With trembling fingers, I reach for it and slide it back onto my hand.
The humming in my skull ceases at once. My heart steadies, no longer threatening to tear itself apart. Yet the emptiness in my stomach remains, cold and unresolved.
Time is running out.
* * *
As I open the door to my bedchamber, a mingling of familiarity and dread washes over me. These rooms hold too many memories, some precious, some painful, and I cannot decide which hurts me more.
Servants move in and out, bearing trunks of clothing and other belongings Charles did not wish to leave behind in Bavria. My dress is still damp from my fall, clinging coldly to my skin, and I cross to the wardrobe in search of something dry.
But—None of the clothes within are mine.
They are exquisite, rich colors and intricate patterns, thickwoolen gowns, fur-lined boots, and heavy shawls. And yet not one of them is familiar.
“My Queen,” Charles says behind me, his voice warm with satisfaction, “you have already discovered my gift.”
His arms encircle me, strong and possessive, drawing me back against him.
“I—”
“You are soaked through,” he exclaims, turning me to face him. Concern clouds his features. “What happened?”
“I fell as I stepped from the carriage,” I reply lightly, gesturing to my ruined dress. “I must have forgotten to eat during the journey.”
“Nichols,” Charles calls sharply to his valet, “have food sent up at once. And prepare a bath for the Queen—immediately.”
“I assure you, I am quite well,” I say with a soft laugh, gently pushing him away. “I only need to change.”
“There will be no argument,” he replies, already stacking papers upon the bedside table. “You deserve a hot bath and a proper meal. You have grown far too thin of late.”
I glance toward the mirror.
Is he right?
My cheeks, once full, appear pale in the dim light, and my gowns have indeed begun to hang more loosely upon me. I had blamed the cold for the ring slipping from my finger—but perhaps there is more to it than that.
Charles steps beside me, his gaze lingering, assessing. “You are still beautiful,” he murmurs. “I only wish you to be well.” He presses a kiss to my neck. “Do you like the dresses?”
I turn back toward the wardrobe.
“They are lovely,” I say carefully. “But I cannot help wondering—what is the occasion for such abundance?”
“Does a king require a reason to spoil his wife?” he asks, feigning offense.
“Of course not,” I reply. “Still, a whole new wardrobe seems…excessive.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable.
“Very little escapes you,” he says at last, a faint smile touching his lips.
I wait.
“We must travel north,” he admits. “To the border.”
“We?” My voice sharpens. “Who do you mean bywe?”
“You, I, and the children.” His jaw tightens. “The Saxons have risen again. Churches burned. Priests slain. They have even dared to seat a new king in my hall.”
