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Elara reaches out to grasp the caretaker’s wrist. The grip is weak and trembling, a clear sign that what little strength she possessed has vanished. “No, it is all right. I am better now. Please, do not burden yourself further.”
“Nonsense,” Walker says, though she yields to the touch and settles back against the headboard. “Though I will stay right here beside you. Would you like to talk about what occurred this morning?”
Elara’s fingers release their hold on the woman’s wrist, trembling worse than before.
Walker moves closer, gently drawing Elara's weight back against her body. “We do not need to speak of it,” she reassures, her breath offering warmth against Elara’s temple. A moment passes, allowing the princess to steady herself before she speaks again. “One of the knights helped me carry you to your bedchamber. He insisted that you required rest to recover.”
“Thank you,” Elara whispers. Her eyes wander across the hollow bedchamber, noting the royal crown glimmering upon the vanity and one of her thick, floral beige dresses draped over a chair. She sucks in a breath as the reality of her impending marriage floods her mind once more. Picking at her nails, she says, in a trembling voice, “Father is marrying me to a prince from a kingdom called Riverath. I was afraid, and angry, and I yelled at him.”
Walker’s expression saddens, though she shows no surprise at the announcement. Elara’s eyebrows furrow. “You knew?”
Shaking her head, Walker slides her hands down to hold Elara’s. “I knew the moment I found you upon the floor by the dining hall. I demanded an answer from the guards, and they admitted the King had already signed the betrothal decree.”
Elara swallows and moistens her lips before speaking again. “How do you feel about it? You seem rather…” She pauses, her bottom lip trembling. “At ease.”
“Do not be mistaken,” Walker says with gentle firmness. “I am deeply angry,” she says, a soft chuckle leaving her. “And you know I am rarely angry. All I gathered from that announcement was that he would willingly sacrifice his own daughter to satisfy his own greed.” She lowers her voice, ensuring her disdain for King Eric remains unheard beyond the walls. Her grip on Elara’s hands tightens. “But I am powerless to help you. I am so sorry, my child.”
Smiling at her kindness, Elara presses her cheek against Walker’s shoulder, curling her weak body closer to remain enveloped in her warmth. “I am terrified, Walker,” she whispers. “I have never heard of Riverath. I have no knowledge of their courts and power. What if this prince is as cruel as Father?” She asks. “I do not know how to survive in a completely different kingdom where I still will not have a voice, and where you will not be there.”
Walker’s hands leave Elara’s, lifting to stroke through her long brown hair. “I can only imagine how terrifying it must be. Though perhaps he will be a wonderful prince. Perhaps he will be different, and truly love you for who you are.”
Elara shakes her head. “No. My own father has hurt me. Why should a strange prince be any different? I am nothing to him. A weak girl who had no say in being his wife.”
“Dear, you are not weak,” Walker says, a firmness anchoring her gentle tone. “You are magnificent and strong. You fail to see it simply because you are drowning under the weight of these horrible thoughts.” She presses a soft kiss to Elara’s head.
“I hold no distinction,” Elara murmurs, unconvinced by the comfort. “Beyond these walls, even the gentlest women are broken and discarded, treated as if their worth never existed. A title I have not earned and all the wealth in the world will not protect me from a cruel man. My father is proof of that.”
“Perhaps you should pray again in the morning, long before the dinner, so that you are granted a bit of time,” Walker suggests.
“There is nothing for me to pray for. All of the flowers are gone like dust in the dead garden outside,” Elara tugs at a thread on her nightgown so hard it snaps, unravelling a portion of the hem.
“You can pray, and wish for the best anyway,” Walker reassures her. “I used to be a girl of prayer before I turned sixteen and entered this castle. I always prayed to whoever or whatever might be listening to me and my people, crying my heart out for happiness every night after my father left when I was five.” A shuddering breath escapes her. “My mother had it hard, and she left me and my younger brother a day later without a single word on how to manage, or where she was going.”
Elara sits up. Never once had the caretaker mentioned the true reason behind her work in this castle, what her family was like, or how her childhood had been unfolded. She had never asked, fearing the inquiry might hurt Walker if her early life lacked comfort.
“Mistress Walker,” she whispers.
Walker gives a sad smile, the lines at the corners of her eyes growing prominent in the dim light. “I had a horrible time of it, dear. Sometimes, I could not even cry. I prayed and prayed, until whatever greatness resides above blessed me with entry to this castle to care for the loveliest human being to ever exist.”
Elara’s cheeks warm and her shoulders ease at the sweet, genuine words, a true smile finally surfacing.
“There is that beautiful sight,” Walker murmurs, pressing another kiss against Elara’s forehead. “You are the best gift I have ever received, and you are far more than I could have ever prayed for.”
Still smiling, Elara asks one lingering question pressing at her thoughts regarding the younger brother. “Though I have one question, if you do not mind.”
Walker’s smile widens. “Is it about my younger brother, my inquisitive Elara?”
A soft chuckle escapes Elara, but Walker’s smile fades. “He passed away after falling ill at a very young age,” Walker says softly. “A few days later, I walked all the way to the castle to plead for employment.”
Elara blinks, her smile slipping away as quickly as it had come. “You are a strong woman, Walker. Aside from Mother, you are the only person I love in this world.”
The gentle expression returns to Walker’s lips. She carefully guides Elara back down against the pillows, adjusting her own position to sit vigil near her. Her fingers resume their soothing stroke through Elara’s long strands of hair. “Rest now. Forget about tomorrow. You are strong, but even a strong woman requires sleep.”
Elara hesitates before closing her eyes, holding fast to the comfort until sleep finally overtakes her.
Elara sits on the familiar step in her mother's garden. The hours spent in absolute stillness have left her shoulders and back aching, tension locking into her muscles.
Remnants, she has learned, are fragile things. Kneeling, she presses her palm flat against the cracked, freezing soil. All she finds there is emptiness. She rises to brush the grime from her skirt, wishing the gesture could sweep away the burden within her. The early morning wind turns sharp, drawing a shiver from her and setting her frame to trembling. Rising from her seat, she turns her face away from the dead garden and looks up toward the fading stars. Clenching her jaw, she leans against the marble handrail to brace herself against the chill.
