I watched her go. Watched the perfect posture. The measured steps. The way she moved through the palace like she owned it.
Like she'd been planning to own it for a long time.
I shook off the thought. Paranoia from too many attempts on my life. Too many shadows where there shouldn't be any.
Élodie had been with me through everything. She wouldn't?—
I definitely hadn't been getting much of that sleep lately.
I knockedon the study door. Heard my father's voice call out, “Come in.”
He was at his desk when I entered, glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by papers that probably detailed everything wrong with the kingdom. But he looked up when I came in, and his face softened in a way that made my chest ache.
“Sebastian. Thank you for coming.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. Please.”
I sat, and Apollo immediately sprawled across my feet. My father smiled at that. He'd always loved the dog almost as much as I did.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I did.” He set down his pen, removed his glasses.
“Okay,” I said carefully. “What about?”
“You.” He leaned back in his chair, and I saw exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “You've been different lately. Since the ambush. Since Viktor arrived.”
My pulse kicked. “Different how?”
“Calmer. More present. Like you're actually here instead of somewhere else in your head.” He smiled faintly. “Your mother used to get that look. When she'd found something that grounded her.”
The mention of her made my throat tight. “I'm trying. To be what she wanted.”
“She wanted you to be happy. To be yourself. Not what the crown needed you to be.” He paused. “Are you? Happy?”
The question caught me off guard. Nobody had asked me that in years. Nobody seemed to care beyond making sure I showed up where I was supposed to and smiled for the cameras.
“I don't know,” I said honestly. “I'm something. It's not unhappy. It's just. Different.”
“Different can be good.”
“Can it?” I looked at him. Really looked. Saw the grief he still carried. The weight of ruling alone. The fact that he'd lost his partner and had been drowning ever since. “How do you do it? Live with the weight of her being gone?”
His expression cracked. Just slightly. “I don't. Not well. Most days I just. I put one foot in front of the other and hope I don't break.”
“Does it get easier?”
“No.” He said it simply. Honestly. “It gets different. The sharp edges dull. The constant ache becomes background noise. But it never goes away. You just learn to carry it.”
“I don't know if I can carry it for fifty more years.”
“Then don't carry it alone.” He leaned forward. “That's what I did wrong. After she died. I shut everyone out. Tried to be strong. To not burden anyone with my grief. And it nearly destroyed me.”
“So what changed?”
“You did. You were drowning too. And watching you hurt forced me to remember that we're supposed to hold each other up. That's what family does. That's what she would have wanted.”
I felt tears prick behind my eyes. Pushed them back. “I miss her.”
“I know. I do too. Every day.” He reached across the desk, hand extended. “But she's not entirely gone. She's in you. In your stubbornness and your fire and your ridiculous need to fix everything broken.”
