The Royalty [h.s]

Chapter VIII | Storm

The next morning unfolded with a cloak of clouds covering the sky, stripping the air of its usual summer freshness, and taking with it any trace of calm.

Isabella had considered having her breakfast in the comfort of her chambers, reluctant to venture beyond the safety of her refuge. However, when the day reached its zenith, the announcement of Her Majesty's arrival forced her to leave her cushy cushion, lifting her gaze to see her mother cross the threshold of her quarters, and consequently, to confront her own presence.

The queen indicated the sofa next to Isabella's, offering no more gesture than necessary. Isabella, with palpable resignation, returned to her seat. Although her eyes remained fixed on the untouched feast, she knew her mother's scrutiny enveloped her. She could feel it in every breath, in the invisible pressure on her food.

Isabella did not know whether her mother was considering how to start the conversation or how to end it; however, the quickening of her heart was a clear indication of the tension in the air.

—I had the purple grapes brought for you —her mother said, her gaze descending to meet Isabella's, a gaze of sky on a face of death.

—They used to be your favorites —she continued, a pause heavy with melancholy sculpted on her thin lips, as her eyes moved between the grapes and her daughter. —Do you no longer like them?

Isabella remained silent. It was not a change in taste; they were still her favorites, but how could one find pleasure in anything after what had happened?

—Your tastes have changed, no doubt —her mother said, rising from her seat and causing Isabella to observe her with growing curiosity. Words tangled in their own enigmas. Isabella hesitated for a moment, unsure if the conversation was still about the fruit. —What happened with...

—I would prefer not to relive it —Isabella interrupted, her gaze meeting her mother's, sensing the understanding in her mother's attentive touch toward her reluctance to speak. Her mother nodded before sitting beside her on the armchair, rather than resuming her place on the throne at the front, as she had done upon entering.

—I've come to inform you that necessary measures are being taken —her mother began, her voice grave and serious. —It's best if you don't leave the castle these days and do not go out alone.

—I do not —Isabella replied. —My ladies accompany me.

Her mother fell silent, and Isabella immediately understood the reason.

She had preferred to keep it a mystery, offering a simple comment to deceive herself about the magnitude of the matter, but reality struck her once more, reminding her of the insufficiency of words in the face of concrete facts. She knew she needed more than mere words; her ladies were useless if the hooded man reappeared. Though she had precise aim and a dagger always within reach, the small cut on her neck, hidden beneath a silk choker, was a constant reminder of her vulnerability and disdain.

So distant, and yet, so close.

—I know it was you who gave the order —the sentence resonated in the chambers, like an unrelenting echo clinging to the mind.

Her eyelids closed for a moment, but not enough to avoid the cruel spectacle of the blood pool spreading on the carriage floor. The vacant stare of the young brunette once again fixed her eyes on that macabre scene.

—What were you thinking? —her mother's voice cut through the air once more. —We sent you with Harry for a reason. If you had been kidnapped, assaulted, or... do you have any idea of the chaos that would have ensued? Your father would never have forgiven himself. I would never forgiven myself.