At that, I laughed. “I’m truly a saint.”
“Here, here.”
We shared a smile and I slipped out, taking a moment in the hallway to pause. My lungs strained against the fear pressing against my chest, and I waited until my breaths steadied before I fetched Mama.
Before I fully grappled with saying farewell to the man who’dbelieved in me more than I ever deserved.
The premonition is wrong today, Lyra. You only imagined it.
Bile tinged the back of my mouth and I forced my hands against countertops as if my fingers could leave indents.
Flies buzzed loudly in and out of my ears; I wished I could silence them. And then Mama asked me to check on Papa.
If only I hadn’t heard her.
If only.
I clasped trembling fingers together, my tight lips painfully curved, and wandered down the hall.
His form on the bed was still.
I treaded closer, my hands flying to my mouth. My fingers dug into my cheeks.
Bread crumbs were scattered across his blankets. The sandwich I’d made was still tucked in one hand.
But his eyes—once so sweet, so lovely—were lifeless: wide, unblinking, and empty.
I dropped to my knees before him, the world blurring around us.
Moments later, Mama’s blood-curdling scream rang out through the house. She rushed forward to clasp Papa’s hand and shake him awake. After no response, she threw her body on top of his, as if she thought her warmth could bring him back.
A chill ran down my spine.
Tears coursed down Mama’s cheeks as she sobbed over my father, but I stayed frozen on the floor, my eyes dry.
All I could think, again and again, was that despite the warning—that cursed premonition—I never got to tell Papa all that he meant to me.
I never got to say goodbye.
Kelara’s arrival home did little to soften what was already the worst day of our lives. As more sobbing filled the house, I slipped away, out the oak door Papa had installed a year ago when he still had a little of his former strength. The cool wooden planks of the porch creaked beneath my feet, boards my father and I had put together on a dismal summer afternoon much like this one. I wandered through the clover lawn we’d planted, its soft leaves brushing my ankles, and dragged a hand through my hair. A rock struck my toe and I yelped before kicking it away. I stomped on the weeds that had long invaded his garden, grumbling at anything that might hear me as my foot pulsed with pain.
When it was clear nothing would reply, I marched to the only place free from memories of Papa.
I marched to the palace.
Thunder rumbled again in the distance, but I lifted my chin and tramped barefoot through the dry, dusty Capitol streets, nodding at the palace guards who recognized me as a chambermaid. In the gardens, the vibrant roses were in full bloom. Toads croaked amidst the buzz of dragonflies as I approached my favorite little pond, tucked into a corner of the gardens that rarely saw visitors. Tadpoles darted beneath the water’s surface.
Finally stilled, I breathed deeply, and imagined my emotions, my fear and pain, sinking into the pond’s murky depths.
A few moments passed before my fragile calm was disturbed.
“Hello.”
I glanced up. Across the pond, a familiar figure stood watchingme, books in hand.
Prince Thomas.
“Are you going to be long?”
