I stand as Ellynne holds the door open, and step into the gentle steam of the bath chamber. I unbutton my nightgown and slip the material off my shoulders, stepping out of it so that I’m standing in nothing but my necklace. The rose-scented steam rising from the largetub in the center is inviting, the warmth kissing my skin. But it reminds me of my mother and sadness wraps its arms around me.
The heat of the water is welcome as I submerge seconds after sinking into the tub. Resurfacing, I take a deep breath and lean back against the porcelain with my eyes closed. I need to compose myself.
“Any word about the queen?” I ask, my eyes still closed.
Servants talk amongst each other. They’re the ultimate spies—everywhere, but invisible to most. Underestimated.
“No change,” says Ellynne. “But think of it as a good thing. It means she’s not worse.”
“But not any better either.”
I stare up at the ceiling, at the painting of a field of wildflowers that my mother commissioned years ago. I keep my focus on the ceiling as a stinging sensation builds behind my eyes. “Leave me,” I say. “I need to think. I’ll be out momentarily.”
I sense their hesitation before Ellynne says, “Alright, we’ll be in your chamber. Shout if you need anything.”
When the door clicks closed behind them, my tears break free, silently coursing down my cheeks. I have to face my mother again soon. It’s becoming harder and harder to deny the decline in her health. Much like the outbreak in Mainland, her sickness is a mystery—same as my father’s was—but unlike the outbreak, its onset was gradual, with no cough or rash. It started with a prolonged fever and when the heat left her body, so did much of her strength.
Then the bouts of pain began. Often, she’s in excruciating pain for unpredictable amounts of time. Months ago, these moments would come on suddenly and end quickly, with long periods of peace that allowed her to get out of bed and continue with her queenly duties.
Those moments are few and far between lately. The pain lasts longer, and her mind drifts farther and farther away.
No attempted cures have helped.
As her daughter, I can’t bear her being in pain.
As her heir, I dread taking her place. I can hardly take care of myself, let alone an entire kingdom.
When the water in the tub starts to cool, I take it as my sign to get out. My pale skin is pink from the heat as I wrap a towel around myself and begin the lengthy process of wringing out my hair. I roll and pile it atop my head before returning to my bedchamber. Lowri lurches to her feet from where she’d been sitting at the table and my tresses tumble down just as dramatically.
Ellynne lounges prone in front of the fireplace, a novel—romance, no doubt—lying open on the rug. “Lowri, youliterallyscared the hair off Carys’s head,” she says as she gets to her feet and sets the book on my desk.
Lowri giggles. “Apologies, Princess. Did you enjoy your bath?”
I should refrain from responding, lest I say all the wrong things. “No.” I roll my eyes at my word that slips free anyway. But luckily, neither of them pushes me to elaborate.
Once I’m dressed, I step out of my bedchamber to where Callum is on guard. “Good morning,” he says with a small bow.
I nod to him.
“It’s rather early. Do you think Miss Garrick will be awake?”
“We’ll see.” I’m already walking off, heading toward the dressmaker’s bedchamber.
Once again, Durvla doesn’t answer the first or second time that I knock. Maybe she’s asleep. I push her door open, and she startles from where she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, garbed in a rust-colored dress and already hard at work. Very impressive.
“Your Highness,” she says, moving to set her knitting needles aside to stand.
I lightly flap my hand at her. “No need to get up. I’d like to see what you’re working on.”
Callum closes the door softly from the outside as I approach Durvla. She holds up her work, gnawing on her lip as she does so. “This is going to be the bodice.”
It doesn’t look like much, and certainly not like a bodice… I squint at it, trying to summon my imagination.
Durvla must recognize the incredulity on my face because she smiles and says, “I know it’s rather abstract right now. With this sort of thing, you have to trust the process.”
“Sounds like my whole life,” I mumble.
“Mine too,” she says, her smile faltering. She tucks the ball of yarn she’s working with into the crook of her elbow and stands, keeping the knitting needle point secured. “May I check the fit? I’m making them in panels, so I just want to be sure that the sizing is adding up correctly.”
