Worse?
She throws her head back and laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever. I’m torn between laughing along falsely or just staring at her. It ends up being a strange mix of both.
“So, you’re …”
“The daughter of a noble. La. Di. Da.” She sighs heavily and twirls one finger in the air. “There was no freedom in my household. Always ‘elbows off the table, Eefa. Straighten your back—you’re not a troll, Eefa. Lower your voice; shouting is unbecoming of a lady, Eefa.’ Thank the gods for my apprenticeship with Master Steffan, who happened to be the head cook here. I couldn’t believe it when I was given the opportunity to work inParamount. It’s been an absolute dream come true.”
People in Darragh are clearly thankless and entitled. Eefa, at least. “I’m glad your dream came true,” I say. Hopefully my voice doesn’t come out as flat as I feel it does.
“If you play things well here, you can rise in the rankings, save your wages, and acquire enough wealth to live out your elderly days on a large estate of your own. Imagine having servants doingyourbidding. With your skill, that isabsolutelypossible. Mark my words, Durvla. I hope the same for myself. I’ll be saving my wages once I supersede Master Steffan.”
“Is… that happening soon?”
“Eventually.” She twirls the loose end of her braid around her finger and smiles coquettishly. “Anyway, I must return to the kitchen. Nice to see you. I hope you decide to stay with us.”
She walks away, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If Eefa thinks that living in a wealthy village in Mainland was terrible, she would’ve never survived life in the Grounds. Though, admittedly, her life in Darragh sounded void of love while mine was full of love even in the midst of hardships.
Once Eefa leaves, I stride toward the very back of the library, through the archway and along a dusty row of nondescript books. The strangest sensation reverberates in my body as I home in on one of the leather spines closest to the wall. Four symbols glow along the spine, but when I blink, there’s nothing there. A trick of the light, I suppose. Or too little sleep.
The floor vibrates slightly and I whirl to find Princess Carys leaning heavily against the door. My heart leaps as I move quickly back through the archway and closer to Carys. Her face is contorted, her chest heaving with forceful breaths.
The door shakes very slightly in rhythm behind her, and Carys shouts something in response, her hands flying to cover her ears against whoever is pounding on the door. Is she being chased or something?
As her entire body starts to crumble, her gaze locks on me. She stiffens for the briefest moment before folding in on herself, sliding down to the floor with her forearms in front of her face, her fists in her hair.
I recognize her struggle.
I’ve been the one huddled on the floor, lost in the labyrinth of unrelenting panic, desperate for relief. It’s so uncomfortably familiar that it takes me a split second to get my legs moving toward her. I gently touch the back of her hand, and she pulls away so hard that her hand slams into the door behind her. Pain flashes across her face and she swears, rubbing her knuckles.
I hold up my own hands in surrender. “I just want to help. What can I do?”
Her chest heaves, tears streak down her reddened cheeks, and I stand there like a fool, completely useless. I gather my skirts and sit carefully beside Carys. I don’t touch her or speak to her—I just sit there, existing in her space.
She pulls her knees up to her chest and her shoulders shake with sobs.
Behind us, the door thuds three times against our backs. Someone is knocking. My guess is that it’s Kilkenny. “I’m here with the princess,” I call out. Maybe not the smartest thing to say. “It’s me, Durvla.” I wince at the even more worthless phrase, but the knocking subsides.
Carys is still sobbing, and I hesitate before resting my hand on her back lightly. “I am here if you want to talk.”
She doesn’t react, but she doesn’t pull away either. I’m at a loss for how to calm her down. By memory, I start reciting one of my favorite stories from the book we both love. Sometimes telling myself these tales has helped me when I’ve been in such a state.
“Osha was the weakest of them all,” I begin, and there’s a brief pause in her tremulous breathing beneath my hand. I continue. “Bornfragile, she was prone to illness. Her bones easily fractured, and her stomach often rebelled. Osha showed little aptitude for magic unlike her siblings and cousins who were incredibly powerful. No one dared to spar with her in fear of snapping her bones, and they teased her for her delicate fingers emitting only tiny tendrils of light during wielding practice. But what she lacked in physical strength, she made up for in spirit.”
Carys lifts her head, and her gaze finds mine. Her face is still a splotchy mess of tears and snot. Wiping the sleeve of her dress across her face, she says, “Osha is my favorite.”
I smile at her. “Mine too.”
She closes her eyes and slumps back against the door, her face tilted up slightly toward the ceiling. I remain silent for a moment, letting her gather her composure.
“Do you want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?”
She gnaws on her lower lip and the weariness on her face increases tenfold. I regret asking.
“You don’t have to?—”
“My mother is dying. The whole nation is going to mourn their queen, but I am going to lose the only person who has always loved me for all that I am. Volatile emotions and all.”
The queen is dying?I’m aware that she is ill but … I stifle the surprise and focus on the ache of sympathy for Carys. “I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “Has someone called you volatile?”
