And now King Theron stands beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth, and the thought of letting him see this side of me, the fragile, broken pieces of my soul, makes my hands tremble.
I reach for the latch, then hesitate.
Theron notices immediately.
“You do not have to show me,” he says. “If this place is sacred to you, I will wait below.”
The compassion in his voice nearly undoes me.
I shake my head. “No. I want… I think I want you to see it.”
And so, I open the door.
The room is just as I left it: a narrow bed pushed into a corner, a single chair by the window, the faint lingering scent of potpourri and old wood. The shawl Mama made for my eighteenth birthday still hangs from the bedpost, the edges embroidered with an intricate floral design. A chipped vase sits on the bedside table, empty, but I’d hoped to buy flowers from the greenhouse the next time I had a little extra money.
Theron steps inside slowly, as though afraid to disturb the air. His gaze moves over everything with quiet observation and a hint of curiosity. When his eyes return to me, his expression softens with understanding.
“This is where you lived,” he says, not as a question.
I nod.Where I survived. I don’t say it out loud, and even though I don’t think he’s able to hear my thoughts right now, I think he understands. This tiny room was my refuge during the darkest time in my life.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then, gently, he reaches out, not to touch me, but to brush his fingers along the edge of the table, the wall, the bedpost. As if he’s trying to understand me through the space I once occupied. His actions are intimate, and in a way, I feel like he’s inspecting me, learning my secrets. I stand very still, watching as he takes in all the details of my little room.
Slowly, he turns to me. He walks closer and cups my cheek in one large hand. His touch is warm, and grounding. I don’t understand how his palm can feel so warm when he’s the Winter King, but I’m starting to think that sometimes, with great effort, he pushes away the coldness just for me.
His thumb brushes beneath my eye, wiping away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
“Let’s pack your things, darling human.”
I swallow hard. “All right. There’s a big rucksack in the closet,” I say.
He nods, places a kiss on my forehead, then finds the bag in the closet. My hands tremble as I fold the few dresses I’d brought with me from the cottage, only what I could pack quickly on that cold, dark, winter night when I fled before Peter could call the constable. I open drawers, finding extra stockings, chemises, and undergarments, which I quickly shove into the rucksack so King Theron doesn’t glimpse the intimate attire.
“Did you leave a great many things behind when you fled the house you shared with your husband?” he asks quietly, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, though I brought the most important belongings with me. I-I think my brother-in-law threw out everything I left behind. In fact, I think he burned it. An old neighbor witnessed him tossing dresses and books into a bonfire not long after I left.”
King Theron stiffens and his nostrils flare. “Once again, I find myself regretting that I wasn’t the one to kill your brother-in-law. I would’ve spent days torturing him before finally granting him the release of death.” He retrieves the embroidered shawl from the bedpost, folds it with great care, and hands it to me. “Would you like to return to your old house, the house you shared with your late husband, to check for any belongings that might’ve survived?”
I consider it for a moment but soon shake my head. “No. I appreciate the offer, but I suspect Peter didn’t take care of the house, and I don’t want to see it in poor repair. It was beautiful and well-kept when I left it, a perfect, tidy home, and that’s how I want to remember it.”
“I understand.” He gestures at the rucksack. “Are you all packed?”
“Yes. That’s everything.” How sad that all my belongings fit into one bag. But at least I have the dresses back, dresses Mama made for me. And the shawl. I don’t have much to remember her by, but at least I have those treasured items. As I turn, I catch glimmers of silver on the windowsill and I pause.
Our wedding rings. Mine and Harry’s.
I exhale slowly as I approach the window and pick up the rings. I hold them in the palm of my hand as memories crash over me. I recall the tears in Harry’s eyes as we exchanged marriage vows. It seems like ages ago, yet it truly hasn’t been that long. I feel like I’ve transformed into a completely different person since that day, a shadow of my former self, a woman who was suddenly thrust into survival mode.
I lift my hand, showing the rings to King Theron. “After Harry died, I got his old mail route, but I was afraid to traverse the streets while wearing any type of jewelry, especially a silver ring. So, I placed the rings on the windowsill where I would see them every day.”
Memories continue to rush over me.
I recall the shocked numbness I experienced as the constable returned Harry’s stolen moneybag along with his wedding ring to me, the very evening after his murder.
I close my hand around the rings, overcome by the sudden urge to throw them at the wall.
