he gave us justice." Her tone was weary, not triumphant. "It might be better for you to accept it. After all, he is your great-grandfather."
Famoura swallowed hard. The world between the castle walls and the town square felt farther than ever. For a moment she could only manage words that were half apology, half resolve.
"Alright," she said quietly. "Whatever happened — if it hurt people, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for anyone to be hurt. I… I didn't pay attention."
Beneath the apology, though, a new feeling coiled like a spark. She had been called Margaret's echo, accused and dismissed. But the contradictions — the whispered version in the town and the gentle denials in the château — sat heavy on her chest. She would not let this rest as a single, easy answer.