She refused to.
He was just…
Traumatized.
She really didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. But it was impossible not to.
He had been traumatized. Absolutely and completely. The little bit that he had told her…
But he couldn’t remember anything. Not about his parents, not about his life here in the palace.
He couldn’t remember anything.
It must haunt him.
Perhaps it wasn’t as haunting as remembering. That did make her feel sympathy for him, even though she didn’t especially want to.
He was human. It would be easy to let herself forget that. To tell herself that his humanity didn’t matter in the face of all of the ways in which he was difficult. But the truth was, he wasn’t entirely different from her.
He had experienced a life that was laid out before him; he had been taken as a child, and treated like an object. His life had not been of his own making.
Maybe she wasn’t feeling benevolent; that was pushing it a little bit far. But maybe they could both have something nice in these two years.
Maybe if she asked he could do something for him.
Not just to set herself free. But to free him too.
And something about that made her feel powerful in ways she hadn’t expected.
He had managed to avoid her other than the few times he had been pulled into her orbit during the planning of the event. She had asked him to consult on the menu. That had been interesting.
Truth be told, he hadn’t expanded his palate much beyond meat and potatoes. And meat had been a luxury for many years. Not always guaranteed.
But she was asking him to try seafood and pastries, hors d’oeuvres and tiny cakes that looked like they would be at home in a bakery window.
In fact, looking at the tray had given him a visceral memory of walking by a bakery in a small town very soon after the coup.
He had pushed it aside, and hadn’t allowed himself to make any connections between the past and the food in front of him.
But now it was the night before the ball, and he could no longer outrun her.
“There are three suits for you to choose from,” she said.
“I had thought that I would wear a military uniform.”
“I appreciate your commitment,” she said. “But I think that in the spirit of the evening you should go with a suit.”
As if this had been timed, a tailor came through the doors of the study, with a rack full of suits.
Well. She wanted to do this, so she could stay.
He took his shirt off, and turned to the rack of suits. “What is the difference between these?”
He looked back at Fern, who was staring, eyes wide.
“If you do not wish to be involved,” he said.
“I’m going to be involved,” she responded.
