Go Find Yourself A Prince to Kiss!

And Though the Present is Painful

She lost the child. She hadn't known until Emma asked if she was okay, pointing to the blood pooling at her feet. By the time she'd made it to the upstairs bathroom, the only one fitted with a flushable toilet, it had stained her skirts, and she could feel a knife twist in her stomach, pain radiating out from the point.

She knew then that it was a child, rather than her monthly. There was so much, too much blood, and it hurt more than mere muscle cramps and aches. It hurt, and she was alone. She didn't want anyone there. When she finished, for sure this time, she locked the door to her room in the ladies' wing. She had a maid fill the bath with water, ice cold, and gripped her skirts to hide the evidence of the loss. "I'm feeling ill," she said through the locked door to a maid who inquired about her sudden exit from the morning room earlier in the day. It wasn't a lie.

When she was gone, she pushed her skirts into the water to strip the blood from them. The water ran red. She only curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her pillow as she screamed.

She couldn't tell how many hours had passed when the knock came at the door. "Leonora. We have dinner. They're expecting us." Rafal.

"I'm feeling unwell."

"Can't you push through?"

"It's one night. I'm feeling nauseous."

Rafal's voice grew angrier. The doorknob rattled. "Come down, Leonora!"

"Darling, please! It's either–" she swallowed her sob. "It's either monthly symptoms or morning sickness, and I don't know which. Let me rest."

Silence. "Very well."

He left. Her own husband. The man who was supposed to love her, and she had to lie to get him to leave her be. She was alone. She had no love, no heart, and no child. She never expected to. And it hurt even more. She twisted a curl of red hair, and wondered if the baby's hair would have been red as roses or dark like night, then cried all over again.

"Duchess, do you need anything? Duke Mistral said you were ill."

She bit into the pillow, unsure of what to respond with. She wanted so desperately not to be lonely, not to live with this hole in her chest, not for the sun to set on her. She tried not to let her voice betray her.

"Get Clarissa."

"Are you alright, Duch–"

"Get Clarissa!" She barked. "Please, just get Clarissa."

"Of course."

She stood to unlock the door, even though it hurt in about four different ways, all made worse by her loneliness. She found herself curled up in bed when Clarissa came by, dressed for bed herself.

"You must be in quite a state for you to be calling on–stars, Leonora, are you hurt?" Her tone changed as soon as she spotted the washbasin, with red water and a bloody skirt illuminating the reason she was in this state. "Did someone hurt you?"

She shook her head. "No. Lock the door, please." Clarissa did, and came to stand next to her.

"You've been crying," she observed. Leonora didn't hide it. "What happened?" she asked. Leonora released her bedding to grab Clarissa. She gasped. She was even more startled when Leonora pressed her head to the juncture between her neck and shoulder and sobbed.

"What happened?" she asked again. "Leonora, what happened? Did you hurt yourself?" She skimmed a hand over her body, checking to make sure she had no wounds. She shook her head no. She couldn't stop crying; she couldn't make out words. It hurt; it hurt; it hurt.

"What is it? Leonora, please, what is it?"

She barely composed herself, and she was barely able to speak, but she pulled away. Clarissa grabbed her hands. "What happened?" she asked, and she looked so earnest, so caring, so–