Helene looked at him with so much hurt in her eyes that his chest ached. Perhaps the sprite had been right to keep her distance.
As a boy, he had chased a butterfly once, back when life still allowed moments of wonder. He'd caught it. Touched the wings. Watched the shimmer rub off on his fingers.
After that, it couldn't fly.
Maturity hadn't changed him. He still chased fragile things, still ruining them with his touch.
The narrow lanes stretched endlessly, filthy tributaries leading to nowhere. A whore with her skirts hitched up asked for gin money. Another posed around the corner, staring at him with glassy eyes. William gazed away, his jaw set tight. He had initiated Helene into a life she might soon regret.
No. He would not leave it like this. He would provide for her. Make it right. She would sign the contract and never be destitute.
He turned on his heel and strode back to her building, up the stairs two at a time.
At her door, he paused. He had to make this right. She needed to know he would always take care of her.
Inside, the room had dimmed. Candles burned to puddles. The lilies drooped from their vases, petals curling like sleep. Silence reigned—a poor substitute for violin music, for her laughter, for her moans.
She lay above the counterpane, eyes closed, clutching a flower. The sight pierced him. What should he do? Intimacy had rarely been part of his life. He could forge alliances, negotiate treaties, command armies—but faced with her pain, all his achievements seemed hollow.
What use was a kingdom if he couldn't comfort one wounded girl?
Words of apology swam to the back of his throat but retreated. He wanted to vow he would never hurt her again—and if she still refused to see him, he would provide for her from a distance.
He approached quietly and poured water into the basin. Helene didn't speak. Didn't look at him. The sprite had been a dream, but Helene—Helene was real, and he had hurt her.
He sat beside her.
"I thought you had left," she whispered.
"Every road leads back to you, remember?"
Her hold on the flower tightened. "You should speak with the highway overseer to rectify this mistake. I'm sure he is under your authority."
William exhaled, wanting to reach out to her but unsure if she would welcome him. "You keep surprising me."
"Tyrants are easy to surprise. They have low expectations."
Of course not! "This is not the—"
"Shh, I'm hearing music now, and you are upsetting me." Her voice was soft, almost pleading.
The silence between them stretched, taut as a violin string.
William stilled. "What music, Helene?"
"Dido's Lament."
His heart sank. Of all arias—she had chosen the queen who sang herself into death after being abandoned.
"Hum it for me, Helene?"
She didn't answer at once. Her gaze drifted to the cracked ceiling, her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.
Then, a soft murmuring escaped her lips. The lament curled through the air like incense, aching and lovely. It calmed her trembling shoulders. Calmed him. While she hummed, he skimmed the cloth against her thighs, cleaning the blood.
"Take the powder off, please. It is dull now," she whispered.
The cosmetic had dried, forming swirling arabesques over her stomach and chest.
