AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Eleven
The bells have just finished tolling to announce the noon hour when the door to my sitting room creaks open and a familiar shuffle of feet approaches.
“Will you take your meal in your bedchamber or in the sitting room?”
Eat in my bedchamber or my sitting room. Those are the only choices I’m presented with on any given day. I guess I could really mix it up and force food down my gullet while perched in the copper bathtub.
I abandon my bored gaze out the window to greet Corrin. The uppity servant stands in the doorway with a tray of food. I know without looking that it holds a cup of diluted wine, a bowl of meatless stew, a slice of crusty bread, and either an apple or pear. Every meal is the same, varying only in the ratio of mushy vegetables and blend of herbs.
“In here. Thank you.”
Corrin strolls in to set my lunch on a small desk in the corner, her navy-blue skirt rustling with her rushed steps. Aside from short daily visits from Wendeline to tend to my wounds, the petite servant has been my sole companion. If one can call a woman who delivers food and fresh clothes and glares at me with naked animosity a companion.
She was assigned to me because of “the king’s kindness” she announced when she arrived on her first day to drop off a meal and collect soiled towels, her face pinched as if smelling something foul. She then went on to list all the things she would not be doing for me—helping me dress, groom, bathe. All things I don’t expect or want help with, even with my injuries, but she wore a smug look as she listed them out loud, as if reading from a petty Fuck youto the fallen princess, Signed, the staff letter.
I wonder what she did to earn this unpleasant duty.
My contentment with simply being alive has faded over the past three weeks. These walls may be adorned in pretty paper and molding, but it doesn’t mask the truth of what they are—my prison. I have a bedroom for sleeping and changing, a “sitting room” where I pace, and a small room with a bath I can’t figure out how to operate. The primitive-looking toilet, miraculously, flushes waste with a swirl of water when I pull a chain. I suppose I should be thankful that I’m not stuck with a chamber pot in a place that lives at the mercy of lantern light.
My door is locked from the outside and guarded at all hours. I know this because I’ve laid on the floor in front of it, watching through the gap as boots pace. The daytime guard takes eight steps each way and drags the ball of his left foot. The nighttime guard takes ten, with a slight spring in his step. They’re the same guards every day.
In the early days, when I was still mostly bedbound from the daaknar attack, I spent my time imagining all the places where a secret corridor out of my rooms might be hiding. But I’ve searched every panel of wall, every floorboard, beneath every rug, and either they’ve hidden it well or, more than likely, they’ve locked me in a room without any escape.
I am a prisoner who has no idea where she is being kept, and no way of gathering information, per the king’s declaration that no one entertain my amnesia farce by answering questions, on threat of harsh punishment. Wendeline informed me of that when I asked her about the cuffs around my wrists.
And so, I remain completely ignorant to my surroundings, mentally reviewing over and over the few bits that I have learned so I don’t lose track. If there is any silver lining, it’s that these weeks have allowed me to come to terms with the idea that demons and magic exist. Except now I’m that much more impatient to learn what else is out there in this strange world. A world I suspect is not my own in the most profound ways.
“I’ll be back this evening to draw your bath and bring a freshly laundered dress.” Corrin gives a pointed look at my nightgown, her eyes heavy with judgment. I’ve taken to not changing out of it as of late. The loose gauzy cotton is far lighter and more comfortable than the heavy layered silks and brocades, and what does it matter what I wear? I have nowhere to go. “Will there be anything else?”
I can tell she’s holding her breath. She always asks me if there will be anything else and she always holds her breath, as if praying there isn’t.
Do I even bother? “Can I please have a window opened? Just one? It gets hot in here in the afternoons, and some fresh air would be appreciated.” If I’m not pacing, I’m staring through the panes at the expansive vista of treetops and, in the far distance, hints of forests and rolling hills. The glass doors leading to the balcony are locked, and the small panels on the grand windows that appear capable of opening have been secured, though I can’t figure out how or why. My rooms must be several stories up—too high to climb down from. My ears catch hints of life below—the sounds of laughter, the clash of metal that I’ve figured out are sword blades—but I can’t see the sources.
“I will share your request, Your Highness.” That’s been her standard response every time I’ve asked for something—a book, paper and pencil to draw with, access to the balcony, a different meal. And yet no book or paper has arrived, the balcony door remains locked, and I’m choking down another bowl of bland vegetable stew.
Corrin makes to leave.
“Could you also see if Annika can visit me?” I have nothing to lose by asking, and I’m desperate to speak with her again. Even if she despises me, she seems the most likely to go against the king’s order and enlighten me.
Corrin’s scowl is unmistakable. “The princess has been sequestered in her wing while she serves out her penance for helping you.”
So, Zander has punished his sister after all. How long will she remain locked up? Not nearly as long as I will be, I’m sure.
The door to my suite swings open then and Wendeline passes through, carrying a jar of salve. An arm donning the black and gold of Cirilea’s colors pulls the door shut behind her. I’ve never seen either of my guards’ faces. The only reason I know they’re men is by the sound of their voices. One carries a pleasant accent.
“If that is all, Your Highness.” Corrin spins on her heels and marches out before I can utter another word, barely offering Wendeline a curtsy in her rush to get away.
“Somehow she makes those two words sound like a spit in my face.”
The priestess’s eyebrows arch in question. “And what has offended her on this day, Your Highness?”
“I dared ask to open a window for some fresh air.”
She hums her understanding. “Try not to take her disposition personally. It’s simply safer for her if she keeps you at arm’s length.”
Because the king deems it so. Little human interaction. No fresh air. No books. No information about this world I’m trapped in. No television, no internet, no phone, because those things don’t seem to exist here. Zander doesn’t realize how effective his punishment is. I didn’t fear being alone. I’ve been alone for years. But trapped like this, without being able to step outside, is suffocating. Lately, I feel like throwing my head back and shrieking at the top of my lungs.
“I think she genuinely hates me. Don’t be surprised if she poisons my stew one of these days.”
