She assures them, again and again, that she acted under the best—the very best—of intentions. Oh, yes, she can be a bit dramatic at times—she won’t deny that. And she was hurt—very hurt—by that mess with the invitations. She won’t deny that, either.

But surely—surely—no one can think that she would respond by hurting an innocent child? Well. Not that the child had been quite so innocent, as a teenager, but—No. No. She is not that type of person. Not at all. She knows of evil spirits and wicked fairies, of course—everyone does—but she is proud to say that she is not one of them. Has never been one of them.

No, her intentions have always—always—been good.

Always.

No, if anyone had been misguided, had been wrong—and she herself did not think that was the case—it was the others. The others who had overloaded that poor child with gift upon gift upon gift, making her a target. With the best of intentions, of course—she would never deny that. They meant—she is certain about this—to be kind. And yet. Just look at the results. Not just the heads of state, but nearly every member of government—everyone who was in the palace at the time—not simply asleep, but essentially comatose for years. A full century, if she understands matters correctly, and she thinks she does. And all of the chaos, the destruction, the deaths that had followed. Proof—if any further proof were needed—of the dangers of any sort of sudden shift in government, or any sort of revolution.

And just imagine what might have happened without that thick, hastily raised wall of briars around the palace.

Yes, such an unpleasant thought—an unpleasant, she fears, truth. But she has never, she is proud to say, refused to face, to discuss, unpleasant truths.

But speaking of that wall—that hastily raised wall of briars and thorns? Again, she knows—she is certain—that it too was raised with the best of intentions. And of course it had saved any number of people—she won’t deny that, either.

And yet.

She herself will never forget—never—all of those bones, tangled in those sharp thorns and rotting roses.

The bones of ambitious younger sons, eager to turn this—this tragedy—into an opportunity for advancement. The bones of princes intrigued by the image of a sleeping, helpless young girl—such an unsavory thought, yes, and not one to dwell on. The bones of those who had merely come to marvel at the roses, and wonder.

The bones of those who had believed—truly believed—in true love.

Not all of them princes.

Struck to her heart—the very depths of her heart—she had gathered each and every bone, each and every fragment. The snapped leg bones. The shattered ribs. The delicate finger bones. She was certain—absolutely certain—that she had not missed a single one.

And once gathered, she had made the painful decision to return each and every bone, with her own, gentle, trembling hands.

It had been the only right—the only ethical thing to do. Even those more unsavory types—she did not wish to dwell on their inner thoughts—deserved a proper burial, at the very least. And, too, she was able to give her personal word of honor—her personal oath—that the dreadful barrier and its ravenous thorns were gone. That the castle could now be approached in complete safety. And that what had happened to their loved and unloved children could never—would never—happen again.

How could she—how could anyone—have guessed what would happen next?

She does not wish to take up any more of their time. Indeed, she should not—she cannot—not when fire is about to rain down on the castle walls, already gravely weakened—she fears—by a century of steady bombardment from rose petals and thorns. The incoming armies, she understands, have any number of advanced weapons, developed while everyone behind that barrier had slept, and she fears—she very much fears—that their leaders will not be inclined to listen to any opposition, or protests of innocence. Oh, not because they are consumed by vengeance. Certainly not.

Merely that these leaders are convinced—absolutely convinced—that they will not, cannot, be safe until the now exposed castle is annihilated. Completely.

And acting—she is certain about this—with the best of intentions.

And—oh dear. That was almost certainly a scream.

No, she cannot—she will not—take up any more of their precious time. Not now. But she hopes—she sincerely hopes—that they understand—fully understand—that she cannot be blamed for any of this. She simply cannot. And that she has always—always—acted with the best of intentions.