“Don’t apologize.” I glance at her belly. “When will the baby be born?”
“One month yet.” There’s a soft smile on her face that tells me she’shappy. Whatever life she has now, whichever man she’s with, she seems to have found her happiness. After a moment, her smile falters. “Celeste, I’m sorry about Bennett.”
She means more than his passing, I think. I can see it in the way her head dips and her gaze goes to the floor. She might not regret leaving my brother, but she still carries the guilt.
“Thank you,” I respond, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
Her voice lowers. “I did love him, you know.”
“I know.” I could tell. It wasn’t just about the crown. She would have made a fine queen, a devoted wife, and any child she would have carried by him would have been in line for the crown instead of me.
“You haven’t had an easy year, have you?” She gives a slight shake of her head. “The attacks, Bennett, and now Prince Torbin. I’m not sure how you’re holding it together.”
“Honestly, neither am I.”
I know she assumes I’m sad about Torbin being dead. If only she knew the reality. That he betrayed his kingdom and is a pawn in the Shadow Tsar’s twisted plan.
Could I tell her? Would she believe me? Or would she think I’ve gone mad like her brother? Or worse, would she report what I tell her to her king? Or mine. Silas would never forgive me for that, and he would most likely punish Delasurvia for it.
“It was kind of King Silas to claim guardianship over you,” she says. “And I’m glad he brought you along on his son’s presentation tour so I could get this chance to see you.”
I pull my cloak tighter around myself. “I’m glad I got the chance to see you, too.”
We hear footfalls and turn to see Sir Holden approaching.
“That’s my Royal Ward,” I tell her.
She nods. “I’ll let you go, then. But we’ll meet again tonight at dinner.”
“Seven sharp,” I say, but I doubt she hears the mockery in my voice.
She flashes me a small smile before walking away.
“Who was that?” Sir Holden asks once she’s out of earshot.
“Lady Marette. An old friend.” I let out a breath. “Ready?”
“Follow me.”
After leading me through what feels like endless corridors, Sir Holden pushes open a heavy, wooden door. His expression is unreadable as dust motes swirl in the golden shafts of afternoon light spilling through the tall windows of a large room. The air inside is thick with disuse, the scent of aged wood and forgotten history hovering like a ghost.
“This is the best I could do,” he mutters, stepping aside so I can enter. “No one’s used this wing of the castle in years. You should be undisturbed.”
I take a slow breath, relief settling into my bones. “Thank the gods. I was going to die of boredom otherwise.”
The room is cavernous, lined with old wooden chairs stacked against the far wall, their upholstery long faded. A few broken weapons hang on rusted mounts above an empty hearth, relics of battles long past. But the floors are sturdy, the space wide enough for movement, and the windows flood the room with warmth despite the thick stone walls.
It will do.
Sir Holden stays near the door, arms folded, his gaze sweeping the hall like a sentry on post. “Just try not to break anything. Or yourself.”
“No promises.” I shrug off my cloak, already feeling the itch in my muscles.
I stretch first, arms overhead, twisting my torso until my spine pops satisfyingly. Then I drop to the floor, boots scuffing wood, and knock out a series of push-ups. The first dozen come easy, but by the twentieth, my shoulders burn in a way I’ve missed. I push harder, switching to knuckle push-ups, then clapping between them, the slap of my palms echoing in the hollow space. Sweat beads at my brow, but it feels good to shake off the stiffness of days trapped in that carriage.
When I rise, Sir Holden lifts an eyebrow, as if quietly impressed, but he doesn’t comment. He just steps farther into the room, beginning to unwrap the cloth bundle of practice blades he brought.
The door creaks, and a slow clap punctuates the air.
