In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

The night has teeth ~ Chapter 18

Germany, 1818.

Night had settled thick and quiet over the palace, draping the corridors in velvet shadows and rendering the world beyond the windows nearly invisible. The storm that had threatened earlier never came, but the air still hung with that strange, dense stillness—like something was holding its breath.

The fire in the sickroom had been reduced to a low, glowing nest of embers, throwing occasional flickers of warmth across the walls. A single lamp burned low on the far table. The rest of the chamber was dim, dreamlike.

Clara sat in her usual chair, spine straight but shoulders slightly slumped, the sheer weight of time pressing down on her frame. In her lap was a small, bound book—something Emilia had left for her earlier that afternoon. Poetry. A quiet comfort. She had been trying to read for the last hour.

But her eyes drifted too easily. The words blurred on the page. Her thumb rested unmoving against the corner, prepared to turn a page she hadn't yet taken in. It wasn't the language, or the hour. It was her mind. It wouldn't stay still. She sighed softly through her nose and closed the book.

It made a muted sound as it settled on the small table beside her—beside the untouched tea, the half-draped cloths, and a folded shawl she hadn't reached for. The room smelled faintly of lavender, burnt wax, and something sourer: sweat and fever and the ghosts of sleepless nights.

Clara leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze fall to William. He hadn't moved. His brow was still damp, his hair still clung to his temples in unruly curls, his lips parted just slightly as he breathed. Slow. Shallow. As he had for days.

A part of her wanted to speak—just to say something, anything. Not for his sake. For hers. But the room was so still, so thick with silence, it felt wrong to disturb it now. Like she'd be shouting into a cathedral.

She only watched and wondered what remained of him in the dark.

The room had grown colder. Not from any draft—none dared disturb the thick curtains or open the heavy windows—but from the slow creep of night, and the way time had stretched too long in too little space.

Clara shifted in her chair slightly, enough to stretch her back, to ease the ache that had nestled between her shoulders and refused to leave. Her eyes were dry from the strain of reading, though she hadn't taken in a single line. The book sat closed now, resting on the table beside her with the quiet finality of something that no longer served its purpose. She rubbed her fingers gently against her temple and looked again at William.

His face was gaunt, sharp angles dulled by illness and days of stillness. He hadn't made a sound—not a word, not a breath too loud. He seemed suspended between worlds, as if unsure which one would allow him back. The candlelight threw gentle shadows across his features, softening him in a way life rarely had.

Clara studied him in silence. She didn't feel anger—not in this moment. Not even grief. It was something else. Something hollow. Like the echo of something once heavy that had since burned out.

She leaned forward, resting her arms gently on the edge of the bed, her fingers laced together. The fabric of the sheets was warm beneath her skin, though his hand remained untouched. She couldn't bring herself to reach for it. Not yet.

"I keep thinking you'll open your eyes just to be contrary," she said softly, not even sure why. "You always liked to surprise people when it suited you." The words hung in the air, met with nothing but the soft hiss of the fire and the slow rhythm of his breath. Clara looked away, toward the dim lamp in the corner, and exhaled.

"I should sleep," she murmured but she didn't move.

Outside the windows, the wind had picked up, rustling the leaves beyond the glass like whispered prayers. Somewhere deeper in the palace, a bell chimed—one soft note to mark the passing of another hour.