When we are alone, Charles reaches for me again. His touch is less fevered than before. The cleansing, the reinforcement of the ring, they have helped.
Still, I cannot bear it.
“I am still unwell,” I murmur, letting my weight sag slightly. “May I retire?”
Concern softens his features. “Of course.”
* * *
Later, when he enters my chambers, I am already lying in bed with my eyes closed. I slow my breathing deliberately.
He stands there for a while and watches me, as if deciding what to do. I feel it, the ring is warming slightly.
Then he leaves.
I listen to his footsteps fade down the corridor and allow myself to breathe again.
Perhaps he goes to one of his concubines, perhaps he is going back to his celebration.
Either way, I have escaped him for another night.
But escape is not enough.
I cannot endure his hands on me while my heart belongs elsewhere. If I am to hold him off, I will need more than feigned illness. I will need leverage.
And if leverage lies in Hell, then Hell may soon hear from me.
* * *
The days after the throne room and Charles’s return are intense. My father and the opposition have been informed about my plans. I received numerous letters from my father, asking me not to act before he arrives in the capital. I do not know if he will get here in time.
Charles is absorbed in preparation for his victory parade. There are meetings from morning until late afternoon, tailors in and out of his chambers, courtiers rehearsing speeches of gratitude and loyalty. The ball is spoken of as though it were a coronation rather than a celebration. He thrives in it. The attention steadies him, or perhaps it simply distracts him.
For now, that distraction is my protection.
I learn to measure my movements. To meet his gaze long enough to satisfy, but not long enough to invite. To excuse myself before the ring begins to hum too loudly against my skin. It is a quiet calculation, constant and exhausting.
On the fifth evening, I am walking along the eastern corridor when someone catches my arm and pulls me through a narrow side door.
I barely have time to react before it closes behind us.
Ashford lets go of me at once.
“I am sorry,” he says under his breath. “I needed to be certainno one saw.”
The room is small and dim—used for storage, perhaps, or once for private audiences. Dust hangs faintly in the air where the light filters in through a high window.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
There is no ornament to the question. It is direct, almost clinical, but his eyes betray him.
He walks over to me with two quick strides and takes my face into his hands. His kiss is sweet, but urgent.
“Yes,” I say, when he lets me go. “Charles is occupied. He spends his days arguing about banners and procession routes. It keeps him from looking too closely at anything else.”
“And at night?”
I hesitate, but only slightly. “It grows more difficult. He notices the distance. I pretend fatigue. It will not hold forever.”
