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"I thought the post did not run often here?" I strive and fail for nonchalance in my voice.
Sigrid steps beside me, and I wonder what is in my tone or my expression that causes her to place her free hand on my arm with concern.
"It is not, but this letter is from private courier."
She doesn't have to tell me how expensive something like that would be, how extravagant, how very rare it would be to pay for such a service without an urgent need.
But she does not know the unnecessary excess with which Madame fills her life. The king’s lips begin to form a question of his own.
It's a question I don't wish to answer, so I reach out with fingers that have gone numb from lack of blood flow, fingers that feel nearly as leaden as my insides, and somehow manage to grasp the envelope.
I don't look down. I can't bear the sight of her seal, a conch shell pressed into crimson wax that drips around the edges like rivulets of blood.
I think I mutter an excuse to the king before I clamber up from the small table, heading straight for the room I was so desperate to escape only hours ago. It's not subtle, but it's all I can manage. I shut the door behind me and tear open the cursed envelope, heart thumping out an accusation with each thunderous beat.
To my most valuable daughter, she has begun her letter. Not cherished. Not loved. Valuable. Given no less and no more weight than one of the many priceless, pretty things she has draping every surface of the château.
I trust everything is going well, though, I confess, I had expected to hear from you by now.
I know how you still mourn your sister, especially this time of year. It pains me to think that if you go too long without checking in, something may befall one of the other two before you have the chance to see them again. These times are so uncertain, as we both know.
My fingers tremble so violently, the letter falls to the floor and I scramble to pick it up so I can finish reading whatever vile things she has written for me.
Of course, they are perfectly fine at the moment. And I am sure with as resourceful as you have always been, you will find a way to ensure they stay that way.
See you soon,
Mother
Footsteps sound behind the panel to the passageway, and I throw the letter into the fire on instinct. It gives me no satisfaction to watch it burn, though, not when I know nothing can rid me of that woman as easily as I destroy her letter.
I think of what my sisters wrote to me, of how her anxiety had begun to heighten even weeks ago.
I squeeze my eyes shut just as the passageway creaks open. I want to acknowledge the king's presence, to pull myself together before he sees me this way, but all I can see are golden curls soaked in a pool of blood.
Solid, steady hands cover my own, but even the king's significant warmth is not enough to chase away the chill that I can feel deep in my bones.
I force myself to breathe, in and out again, while my brain races through a thousand possibilities. Like the fact that she has set me up for failure and how she will enjoy punishing me for it.
Like how every lesson in my life up to this point has taught me not to let my emotions get the better of me, yet here I am.
"Zaina." The king uses my name so rarely, it pulls me out of my stupor.
I open my eyes, and he is so much closer than I thought. His eyes are peering down at me with none of his usual guardedness, only a look of real concern.
"What is it? Have you received bad news from home?" His voice is so soft, it threatens to break me.
I open my mouth, then close it again. I'm not sure what the right answer is. I'm not even sure what the truth is. All I know is that I'm so cold, and he is so warm, and his lips are inches from my own, and I never seem to know what's going to happen next in my life or when the next tragedy is going to strike.
I don't think. I close the space between us, pressing my lips against his. And for all the times he has rejected me in small or large ways, I don't worry about that this time.
Nor should I. He wraps his massive arms around me and pulls me closer, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. I take his invitation, running my hands along the broad chest I’ve wanted to feel under my fingertips since that first day I saw him.
And for all that I have teased him about this thing on his face, his beard is rough against my skin, contrasting with his soft lips, and it is perfectly him. Perfectly us, I amend.
Isn't that all we are? Rough edges around smaller, softer pieces of ourselves?
He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around him while he walks us backward until he is seated in the middle of my enormous carved bed. His hands go for the buttons at the back of my dress, and I lean into him to allow him more room to maneuver.
