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The crowd broke out into laughter again. Good, thanks to poor carrot man, I had managed to turn the mood in the room.
“But, what is it with that dreadful beard of yours? It looks like a bird’s beak.”
The crowd split, half in laughter and half in shocked gasps. Alrick maintained his smile.
A firm grip around my arm made me spin around to find my father. His gaze faced the crowd as his grasp tightened.
“I think we all had quite enough amusement for tonight,” my father announced with a forced smile on his lips. “What can I say? It seems my daughter has learned the pleasures of wine tonight, most likely too much of it. Women...”
The crowd laughed as my father waved the musicians to play something. “Please enjoy yourself while she rests for a moment.”
Wimfred started knocking his rod onto the floor frantically.
“Music!” he demanded. “Music now!”
The cheerful tones of violins and trumpets inviting the guests to dance rang in my ears as my father dragged me toward the golden doors of the ballroom and straight through them. Nervous servants bowed, and a few turned and actually ran away the moment they saw us come down the hallway. My father’s steps were much wider than mine, so I tripped over the red satin rug, but his iron grip around my arm prevented my fall.
My chambers were getting closer, but then—he passed those as well. He kept marching as if we were going to battle.
I was somewhat frightened before, but watching my chambers grow smaller and smaller behind me...now I was terrified.
“Father, I—” My voice broke off the moment I dared to look up at his face. His eyes were small and dark, like those of a wild animal. Never had I seen him this angry before.
“Where—” But when we turned once more to take the dimly lit steps up to the attic of one of the towers, I knew exactly where he was taking us.
Panic rushed through me like a wildfire. What I had done was terrible, but was it this bad?
He practically dragged me up the stairs and found two sleeping guards in front of the old, wooden door to the attic. One of them blinked at my father, then jumped to his feet.
“Your Highness!” he announced in shock. The other guard woke as well, stumbling backward against the wall at the sight of us.
“Open it,” my father demanded. The guard with the metal keys nervously jumped at the lock, fumbling left and right until the lock clicked and the door opened wide.
Without another word, my father pulled me into the attic and, for the first time, let go of my arm. My eyes adjusted to the darkness as my father stepped out and yelled for light. Trembling, more in fear than from the cold air, I rubbed the sore spot on my arm. It hurt a little, not enough to leave a bruise, but still, it would be red and sore.
I scanned the tall shapes of rectangular objects that were leaning against the brick walls. I knew what they were, and it broke my heart even more to think of having to look at them in more detail soon.
The warm, orange candlelight flickers brightened the room from my back as the metallic click of the door lock announced my father and I were now alone.
“Father, I—”
“Quiet. You have said quite enough tonight.”
In silence, I watched him pass me and pull down a white sheet that was covering one of the large rectangular objects. There was no dust. My father had this room cleaned daily and heated in the winter if need be.
A sharp pain stabbed my chest the moment one of the many oil paintings of my mother was revealed. It was the one of her in a light-pink evening gown, her long, golden hair outlining the delicate curves of her face. It was as if she was staring straight at me. Was that disappointment in her eyes?
“Please stop,” I dared to mumble, but my father kept pulling down the sheets of the paintings. One by one, they dropped to the floor to reveal the most beautiful woman this kingdom had ever laid eyes upon.
“To see her hurts me as much as it hurts you,” my father said as he stopped in front of the largest painting. His hand reached to grab the sheet but froze in place before he could. I knew which one he was struggling to reveal. It was the picture of my birth, a tiny infant in the arms of an angelic woman whose husband held them both in his embrace.
Father had all her paintings taken down a year after her death. By God, there was no woman who’d been painted more than my mother. But neither he nor I could bear looking at them. It had hurt too much. As the years passed, I started to long for her image and used to come up to see her, but the colder I grew on the inside, the more I felt I would disappoint her.The Night Queen.I’d stopped coming.
“Not that one,” I begged. But my father’s trembling hand steadied, and he pulled the white sheet right off.
Tears filled my eyes.
“I need her to see,” he said in a voice mixed with anger and sadness. Then he turned to me.
