damsel in distress

Chapter 11

It's a lazy afternoon and I am sitting with Daphne.

“I do not trust her,” she says. “That Isabella. Might be poisoning you.” She points to the small vial of a dark green concoction on my bedside table. My twice a day medication.

“It tastes like spinach and dates,” I roll my eyes. “Why do you hate her so much, though?” We're having biscuits and tea. I want to run to Stein, and grab his collars and tell him that a dialogue changed.

“Do you not see how she is corrupting my Tayash? She has him in her devious clutches like a succubus, and who knows what witchcraft she does!”

I scoff. “My brother isn't five. He is a grown man capable of making his own decisions and he chose Miss Isabella out of his free will.” Free will? “Daphne, my friend, thinking of him shall only hurt you.” I am a hypocrite.

“She is the witch!” Daphne crushes a biscuit in her fist.

“Come now, friend, help me sort these letters.” I stand up and walk to the pile on my study desk. “Look at the sheer volume of these.”

Daphne’s mood changes in an instant. “You are beautiful. Men have no choice but to fall for you just at the first sight.”

My character laughs like a high pitched baboon. “Really?” Hey Tara, is this the time to feel flattered? My eyes and hands turn to the letters and I begin to shift through them. Just how meticulously planned this world is? Or unplanned?

Am I going to need Daphne’s actual help? My hands take the first letter I see, a pale pink coloured envelope with crushed rose petals stuck in the wax seal.
To the Lady Somerhaden, from Lord Wilhelm Myers.

I weigh the letter for a moment and then let it sink down to the ground. This is not a scene, this is a required build-up that justifies my need to be in a scene. Another layer to this seemingly shallow world of complexities. To the Lady Somerhaden, from Lord Dankworth. To the Lady Somerhaden, from Lord Blackwood. A letter with a stem of lavender stuck to its edge. To the Lady Somerhaden, from Lord Craftsully. To the Lady Somerhaden, from Lord Freideon.

Do all these men even exist somewhere or are they made up just so there is a feast and my idiot brother gets to romance his beloved. Thinking of that leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. I  pick up a plain black letter, which has a solitary forget-me-not stem stuck to its seal. I turn over the leaf and let my gaze fall over the incorrigible way it is addressed to me. It feels mildly insulting to see someone address me as Dear Tara instead of Lady Somerhaden. From Sorin. Childish penmanship, scribbly, caricaturish way of writing, just the sheer differences it has from the other letters tells me that I am going to see this little piece of detail once again for sure.

“Oh.” My character subtly slaps her mouth over her hand and gasps. “What to do? Should I reply, or not. Ah… I really need to talk to you, Daphne.”

"Let us think." Daphne scratches her pretty nose. While she strings enough words to form a sentence, I see my babysitter Adam stomp up all the way to my room.

"His Grace needs to see you," he declares loudly, and is then promptly pushed aside by my brother.

Daphne takes the first chance to throw herself into his arms. I look away. My brother maintains his impassive face, but makes no attempt to cast her aside. Instead, he turns to me.

"Tara, my sister. How have you been?"

"Very fine." My character grins. "I see you and Lady Daphne have been getting along so well. When can I hear the news of you two getting married?"

"Tara!" My brother shouts. I flinch and my eyes water. Daphne shrinks back. "Don't fill your head with nonsensical ideas." Then his glare turns icy, and he looks at my friend like he would skin her alive and toss her to the wolves. "And learn to stay in your limits, Lady Jounsbury. If you harm my beloved, I shall not show mercy to you again."

I tremble on behalf of Daphne. She clutches my hand and puts on a brave front.
"She has bewitched you, Tayash, do you not see? You loved me when we were children."

"No I did not." My brother sneers. I swallow hard at the lie he proficiently tells. Then I catch Adam glancing at my direction, head furrowed in a frown.

"I shall make you remember your love for me, Tayash. And you will be mine," says Daphne.

"Not a word more, Lady Jounsbury. I keep my sister's happiness in regard hence you are permitted to live here. But attempt to touch Isabella, and I'll throw you to my men."

I can't believe my brother said that. But before I get to process his words, the page flips.

Lady Jounsbury and I are walking down the hallway. She ahead, confident and graceful, I behind, stumbling and gawking at the half dressed knights. They're gawking back at us, and for good reason. If two men were to barge in women’s refreshment quarters, I would feel violated and confused too.

I huddle close to Daphne, partly worried some of these might snitch on to my brother but then I spot Adam and my mood worsens. He's sitting on the stairs, casually polishing the handle of a dagger and next to him sits Isabella Smyth, who is trying to flick her wrist for a smooth throwing movement.

“My dearest Lady Daphne, pray tell me why are we here?” I ask, gritting my teeth at the image of those two. Stein's words echo in my mind loudly: Adam isn't an exception. Why is it that whenever I see him, I must forget everything else and feel these awful, extreme emotional outbursts?

“To see Tayash train, of course.” Daphne answers like a peacock.

I halt. And then I step back. Daphne keeps walking ahead, the knights keep training and Adam is busy correcting Isabella. I take back another step. Daphne doesn’t notice. Third step. Fourth step. Fifth, Daphne doesn’t notice and I am running away from the corridors, to the kitchens and then a pain hits me squarely in my chest. I double over to my knees at the entrance of the kitchens, a deadly feeling coming to me when I see the chamber in the exact same state as that morning when I sneaked out to the Cathedral.

I turn my face down to my left and see the little girl staring up at my face. “Hello.” The word escapes my mouth before I can think. She runs to her mother who is chopping carrots and I turn to grab the hand of the girl with brown curls.

“What are we preparing for, madam?”

She jumps back and my throat dries, eyes watering and heart thumping louder and louder. David answers for her. “We have guests.”

“Who?”

“The crown prince of the house Sangyal.” He looks up with a smile. “A peace treaty, I hope.”