I breathe against the coat, trying to exhale out this chiseled-in mourning, though it’s carved too deep for me to get rid of. So when I’ve steadied myself again, I swipe away the tears that have leaked down my cheeks, and then methodically replace my bandages and pull down my shirt.
I pick up the dried, disintegrating ends. Hold them carefully in my palm. My mourning melds with my anger, stoked fresh with prodding and sparks.
With a shored-up sigh, I grab the lantern and leave the closet, going back into the bedroom where I place the ends and the lantern onto the bedside table. There’s no chance of getting back to sleep now.
Passing the banked fire, I leave the bedroom and walk down the dark hallway, my feet going faster, like they want to break out into a run. When I get to the living room, the flames in the fireplace are burning a bit more brightly, and one look at the clock on the mantel tells me that it’s early evening, though the house is quiet.
Movement from the kitchen catches my eye, and my gaze settles on the lone figure sitting at the table with a cup clutched in his hands and a bottle in front of him. I pause for a brief moment before I drift over, taking a seat directly across from him.
Digby lifts his gaze, settling his steady bark-colored eyes on me. For a moment, we just look at one another. Without bars between us. Without a king who had no business wearing a crown. Without rules or expectations. We look at each other as two people who have a culmination of shock still working through their systems.
I don’t know what Digby can see in my eyes, but I know what I see in his. I see countless hours of torture. Of imprisonment. Punishment. I see racking guilt and bone-deep injury and stark regret. I think that’s what pains me the most. That I can see, despite everything that’s happened to him, that he’s suffering right here, forme. For what I endured and what he was forced to watch.
“It was always you with the power.”
I smile shakily at his words. “I imagine it was a big shock when you saw me in Ranhold. Probably seemed foolish to you once you knew what I could do and how much I let him walk all over me for so many years. You must think I’m very stupid and weak.”
He shakes his head fiercely. “Even the most powerful people can be made to feel powerless. Finding your strength even when you believe you have none is what makes you a true force. Nobody made you into what you are, my lady. You werealwaysstrong. You just had to prove it to yourself.”
I swallow hard, still brushing off that awful dream, still feeling those ends fall off my back like petals flaking off a flower. “I wish I hadn’t waited so damn long.”
“And I wish I’d never let the bastard hurt you in the first place. I should’ve been there for you. Should’ve shielded you from what happened.”
With my shaky hand, I reach across the table and grip his fingers still tucked loosely around the cup. “It’s not your fault, Dig.” My words are a hoarse whisper with nothing but crystal-clear truth.
And his face just…buckles.
Haunting exhaustion and crippling wounds are like a hand curling around the parchment of his expressions, crumpling them in one grappled fist.
And then, my stoic, steady, inscrutable guardcries.
Right here at the table, pain etches out of him in unwanted waves. His other hand covers his face, as if he wants to try and smother the grief. His fingers are bruised, his pinky stained permanently black and held at an awkward angle, lost against its battle with frostbite, just as he’s lost the battle with his unflappable disposition.
His outward display shocks me, making tears spring up to my own eyes because seeing someone so indomitable suddenly break down is a shock all on its own. Makes all my own emotions so much sharper.
When he drops his hand, Digby’s face is puffy and mottled, his lips cracked and his body more slumped than I’ve ever seen him.
“I’m sorry,” he utters on a single shaken breath trying to be stable. “I’m sorry.”
“Look at me, Digby,” I say, and his wet eyes lift. “It wasnotyour fault. Not any of it.”
“I was supposed to protect you.”
My fingers squeeze his. “You did,” I tell him. “You always did.”
He takes in another breath, an inhale raked over rubble. He wipes at his eyes. “I’m proud of you. For what you did.”
He means it, too.
I pull my hand back. “You were a Highbell guard for a long time.”
Digby waves dismissively. “I could’ve retired years ago,” he tells me, making my brows shoot up in surprise. “Stayed for you.”
Shock pools at my chest, lapping in warm waves against my heart. “You did?”
He nods, running a hand through his thick gray beard. “You needed someone watching your back. Didn’t trust anyone else to do it.” His mouth twists in disgust. “I should’ve just let you out of that fucking cage. Thought about it. Many times. But I should’ve fucking done it.”
“If you’d done that, you would’ve been tortured and killed. Head on a spike that I would’ve been forced to gild.”
