In Favour |Clara Walseworth|

Knockin on the door ~ Chapter 20

T.W Suicide

Germany, 1819.

A week had passed.

The palace, normally brimming with anticipation at the approach of the festive season, had fallen into a quiet, uneasy rhythm. The garlands remained in their crates, the silver bells unpacked but untouched. No music echoed through the marble halls. No sweet scents of spiced cakes or warm wine wafted from the kitchens. Everything had been put aside.

William was sick. Truly sick. He hadn't woken fully since that night. He open his eyes now and again and it was the only time he could be fed. He was worse than before at least then he could stay awake for an hour but now his eye flutter open for few minutes before he succumbed to sleep one more.

Clara sat at his bedside, her posture straight, composed, but her face was pale with exhaustion. Her gown was simple—no lace, no brooches, just soft grey wool—and her hair, though neatly pinned, bore the look of someone who hadn't cared to fuss over it in days.

William lay still, his breathing shallow and uneven. His skin had lost its colour, his lips tinged with grey. Every few hours, a physician came to listen, to prod, to murmur instructions, then left just as quietly, unable to offer anything more than vague reassurances and gentle words that Clara had long stopped believing.

The fire in the grate crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the room. Beside her, a small table held a half-finished bowl of broth, untouched. Clara dipped a cloth in the cool basin and gently wiped his brow. He didn't stir. "Your timing," she murmured, her voice low, "as ever, is abysmal."

Outside the windows, the sky was pale with early snow. Somewhere, faintly, a bell tolled the hour. She looked at him—not the man who once laughed too loud and strutted down the corridors like the palace belonged to him—but the one who had begun, just recently, to try. The one who read aloud in the evenings and walked slowly beside her through the gardens. The one who had kissed her hand, gently, before everything fell away again. Her eyes stung, but she did not cry.

Clara remained alone in the still chamber, the fire casting long amber shadows across the carpet. The only sound was the brittle crackle of the logs and William's faint, unsteady breaths. The light outside had dimmed to a cold silver grey—early evening, perhaps. The kind that blurred time into something uncertain.

She sat motionless for a long while, her eyes unfocused, the cloth in her hand grown warm from the heat of William's skin. Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Christmases long before. She could remember the smell of pine, of cinnamon and smoke. The sound of bells echoing through the town square, the sharp, joyful chill of the air. Her sister voice humming carols in the kitchen, the laughter of George near the fire, Gerard sticky fingers from candied oranges and gingerbread warm from the oven.

She had loved Christmas. Even after her marriage, in the first years at court, she had tried to carry that spirit with her. She would oversee the decorations herself, walk the halls with ribbons in her arms, send for sweets from the village and small gifts wrapped in careful hands. There had been music then. Light. Warmth.

But now the garlands remained in the servants' quarters, untouched. No wreaths adorned the doors. No one had sung in days. And Clara felt hollow with the knowledge that, come Christmas morning, she might be sitting in the same chair beside the same bed, with the same unanswered questions pressed against her heart.

Instead, she reached for the woolen shawl draped over the side of the chair and pulled it around her shoulders. The fire flickered, but its warmth didn't quite reach her. Clara stood slowly, her joints stiff from sitting too long in the same position. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and pooled at the edge of the chair, forgotten.