“You’re in a foul mood, darling.” Her tone is sweet, but I sense the concern hidden beneath.
“I’ve been exiled.”
She grins, pats my cheek and then moves to sit opposite me. I take a moment to analyse her. Queen Anastasia sits dressedin a soft blue blouse that drapes across her figure, paired with tailored black slacks and simple kitten heels. Regal but not too in-your-face. Didot personified.
“Your father’s quite proud. Thinks himself clever for coming up with this innovative punishment.”
I scoff. “Ah yes, a scenic tour through a land where, conveniently enough, everyone hates me.”
Again, she offers me one of those barely-there smiles. “They might come to like you, Eric.”
A bitter laugh leaves my lips, and I think back to the book Henrik droned on about. “Mother, the monarchy hasn’t set foot in Sheffolk in, what, five hundred and fifty-five years? They hate us, and they hate me by extension. Forgive me if I don’t see the path to mutual adoration.”
“I suspect things would be easier if you refrained from punching people.”
That makes my lips twitch; I briefly glimpse at her to see she’s raised a thin brow. Peeved, but ultimately fond. “He deserved it.”
“I’m sure he did, my love. But you’ve tested the Crown’s patience, and your father’s decided that sending you to Sheffolk to smooth things over is how you’ll repay him.” She traces a manicured nail on the edges of her seat, an idle pattern. “I don’t agree with the way he’s handled things, of course, but Idoagree that you need an exit strategy. That duchy is your best chance at penance if you let it be.”
My lips purse. I hate that she believes this is politics. This is nothing but a game, sending me to a land of crumbling castles and unresolved trauma and thinking I’ll come back with my tongue suddenly gone.
“So what, I play nice? Churn cheese with them? Then what?”
“Then, you come home.”
That makes me freeze. She knows exactly where to shove the blade. Her sigh carries across the distance.
“You’ll make yourself likeable—or at least tolerable, I know you will. And when they trust you, you’ll have bridged the gap your father so desperately wishes to mend.” She looks down at the photograph that’s still staring up at me. “Lady Francesca Sheffolk will be celebrating her twenty-first birthday in about a month. Your first opportunity.”
“Opportunity to feed her cake on camera, I presume? Toast to her good health and profess my undying love? Sheffolk thinks it’s untouchable because it has old castles and a bloodline of witches. If Lady Francesca Hadleigh-Whatever-the-Fuck is anything like her grandmother, she’s glacial and raised to believe she pisses legacy.”
Her patience frays, yet she remains steadfast. I’m making this needlessly difficult for her. I wish I had her poise. ThatDidotcomposure. Instead, I’m still the crooked lines I’m used to, always slanting, refusing to stand upright.
“Eric, I don’t care what you do, so long as it grants you a way to come back to me.”
I look at her hands when she speaks. Always her hands. The extravagant wedding band on her left makes me nauseous. I stare at it like it might crack beneath the weight of my gaze, the weight of my fury. She keeps talking about how she knows I’ll do the right thing, and I wonder how many times my father told her a lie and she chose to believe it.
For peace.
For love.
There would be no victory in telling her. Just the look on her face when almost twenty years’ worth of shit finally hits the fan. She married this kingdom, not just a man, and built herself into the shape of it. The perfect queen. I’d be shattering thefoundation of everything she’s built, and I love her too much to do that. Even now, when rage eats at my composure.
So I shift that rage someplace else.
She catches the way I glower down at the image, like the woman in it personally offended me. “You don’t know her, and from what I heard, she’s lostfarmore than what she’s inherited, so wipe the chip off your shoulder. Have a little empathy.”
“Empathy? Yes, my heart weeps for the heiress with a crown on her head and a tragic origin story.” My mother doesn’t laugh. She gives a slow turn of her head, that deathly still look. “...Fine, I’ll channel Henrik. Would you give me a few moments to myself? I need to practise my concerned nod. The right side needs a little more work.”
My mother smiles at me then, the way a queen shouldn’t. Too raw, too warm, too fond. There’s pride in her eyes, like she relishes knowing exactly how much trouble I can be. I feel six years old and invincible. Then my heart tightens, because it’s the look she used to give me after state dinners, exams, and after any of the events I was paraded through as a child.
Elegantly, she lifts from her seat and rounds the table until she’s before me. A fresh wave of strawberries comes with her, and then she’s kissing the top of my head. So softly. As soft as her words.
“I’m proud of you; know that. Even if you make it impossible. Especially then.” She’s trying to comfort me, and it almost works. Then she leaves, pausing by the door only to say, “You won’t fix yourself there because you’re not broken to begin with. But maybe you’ll…benda little. You might surprise yourself.”
I don’t move. Not at first. My fingers twitch, like something inside of me is trying really hard to surface, against my better judgement. I lean forward, elbows on my knees and palms pressing against my forehead. Why did she have to do that? She believes in me.
Like a fool.
