The priest pauses just long enough to raise an eyebrow in mild reproach, as though my body’s protest is an inconvenience. He resumes his chanting without another glance at me, smoke curling around his robes, around the bed, around my future.
I sit very still, hands folded in my lap, waiting for…what exactly?
A few minutes later, the room is empty again and I am alone once more. Earlier, Aileen had come to my room with a maid in tow to help me get washed and dressed. It had been astrange feeling, stripping down in front of people I barely know, letting them take care of me in a way that only my mother had done so far.
I bite the inside of my lip, another nervous tick.
How long will it be before they come to fetch me for the bedding ceremony?
I press my hand to my heart.
It will be alright, you know what you need to do.
The door opens without warning. Two women I do not recognize step inside, brisk and smiling, followed by a pair of men whose faces are already flushed with wine.
“There you are,” one of the women says, as though she has been searching for misplaced gloves rather than the Queen. “It is time.”
Before I can even stand on my own, hands are on my arms, pulling at me. I rise unsteadily. The thin nightgown clings to me in the heat, translucent where it was never meant to be. I reach instinctively for a shawl, for anything, but one of the men laughs.
“No need for that,” he says. “All is as it should be.”
They usher me into the corridor, moving faster than my thoughts can keep up with. My bare feet slap softly against the stone. I try to pull the fabric closer around myself, crossing my arms over my chest, but there is only so much the gown can conceal.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“To the bedding,” someone answers cheerfully.
The others cackle.
The word makes my stomach drop.
The corridors grow louder as we descend, music swelling, voices rising, the thick roar of celebration drawing nearer.When the doors to the King’s hall are thrown open, sound crashes over me like a wave.
The hall is still crowded, packed shoulder to shoulder with wedding guests, courtiers, soldiers, people whose faces blur together in the flickering candlelight. Many are drunk. All are watching.
A cheer goes up the moment they see me.
Heat floods my face. My heart pounds so hard I fear I might faint. I feel hands at my back, urging me forward, and I have no choice but to walk.
And then I see him.
Charles lounges on the throne as though it were carved for his ease alone, one arm draped over the armrest, a cup of wine in his hand. He is laughing at something a lord says—until his gaze lifts and finds me.
The change is instantaneous.
He is on his feet before I have taken another step.
“What is this?” His voice cuts through the hall, sharp as a blade. The laughter falters, then dies entirely. “Who thought this was acceptable?”
No one answers.
Charles strides toward me, fury radiating from him in palpable waves. He stops just short of where I stand, his eyes sweeping over me—not with hunger, not with amusement, but with unmistakable anger.
“She should have been allowed to cover herself,” he bellows. “Who ordered her brought here like this?”
The silence stretches.
I turn, dazed, searching for a familiar face—and my eyes find Aileen.
