The Princess's Servant

43. The Visitor

"It's not what it looks like." Sybil grimaced as her eyes adjusted to the light of the hallway.

"Knowing you, I'm sure it's far worse," the queen replied. "Release him at once."

"But—"

"Now!"

Sybil's face dropped and she let out a defeated sigh. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached for the ribbon and tugged at the bow's tail. Holden felt the knot ease up and blood rush back into his head. He sucked in air through the canvas cloth.

"Take him to his cell," the queen said, and her loyal guards made their way over to the Wardian.

"Mother, come on!" Sybil watched as the two guards picked up her servant by his head and his feet and hauled him out of the throne room. "You never let me do anything fun!"

"If anything," the queen replied, "I've let you do too much."

These were the last words Holden heard before the guards whisked him out of earshot. He was led down the hallways, to the right, and down the stairs to the familiar dank air of the castle dungeon. He wanted to grope and claw at his throat to make the burning go away but his hands were still affixed firmly behind his back.

His mind was blank. Like when the cry of a thousand insects all bleed into one high note, such were his thoughts. He couldn't speak. He couldn't blink. What had happened? What had she done?

The guards sat him in his cell and pulled off his blindfold, his gag; his ropes. Holden didn't move as they sawed at his binds or unwrapped the ribbon from his neck. He didn't speak as one of them asked him if he was alright and didn't react as the other waved a hand in front of his face. The two guards shared a glance and shrugged as they left him alone once again.

Holden stayed in the silence for a long time. After what could have been an hour — or five minutes — he brought a hand up to his neck. His fingers brushed the rut left by the silk and rested against the warm metal of the band.

He thought he'd been safe with her. Why had he thought he'd been safe?

She had proven time and time again to be dangerous, cruel; unsympathetic. She'd hurt him several times, and embarrassed him several more. She'd even told him that doing something awful to him was a like a 'sugared speckled plum, meant to be saved for when it could truly be savored.' So why did it surprise him that she'd done exactly what she said she was going to do?

He shouldn't have been so stupid — so naive. Of course she would kill him. She was the worst. Worse than the worst. She was monstrous, and she'd never pretended to be anything but.

But... Holden hugged his knees to his chest. He still felt like they'd had something — some unspoken agreement between the two of them, that whatever horrible thing she did to him, she'd never take it too far. She'd never do the worst thing. That he was safe around her, in some sense — uncomfortable maybe, and maybe in a bit of pain, but nothing soul-wrenching. Nothing ego-collapsing. Nothing terror-inducing, safety-splintering, or world-view-shattering. How could he have been such an fool? She was a flesh-eater, he was a lamb.
And every punch she'd pulled, every word she'd spared— none of it had been out of some hidden affection like he'd secretly hoped. It really had been to delay her own pleasure all along.

Holden scrunched his brow in anger and twisted in his cell. He'd loved her. At one time, he'd been an idiot, and he'd loved her. Back in the garden, he'd write songs to her and poems and stories and prose. Now he wanted every word back. He wanted to erase every word he'd ever written her, and shred every rhyme he'd ever woven.

She had tried to kill him. He would have been dead had her mother not intervened! Maybe she should have killed him. Maybe she should have shipped his body back to Ward so they could send death back. Maybe watching her kingdom topple and burn because of her own evil actions was exactly what she needed. What she deserved.