His voice lowers, not enough to draw notice, only enough that I must lean closer to hear.
“Your husband.”
My pulse stumbles.
“The crown is for them,” he adds lightly, with the faintest tilt of his head toward the watching courtiers. “You may leave it where it belongs.”
I nod wordlessly.
His gaze flicks briefly to Aileen, polite but unmistakably dismissive. “May I steal my wife away for a moment?”
Aileen scrambles to her feet, curtsying so deeply I fear she may topple.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Charles offers me his hand this time, palm up. I hesitate only a heartbeat before placing mine in his. His fingers close around mine. He leads me away from the noise and heat of the hall, toward a narrow passage half-hidden behind a tapestry. The music dulls as we step into the cooler shadows, the stone beneath my slippers chilled and steadying.
Here, away from the crowd, he releases my hand, but not entirely. His thumb lingers at my wrist, resting over my pulse.
“You are overwhelmed,” he observes.
“I am…learning,” I reply. “Everything is new.”
His expression softens at that, something gentler eclipsing the sharp amusement. “Then let this be something simple,” he says. “You need not perform for me tonight. Not here. Not yet.”
I look up at him, startled by the kindness in his voice.
“And what would you have me do instead?”
“Breathe,” he says, faintly smiling. “Stand with me. Let them see us together, even when we say nothing at all.”
He steps closer—not enough to touch, but enough to make a point. For the first time since the ceremony, I do not feel like a girl being shaped into a queen. I feel…chosen.
And when he offers me his arm once more, I take it without hesitation.
Chapter 4
Istare at my bare feet peeking out from beneath the nightgown. My toes move restlessly, just as they always do when I am anxious. One of my toenails is half black; it has been for months now, ever since a heavy mirror slipped from my grasp while I was rearranging my bedchamber back home last autumn. I remember the sharp pain, the curse that escaped my lips, the way the maids had fussed over me afterward. A small thing, hardly worth remembering, yet now it feels distant.
I never considered myself particularly attached to my home. Now that I have been severed from everything that once brought me quiet comfort, I can feel the absence like a hollow ache beneath my ribs.
There, I had known who I was meant to be.
Here, I am Queen, wrapped in silk and expectations I do not yet understand. I am adored, desired, praised beyond reason…and still, some small, stubborn part of me curls inward, clutching memories of cold stone floors, familiar voices, and a life that did not demand so much of my heart all at once.
The air in these chambers feels too close, too warm. I draw my feet back beneath me and fold my hands in my lap, willingthe restless feeling to subside. This is nothing more than nerves, the remnants of a long day and a longer night.
The door to the bedchamber opens sharply, and a small procession of servants sweeps inside, their movements swift and practiced. No one speaks, they do not need to. Each seems to know their role instinctively, as though this ritual has been performed a hundred times before.
The bed is stripped and remade with fresh linens. Heavy curtains are drawn closed, muting the sounds of the celebration beyond the walls. A servant passes me with a bucket of water, filling up the wash basin. Clothes are being laid out, not for me though.
Forhim.
A priest enters.
He murmurs a blessing I barely hear, swinging a censer through the air in slow arcs. Incense blooms thick and sweet, clinging to my throat and eyes. Under other circumstances, I might have found the scent comforting. Tonight, mixed with the heat of the summer and the press of too many bodies in too small a space, it becomes almost unbearable.
My eyes sting. I try to suppress a cough, but to no avail.
