The Princess and the Warlock

Chapitre Trente-Sept

When my mother died, I knew my life was going to change. Gone would be the familiar arms that I knew as hers, gone would her presence be at the dinner table.

When he died, I knew nothing.

God, I couldn't even think his name.

I knew nothing.

And I never would.

I was placed in a holding cell.

Or, well, it was a bedroom, just not my own. At first, I hadn't understood why I wasn't allowed to stay in my quarters, until I'd convinced the maid who originally came to me to confess.

I was also on suicide-watch. King Faber—never again would I call that horrible man 'Father', a heartless murderer—had them put me in a room with no windows, no little trinkets, no happiness. A bed and a toilet were what I'd been given. I was dressed in a gown that was as weak as paper, without ties or fittings. They wouldn't let me leave for dinner, so it was brought to me— mainly cornbread and other soft foods that didn't need silverware, as if they were afraid I'd stuff a fork down my throat.

They'd leave it in front of the doorway, as if I dreamed about moving from the bed they'd given me.

The ceiling and I had become well acquainted in the time that passed, though perhaps it only was a day. The hours dragged and crawled by, each second feeling like four. I knew every divot and dent and crack and fissure that belonged to the ceiling, that made up the room around me. I'd counted them all once, and then twice, keeping my mind busy, not allowing myself to think.

Thinking was dangerous. Thinking was deadly.

I had thought that my heart was dead when King Faber threw the Tempest Stake at me, but I now knew what a dead heart felt like. It felt limp in my chest, dull, broken. So broken.

I was in the middle of counting the cracks for a third time when the door to my cell-like bedroom opened, pushing into a tray filled with muck as it swept in. The King pressed inside, and behind him was a servant with a gown thrown over her arm, holding the hemline off of the dirty floor.

The king was dressed well; he was wearing a purple silk tunic that had a bright blue strip of fabric around his waist, his shoulders covered by a luxurious fur and Byzantine robe, gathering at his waist. Accenting his lavish clothing was his crown, jeweled and sparkling and ostentatious.

"Leave us," he ordered the servant as she hooked the dress onto one of the wall hooks, hanging in full view. I eyed it with a bland lack of interest. The dress was an elegant silver tissue material, and nearly as lavish as the king's getup. Shells and jewels were sewn into the gown, along with a trimmed white lace at the cuffs and bust. With gold stitching and silk skirts peeking underneath the hem, it looked expensive. And with all of the draping and shells and jewels, it looked hideous. Perhaps I had gotten used to the simple gowns I'd worn at Gossington, or this was just extra specially horrendous. "Get up, Daughter."

My body responded without thought; it was a movement of a zombie, whose brain was half dead, body half decayed. I sat up.

"Today is the day," he told me as the servant closed the door behind her, leaving us alone together. "You should be grateful that Prince Grimond still would like to marry you after your debauchery. Your disgusting interlude."

I stared at the ugly dress on the hook, not looking at him. My voice, for having not spoken in so long, was surprisingly even. "Prince Grimwad should be grateful that someone is willing to marry him."

I'd known the words were the wrong thing to say even as I spoke them—a taunt to a bear, a stick to its side. King Faber's sudden appearance in my face didn't have to tell me that. But there he was, displaying his anger in front of me, his hands braced either side of my hips on the bed. "Prince Grimond is going to be your husband—should he decide to cut out your tongue and nail it to your bedpost, as the king, I wouldn't call it treason."