“I think she would have liked you.” For some reason the words made me smile, until I saw Lance’s expression, as if he were mentally wrestling with himself.
“It’s all right to mourn her, you know? Youshouldfeel sad, you should cry and scream and throw bottles if that’s what you want.” I couldn’t even begin to say how much I’d wanted to do all of that since news had reached me of Thatcher’s betrayal. But I didn’t let any of it out. Didn’t want to feel like more of a burden.
“I suppose. Though I don’t know how I feel about having an audience.” I was right about Lance not wanting to show his pain to anyone. And I could understand and respect that.
“You mean you’ve never let anyone else see you cry?”
“I don’t make a habit of it, no,” he said through his teeth.
“Good to know I was your first then.” I wiggled my eyebrows slightly suggestively, making a joke about the fact that he had taken two of my firsts. Something I struggled to be mad about now.
Lance’s gaze softened a little as he gave me a side-eye but there was still much sadness lingering behind his gaze.
“I could leave if you like. I should probably retire to my rooms anyway.” Putting on some dry and clean clothes sounded like the best thing in the world.
“No, it’s all right. I’d like for you to stay.”
I moved, while being careful with my ankle, and took a seat next to him so that our shoulders touched as we sat in front of the fire.
“Then I’ll stay.”
We both stared into the burning flames until Lance spoke up again. “Tell me something to take my mind off everything.”
He didn’t move his arm away from mine and, somehow, I found myself enjoying the feeling of being this close to him.
“You mean like a story?”
“My mother used to tell me stories before I went to sleep. I only remember some of them. But I used to love listening to the sound of her voice.” He looked at me then, with the saddest smile I’d ever seen a boy wear. “Tell me a story, Gwen.”
“Okay,” I said hesitantly, feeling a bit of pressure at having to live up to the old queen’s stories. This was the second time Lance had told me of his mother. He was only a little boy when she died but it had clearly left its mark on him. I could tell by the way he spoke of her that they were close.
“Oh, wait, I have one.” I readjusted myself and pulled the towel a little tighter around my shoulders.
“When I was very young, probably four or five, Thatcher and I were playing outside one day. It was one of the few times our family stayed at the country estate to get a little break fromcourt. The estate was surrounded by hills, especially this one really big one. Thatcher had dared me to roll down the hill from the highest point, all the way to the bottom. It was a long way down and I knew I probably shouldn’t do it.”
“I’m assuming you did anyway,” Lance interrupted.
“Thatcher said I was too scared, and I was going to prove him wrong.”
The corner of Lance’s mouth curled up. “Of course you were.”
“So anyway, I rolled down the hill until I felt completely sick. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I’d knocked my head really hard on the way down and it wouldn’t stop aching. Probably gave myself a concussion.”
That made Lance snort.
“But as I lay there at the bottom the hill, in a lot of pain, I found myself in a patch of wild mariposa lilies. They were so bright and beautiful, and I decided then and there that they would be my favourite flower. Whenever they were in bloom, I would go and cut some and put them in a vase in my room. Especially when I was feeling sad. Mariposa lilies always made me feel better.”
“And what was your brother doing during all of this?” Lance asked.
“Oh, you know Thatch.” I shrugged. “He was standing at the top of the hill, laughing his head off as I tumbled down.”
“Bastard.”
“I should have seen him back then for what he was.” I spent most of my days trying not to think too much about my brother or what he did, for my own sanity. But despite being a kingdom away, it was like he was following me everywhere. Lingering in my thoughts like an unwanted ghost.
“Your brother doesn’t deserve you,” Lance said in a more serious tone. “He shouldn’t have done what he did anyway, buthe especially shouldn’t have done it because of you.” Because of what it would do to me. How much Thatcher’s betrayal would hurt me.
“Yeah, he shouldn’t have,” I replied softly, feeling a new wave of grief wash over me for the brother I no longer knew. “But he did it anyway.”
