She glanced for a moment, distracted, at the inkwell and the quills and the paper that someone had already cut for her.
How many letters had she written here? Who had she written to? Did she have to be careful about what she wrote? Had they been happy correspondences, or lengthy letters of misery and terror? The lingering agitation in her body seemed to suggest the latter, but she could not go digging through the drawers of the desk for evidence of those missing years until Henry was out of her private domain.
“How long have we been married?” she asked, though that had already been answered somewhat.
“Four years,” he confirmed.
She nodded slowly. “So, you married me even though you knew I had been in a terrible accident? You married me even though I must have been in an awful state at the wedding?”
“I did not know about the first accident, and there was nothing amiss with you at the church,” he said, looking away.
A sure sign that he was not telling the full truth, but the first accident was not what interested her presently, anyway; she could pick that story apart later.
“How did I come to fall down the stairs?” she asked bluntly.
He did not return his gaze to her, his blue eyes fixed upon the diamond-hatched pattern on the still-open window. Clearing his throat, he walked to it and pulled the window shut.
“I do not know,” he answered at last. “All I know is what you have just said; that you fell down the stairs. The ones leading down from the north tower, I believe, though I have no notion of what you were doing up there. There is nothinginthat tower.”
Thalia frowned, unsatisfied. “But how can you not know more than that? Were you not here? Is it not a husband’s prerogative to know what happened if something befalls his wife?”
The north tower?Her mind was not forthcoming, that great void offering nothing back as she searched for an answer as to why she might have visited such a place. She could not even picture what it might look like.
Henry expelled a frustrated sigh. “Ours was—is—a marriage of convenience, Thalia. I knew very little of what you did, and the same is true of the reverse.”
“I would not have allowed that to happen,” she shot back, the reaction almost visceral within her veins. “No… I would neverhave agreed to such a thing. Indeed, the night that… the carriage overturned, I was on my way to see you, to… yes, to tell you to rescind your offer.”
Almost every memory before that accident was perfectly preserved, but there wassomefogginess leading up to the accident. She remembered arguing with her father, though the details were fuzzy, and she remembered setting out with the determination to claim back her own fate, but what she had intended to actuallysayto Henry was unclear.
Henry began to move toward her, and as he reached the writing desk, he braced his hand upon the worn surface and leaned in, eyes glinting. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Heart thundering wildly, and knowing she should be terrified, Thalia peered up to meet his intense gaze.
She suspected she should say something to placate him or just say nothing at all, so it was something of a surprise to her when the first thing that came out of her mouth was a bold, decisive, “Yes.”
“I see.” He withdrew and clawed a hand through his silky, dark hair, turning his back on her.
Breathless, her hand to her racing heart, Thalia took in the admittedly marvelous silhouette of him in the low light of the darkened room: such broad shoulders, tapering to a fine waist, his posture almost regal, his figure athletic as if he rode often or walked great distances for his leisure. Boxed, perhaps?
What do I know about you that I have forgotten? Do I know anything, if what he says about us is true?She still could not and would not believe that she had conceded to a marriage of convenience. Unless, of course, that first accident had done more harm to her head than anyone had thought, dazing her enough to consent to such a wretched thing.
“Not everyone is conspiring against you, Thalia,” Henry said in a low, tired voice, his back still turned. “And whether you believe me or not, I am not a villain. I am keeping you here for your own safety. If you knew yourself, you would be glad to be in your own bed, for this is your home. You have been living here since our wedding and have never sought to leave before.”
“I donotbelieve you,” she shot back, shaking afresh while her skull pounded with the strain of trying to remember.
He shrugged. “I will not go back and forth trying to convince you of the truth.” He dipped his chin toward the door. “But those maids are all dear to you. You employed them. You decorated the rooms here to your taste. You run this household excellently. You are content here, as far as I am aware. Why, these days, it is more your home than mine.”
“And that must be so easy for you to tell me, when I cannot know for myself,” she insisted, rising from the chair.
Maybe, she might be more inclined to believe him if he could look at her as he spoke to her. His decision to keep his back turned spoke volumes of deceit, for what husband would not look into his wife’s eyes if he had nothing to hide?
“As I said, I will not waste effort trying to convince you,” he replied. “When your memory returns, you will see for yourself.”
“Ifit returns,” she corrected, frowning. “Perhaps, you do not want me to remember.”
His shoulders stiffened, his tone harsher as he rasped, “What utter nonsense.”
“Is it? You can just say what you please and I cannot refute it. You do not have to tell me how I actually ended up marrying you, when the wedding day is unknown to me. You do not have to tell me how I actually came to fall down the stairs because I cannot remember it,” she argued, her mind ablaze with the fear of understanding that something terrible had happened to her, but no evidence of how or when or why.
