When Charles returns later, I am lying on the bed, covers drawn over my head, my head hurting from crying. He stops in his tracks when he sees me and walks over to me, gently tugging the sheet away from my face.
“Nichols told me you did not eat dinner tonight, are you not feeling well?” The concern in his voice is my undoing. I raise to my knees and throw myself into his arms, sobbing so hard that my whole body seems to be vibrating.
I tell him everything I heard, everything they said, though I do not mention their names. Charles holds me, nods at the appropriate moments and strokes my hair until my sobbing has died down.
He stills for a moment, his arms around me, his breath warm against my hair. Then his body goes rigid.
Slowly, he lets me go.
I barely have time to register the absence of his touch before he steps away from the bed, one hand dragging through his hair. He turns his back to me, pacing the length of the chamber like a caged animal, boots thudding hard against the floor.
“Vultures,” he mutters. “That’s what they are.”
He stops abruptly and strikes the stone wall with his fist. The sound cracks through the room, sharp and sickening. I gasp, scrambling upright on the bed.
“Charles—”
“They watch,” he goes on, pacing again, faster now. Blood is dripping down from his hand onto the dark brown carpet. “They wait. They smile to your face and sharpen their knives behind your back.” His voice rises with every step. “Court women are the worst of them. They feed on weakness. On beauty. On anything they think they can ruin.”
I swing my legs off the bed and move toward him, heart hammering. “Please,” I say softly. “You’re frightening me.”
He whirls on me, eyes bright and unfocused, something wild flickering there. “That is exactly why I keep you away from them.”
“I can handle words,” I say, reaching for him. “They’re only words. Let me help you—”
He shrugs me off without looking, a sharp movement of his shoulder. I stumble, my foot catching on the rug, and I go down hard on the cold stone floor.
The impact steals the breath from my lungs.
For a heartbeat, I wait—sure he will turn, that he will see me there and rush to help.
He doesn’t.
Instead, his breathing grows harsher, his hands fisting at hissides. “Do you know what they did to her?” he says hoarsely. “How they watched her every day and saw nothing at all. How they praised her smile and never questioned why it trembled.”
My palms press flat against the floor as I struggle to sit up. “Charles…I’m hurt.”
“They adored her,” he goes on, voice cracking, then tightening. “They paraded her like a jewel. Let her shine just enough to blind them to the truth.” His jaw clenches. “She was fading, and no one thought it worth mentioning. No one came to me.”
He lets out a short, hollow laugh. “They wanted her perfect. Beautiful. Untouchable.” His gaze finally drops, unfocused, burning. “They never cared whether she was well. And I trusted them to.”
The room seems to tilt.
“Hilde deserved better,” he says, staring somewhere past me. “And I will not make the same mistake again.”
I curl my fingers into the carpet, trying to ground myself as realization hits: This anger is not about the maids, and it is not about me. It is about a woman already dead, and a fear that has never loosened its grip.
I cannot stay on the floor.
The pain blooms along my side as I push myself upright, sharp enough to steal my breath, but I welcome it. It keeps me here. I take a step toward him, then another, my limp impossible to hide now.
Charles does not seem to notice.
His eyes are unfocused, fixed on something far beyond the walls of the chamber, far beyond me. He is breathing too fast, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he is bracing for another blow that never comes.
“Charles,” I say softly.
No response.
