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I let myself linger in this moment, in this fairytale world where I am just a girl who was reluctantly wed to a man who turned out to be so much more than she expected.
Then, taking a deep, fortifying breath, I bid farewell to all that might have been. I rise from the sofa, grim determination edging out every single unwanted, irrelevant emotion from a moment ago.
No matter how it sickens me, I have known what I had to do from the moment Damian appeared. Before that, if I'm being honest with myself.
The first step is finding Einar to give him the apology he needs to hear. I head to my rooms first, but they are empty. I almost smile, because I should have known Sigrid would insist on being moved again as soon as I wasn’t here to stop her.
I remove my cloak and hang it on the stand but pull the false rose out of the pocket. It has a black stem at the base of four pointed red petals, and a single jagged thorn. Never having seen the original in person, I can only assume this one is a close enough match to pass for it. I don’t think any servants will be coming in here, but I conceal it just in case.
I deliberate for a moment when I hear the footsteps of a familiar, confident stride. Not wanting to have this conversation in front of anyone else, even the guards, I take the passageway to his room instead of intercepting him in the hallway.
Khijhana follows, of course, as she always does.
The door opens to reveal the king looking twice as haggard as he had on the road. Surprise widens his eyes when he sees me, but not before I catch the grief in them.
He closes the door behind him, then walks over to a cupboard in the corner of his room without speaking. He doesn't question what I am doing here or order me out, which I take as a decent sign. Instead, he pulls down a decanter and two glasses, filling his own substantially higher than mine.
It shouldn't mean anything to me, that he has noticed what a moderately observant person would, but the way he has grown to know me tears at something inside of me that I am already barely managing to keep together.
I take the glass he offers, bringing it to my lips and taking a tiny burning sip before speaking at last.
"How is she?"
The king takes a much longer dreg before answering.
"She’s stable, for now," he says simply, echoing Leif’s assessment, but I can see what the words cost him, and it makes this next part easier for me.
"I'm sorry," I say, walking closer to him.
He nods, a mechanical response to a situation that has no words. I peer up into his endless blue eyes and make my meaning clearer.
“I'm sorry about Sigrid, and about what I said earlier. You were right."
He raises his eyebrows, likely because I’ve said something he never thought to hear from my lips twice in one day. I give him a half smile.
"Truly, though," I say, placing a hand on his arm. "You have to make the kind of choices no man ever should, and I... I have never had choices." I admit what I am sure he has already guessed.
But he surprises me with his answer.
"Everyone has choices, Zaina." He pierces me with his stare like he understands far more than I have ever intentionally let on. "There aren't always good choices, and sometimes all we can do is choose the lesser of two great and terrible evils." He takes another sip, backing away from our contact. "But still, there is a choice."
For a fraction of a second, I wonder if my cover is blown. If he knows, if he discovered Damian this very evening. I stand frozen, robbed of my breath, waiting for him to pass down the judgment I know how deeply I deserve.
But then, he lets out a slow sigh and abruptly changes the subject, setting his cup down.
"You didn't come to see her," he says, sinking down into his chair and reaching down to unlace his boots.
I am weirdly transfixed, watching him perform casual, everyday tasks in front of me like we are an ordinary husband and wife, so it takes me a moment to respond.
"She didn't ask for me." I tell him the truth, but as usual, not the entire truth.
And, as usual, he sees more than I mean him to. He looks up at me with more sympathy than I deserve.
"She would have been happy to see you."
"Tomorrow," I promise.
He picks his cup back up and drains his glass before setting it back down, but he doesn't refill it, something I appreciate about him. He traps me with a pondering gaze, one I return without quite understanding it.
