Seffargo

Chapter 6

Two days had passed by in the blink of an eye, and Barcley remembered very little of it. He had confined himself to the castle, all too aware that if he let himself walk the streets, he may venture to Madeline's house, or the café, or to the library—anywhere where the memories could grow thorns.

In the meantime, his father had decided him "worthy" of more important matters and had since handed him task after task. On one hand, it was a blessing; it kept his mind busy long enough to take his mind off Maddie. On the other hand, the tasks were over well before he could truly forget about her. But then, he supposed, he never could. Her laugh was contagious, her smile a thing of dazzling beauty, her eyes a mystery he would gladly become lost in. She was kind and caring, funny and strong and smart and outgoing and ...

What am I doing?

Barcley stood from his desk, throwing the papers he gripped tightly onto the floor. The sheets scattered in the air and blew about his chambers, causing a mess. A hundred sheets now disheveled; suitable, given the prince who threw them.

'Margaret!' he called. His voice was loud in the empty stone room.

Despite it being late afternoon, he had the curtains drawn and the lights off. The light he was reading by was provided by a candle which burnt on his desk, casting his shadow over the rough stone. The flickering was the only sign of anything inside being alive.

The door to his chambers opened slowly and Margaret entered the room, curtsying before the prince. She was pretty, tidy, and had proven herself intelligent the few times they had conversed ... But she was no Madeline.

'Clean this up,' Barcley ordered.

'Of course, Your Highness.' Margaret set to work picking up the scattered sheets. He could quite easily collect and order them himself, yet he chose to remain frozen, his eyes watching Margaret as she continued to do his bidding. She kept her eyes on the task at hand, focusing on the floor or the sheets—never daring to meet his eyes.

'Margaret,' he said casually.

'Yes, Your Highness?' She didn't pause or divert her gaze—she remained focused on the task.

What am I doing?

'Never mind,' he said with a sigh. He sprawled into the wooden chair lopsidedly and stared at the desk, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular. There was a vase of water and a cup, brought in earlier by Margaret, as well as his phone and an abundance of pens.

What was he doing? His father wanted these papers to be read, condensed, and documented swiftly, yet he was wasting time thinking about Madeline—or wasting time not thinking about Madeline. He scratched his head. It was too confusing. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to hold her—but he didn't want to remind himself of what he once had. She was gone now—and he had to accept that. It had been two days, and he had heard nothing from her. She had made up her mind. Now, he just needed to respect that and focus on something else—anything else.

'Here you are, Your Highness.' Margaret stooped into a bow and held the sheets out for Barcley to take.

'Thank you, Margaret.' He reached for the sheets and intentionally brushed against her hand as he grabbed them. It was a pathetic move—one born from his sorry state. He chose to be alone. He chose to spend every hour in the castle tucked away in his rooms. He chose to avoid contact with people ... but perhaps that's where the sudden desire for contact came from.

'Is that all?' Margaret was standing before him, her expression neutral, her blue eyes glinting. He recognized the look in her eyes from Madeline—mischievousness.