“Has she been gone long?” I ask.
“Since yesterday, my Queen.”
Yesterday. Charles had not mentioned it.
The maids move efficiently around me, unfastening my cloak, loosening damp layers. I submit to their hands numbly, suddenly aware of how little of this I control. When the bath is announced ready, steam curling invitingly from behind the screen, I sigh in gratitude.
As I sink into the hot water, sensation rushes back into my limbs painfully, then sweetly. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the warmth seep into places the cold has claimed for weeks.
“Have any letters arrived?” I ask, resting my head against the rim of the tub.
“Yes, my Queen.” A maid crosses the room and retrieves a single folded parchment from the desk. “This came for you this morning.”
She hesitates before handing it to me. I notice immediately that the seal is intact.
Relief flickers through me.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it. “You may leave.”
The maids withdraw, the door closing softly behind them. Alone at last, I break the seal and unfold the letter, my father’s familiar hand precise on the page.
He asks after my health. My happiness.
Then, between careful phrases and courteous concern, the real question reveals itself—whether I have learned anything of value, whether circumstances might allow for a discreet meeting, whether I remember why I was sent here at all.
The bathwater laps gently against my skin as I read, heat fogging the air around me. Shame settles low in my stomach, heavy and cold despite the warmth.
I have been everywhere. Seen everything.
And yet, I have nothing to give him.
I let the letter fall into the bath, the paper instantly crinkling at the sides, the ink bleeding off the page, tendrils of dark spreading through the water like black smoke.
By the time I pull it free again, there is nothing left to read—only proof of how easily intentions dissolve.
* * *
It’s late at night when Charles finally comes to bed. He moves through the room silently, but I am aware of every movement. When he climbs into bed beside me, I lean into him and let my head drop to his chest. His heart beat is slow and steady.
“Nichols tells me you received a letter from your father?”
His question surprises me. Why would his valet inform him of my correspondence?
“Yes, it arrived this morning. I guess my father must have known we’d arrive soon, I told him as much in my last letter,” I respond sleepily.
“Is everything alright at home? Is he intending on coming for a visit soon?” Charles asks, his eyes already closed.
“It appears that everything is as usual. My mother has been ill recently, but has recovered since and he thanks you for sending him the ginger bread. Nothing out of the ordinary,” I lie.
“It would be nice to see your family again, yes?” he slowly strokes his hands over my bare arms.
“It would be indeed, I have been thinking about going to visit them, actually.”
I can feel him tense, but he does not say a word.
Instead, he lifts my arm off his stomach and gently places my head back on the pillow. He rolls me to my side, away from him, and starts kissing my throat.
“What are you doing to me, love?” he growls into my ear, his hands roaming my body hungrily.
