Fresh Air - Anthony Bridgerton

No! Not my Anabeth!

As the music and laughter from the grand ball filled the opulent hall, Anabeth leaned in close to her sister, Scarlett. Her face, usually glowing with energy, was pale, and her eyes lacked their usual sparkle.

"Scarlett," Anabeth said softly, her voice strained, "I'm not feeling well. I think I should head home early."

Scarlett's brow furrowed with concern. "Are you sure, Anabeth? Do you need me to come with you?"

Anabeth shook her head gently, managing a faint smile. "No, you stay. This is an important night for you. I'll be fine. It's probably just a headache."

Reluctantly, Scarlett nodded. "Alright, but please take Amelia with you. I want to make sure you get home safely."

Anabeth agreed, and Scarlett watched as her sister and lady-in-waiting exited the ballroom. A sense of unease settled in her stomach, but she pushed it aside, focusing on the evening's obligations.

Hours later, after the confrontation with Anthony on the balcony and the flood of emotions that had followed, Scarlett was trying to compose herself when Lady Amelia returned, her face ashen with fear.

"My lady," Amelia gasped, struggling to catch her breath, "It's your sister, Anabeth. You must come quickly."

Scarlett's heart lurched in her chest. Without a word, she followed Amelia through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle. The joyous sounds of the ball faded behind them, replaced by the eerie silence of the darkened hallways. The urgency in Amelia's voice had filled Scarlett with dread, and every step felt like a march toward an inevitable tragedy.

They reached Anabeth's chambers, where a cluster of worried physicians surrounded her bed. Scarlett's breath caught in her throat. She turned to Brimsley, the king's trusted advisor, who stood nearby, his face pale and drawn.

"Is the king dead?" the queen asked from behind Scarlett, her voice wavering.

Brimsley slowly shook his head, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

"Then who is dead?" the queen pressed, her voice rising with anxiety.

Brimsley locked eyes with Scarlett, and her blood ran cold. "No, Brimsley. No. It's not her. It's not Anabeth. It's not Ana. Right, Brimsley?" No response came from the man's mouth. He just looked down.

"Follow me, dear," Brimsley said, his voice filled with sorrow and pity. Scarlett felt as if the ground were falling away beneath her as she followed him into the room.

She stepped inside and saw Anabeth lying still on the bed, her face ashen and lifeless. "No," Scarlett muttered under her breath, "No, my baby sister! Not my Ana!"

She ran to the bed and fell to her knees, pulling Anabeth's head into her lap. The tears streamed down her face as she rocked back and forth, whispering her sister's name.

A final scream tore from Scarlett's throat, echoing through the silent corridors of Mayfair. Everyone heard it, and everyone felt the anguish in that cry. But Scarlett didn't know that. She didn't feel anything beyond the numbness consuming her as she held her sister's lifeless body close.

Scarlett's wail of despair reverberated through the stone walls, reaching every corner of the castle. The sound carried with it a deep, wrenching sorrow that seemed to make the very air tremble. Servants, guards, and guests paused, feeling a chill in their bones, each one acutely aware that a profound tragedy had just unfolded.

Scarlett remained on the floor, cradling Anabeth's lifeless body, her tears soaking into her sister's pale gown. Time seemed to stand still as she rocked back and forth, her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.