Click.
II
Queen of Crimson Crowns
Chapter 13
SIX YEARS LATER
I awake with a start.
A child is crying, and hurried footsteps trot down the hallway. I look toward the window, and sunlight is already streaming in. We arrived at Passberg in the South two nights ago, and Ella has had a hard time adapting to her new surroundings. There is a soft knock on the door, and I get out of bed as silently as possible so as not to wake Charles. The moment Ella sees me, she stops sniffling.
“Mama!” she coos and stretches her arms out toward me. I smile at the nursemaid.
“Go back to bed, Mildred. I’ve got her.”
Mildred curtsies and disappears down the hallway.
Ella wraps her tiny arms around me and buries her face in the crook of my neck.
“Shall we go back to bed and cuddle?” I ask her, kissing the top of her head. Her tiny dark curls are tickling my nose, and I inhale deeply. The smell of my babes just after they have woken up is something I will never get tired of.
We slip back into bed when I hear the door opening anew.
An apologetic Mildred appears in the doorway, guidingThea into the room.
“Apologies, Your Majesty. But once she noticed the little one was gone, she insisted on following.”
I place Ella on the mattress next to me and open my arms toward Thea.
“Alright, little lady, jump in.”
Mildred curtsies and closes the door.
Thea looks just like me in the morning: her long, dark, unruly hair is matted around her head like a bird’s nest. She runs over and jumps into my arms, letting me guide her up to the bed.
Charles stirs next to us, and without a word, he disappears underneath the blankets, only to rise up on his knees a second later, growling like a lion. “WHO DARES TO INTERRUPT MY SLEEP?” he bellows.
I flinch, but when the girls start giggling, he pushes the blanket over his head and starts tickling Ella, her joyous laugh echoing across the room. Thea, the older one, jumps up and climbs onto her father’s back.
“No, Papa, let her go. You evil monster, take me instead.”
In pretend agony, Charles surrenders and plops back down on the mattress, both kids now on top of him, hitting him with a pillow and trying to tickle him back.
There are moments when this life feels almost normal, as if the abuse never happened. But when I look down at my wrist, down to where he broke it out of anger over something trivial, I know it wasn’t just a bad dream.
It reminds me of his brute strength, his ruthlessness, and his hatred for me, for the parts of the world he cannot control. In public, he is much the same. Stoic, commanding, strong. He plays his cards right; he uses his God-given talents tocharm when it is required and to intimidate when his other talents aren’t working.
At home, he is a changed man. He reminds me of the version of himself he had shown me in the beginning, when everything had been new and exciting. He is considerate and attentive, never leaving me alone for longer than necessary. He showers me with gifts and affection, entrusts me with important decisions when it comes to the ruling of the kingdom and values my opinion.
But there is a darker side to the ring’s magic, too. His obsession with me has only grown, sometimes taking on concerning facets. He worships me with his body every chance he gets. As if the magic inside of him is building up and needs release. Sometimes, when he has been gone longer than he had wanted to, he isn’t able to stop talking. The words flow out of him relentlessly, as if he wants to make sure that I am aware of every thought going through his head. He is burying me under compliments, vowing his love, and making sure everyone knows about his devotion. It has not stopped him from taking lovers, though. And the resulting guilt he feels makes him even more obsessive. As if he simply can’t stop himself, and wants to punish himself for his transgressions.
I hid my lover from him.
We had agreed upon an open marriage, yes. But nevertheless I was worried about what would happen if he ever found out details about my short-lived affair with a messenger. Short-lived because I realized that I do not enjoy intimacy without feelings. But there is another truth, one that is not easily admitted.
What Charles and I have in the confines of our bedroom is exhilarating. My attraction to him in that matter has notdiminished over the years. I know I should not enjoy what we have, that it is based more on hate than love, that I should not want him for the ways he hurt me. But my body does not follow my heart. I tried fighting it, tried to put a stop to it, but every night when he came to our bed, the attraction flared anew. I tell myself I should refuse him. I tell myself that hate should have extinguished want. But my body remembers the pattern even when my heart rebels against it. The rise, the fall, the momentary stillness afterward—like standing in the quiet eye of a storm.
