Queen of Shattered Dreams

18 - The Woman Left Behind

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I awake with a start. My heart races and my hair is wet with sweat. Given the light coming in through the windows, it's twilight. A fire crackles and the room is too warm.

Was it today that Hassiba came into the room or was that yesterday? Or possibly it's been longer. I have slept and dreamed a lifetime. Some good dreams: memories of Alfrid, fantasies about what life could have been. Others—nightmares: his execution, leading Vlad to Alfrid's home. This last dream, I operated the guillotine; I ended his life with my own hands.

It's true enough. If I hadn't snuck out of the castle, or if I had turned around when he wasn't at the forge, none of this would have happened. If I'd thought quicker of a way to save him with my magic—

"You're awake." My heart clenches at the sound of Mother's voice. I've awoken from one nightmare into another. She couldn't be here. The only thing I've ever asked of Feodor is that my mother never come to the castle. He was all too willing to defy tradition and I should have taken it as a warning rather than a blessing.

I won't say anything, maybe dream Mother will go away if I don't engage.

"Mila." The disappointment in her voice is so realistic. But it wouldn't be my first vivid dream lately.

I glance toward the figure sitting in the chair closest to my bed. As much as I don't want her here, this is no dream. She watches me, back straight, lips pursed, hair perfectly set, though I'm pleased to see a few streaks of grey. Mother hasn't changed much in the three years we've been apart.

"Fine, don't speak. But you must eat."

I close my eyes, shutting her out.

"Mila, you have to eat, or you will die."

"I'm already dead." My voice is hoarse from disuse and dehydration.

Mother holds a cup to my lips. I open my eyes only to see hers focused on the cup. Even as I lay dying, she doesn't act out of compassion. Mother won't be smoothing my hair away from my face and comforting me. Her task now is to fix her defective daughter for the king. She raises my chin, coaxing me to swallow like she would a hound. Then she breaks off a piece of bread and presses it against my lips. I take a small bite to avoid her forcing my mouth open. I should bite her finger but I'm too weak for the effort.

Why should she or Feodor care if I live or die? Her expression is stern as she watches me chew. "Honestly, Mila, I don't know why you are wasting away moping about the boy. He was just a blacksmith."

I widen my eyes and a surge of energy travels to my fingertips. My breath catches. It's the same sensation from when Vlad carried me away from the execution. It's new but yet, familiar. It's as though I've found a lost toy from childhood that I'd forgotten. But how could I have ever forgotten this feeling? It's magic, I've no doubt of it, but nothing like I've used before. This is powerful. I'm certain that if I pointed a finger at Mother I could curse her in some way. I clench my hands into fists. "Just a blacksmith?" The words roll around in my dry mouth like rocks.

"Yes! Mila, you are queen. Look at all that you have! What could that boy possibly have given you?"

Love.

He could have given me love. An image of him in his home, telling me he's always loved me, comes to my mind. I try to hold on to it but it vanishes just as quickly as it came.

This woman wouldn't understand, she's incapable of feeling love. She had none for her husband and none for her child. I think of my father, kind and gentle but always gone. Driven from our home by his unbearable wife.