The words feel carefully chosen.
“What was she like?” I ask, unable to keep the question from my lips. “Queen Hilde.”
Aileen exhales, as though weighing her answer. “She was gracious. Quiet, in her way. Not weak…just…gentle. She listened more than she spoke, but when she did speak, people paid attention.” She hesitates. “The King adored her.”
My fingers still. “Did he love her?”
“I believe he did,” Aileen says without hesitation.
I glance across the hall, to where Charles stands laughing with one of his lords, broad-shouldered and at ease, as though the weight of grief has never touched him.
“It is strange, then that he seems so carefree. And that he should remarry so quickly.” I swallow. “She has only been gone a few months.”
Aileen follows my gaze. “That is the way of kings,” she says gently. “The crown does not wait for mourning. Alliances must be secured. Succession ensured.”
“I know,” I reply. Of course I know. I have been taught all of this. And yet the knowledge offers little comfort.
Aileen babbles on about this and that, her words blurring together until they become nothing more than sound. At some point, the other lady presses a goblet into my hand. I take it out of habit alone; I do not drink. I do not even look at it. My eyes remain fixed on Charles.
See me.
Notice me.
Come to me.
What a curious thing—to crave the attention of a man I barely know. And yet, in this moment, his presence feels like the only one I could bear. The room is full of people, full of voices and movement and expectation, but all of it feels distant, muted, as though I am watching the world through glass.
They come to me one by one, offering congratulations, praise, blessings meant for a new queen. These are the moments I had imagined, the ones I thought I would savor. And yet, I feel overwhelmed by the attention.
When our eyes meet, a small smile spreads across Charles’s face. He does not come to me at once. Instead, he lingers where he is, speaking briefly to another courtier, as though deliberately testing my patience. Or perhaps my composure? I sit straighter, schooling my expression into something suitably queenly. When he finally crosses the room, he does not look hurried. If anything, he seems amused, like a hunter who knows his prey is already caught. He stops just short of me and bows.
“You study me very intently, wife.”
The word sends a small, treacherous warmth through me.
“I was not aware I was so obvious, sire.”
“Oh, you are.” His mouth curves. “I find myself wondering what conclusions you have drawn.”
Conclusions. As though I am meant to understand him.
“I was attempting to decide,” I say carefully, “how I ought to address you.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Ought?”
“You are my King,” I answer, keeping my voice steady. “Yet earlier you spoke to me as though…” My courage falters, but I press on. “As though we shared some private understanding.”
A glint of amusement lights his eyes.
“And that troubles you?”
“I do not know which version of you I am meant to answer.”
For a moment he only looks at me. The noise of the court feels very far away.
“You answer the man who stands before you,” he says at last.
“And who is that?”
