The Morning After
The dry gaze made her mouth go bone-dry. Thalia worried her chapped lips with her fingertips and lowered her eyes. She had no idea what to say. Mouth clamped shut like a mute, her gaze darting helplessly, a flat voice broke the silence.
“Your nanny is in the next room. Call for her if you need anything.”
Thalia lifted her head again. Barcas slid his arms into his shirt sleeves and continued in the same even tone.
“We leave for the east in a week. I’ll summon the servants; pack whatever you wish to take beforehand.”
“That… so soon?”
Her flustered stammer drew his attention back to her. Those fog-shrouded eyes studied her face with deliberate care.
“Is there any reason to remain longer in the imperial palace?”
Thalia met his gaze, speechless, then slowly shook her head. Barcas watched her a moment longer before crossing the room with crisp, measured steps. The sudden nearness of his face made her heart clench. Without thinking, her eyes dropped to his lips—slightly parted, a glimpse of red tongue between them.
That had been inside her. Had it been real, or only a dream?
While the thought drifted through her mind, a cool hand lifted her chin. Clear blue eyes filled her vision.
“Do you often suffer sudden spikes of pain, as you did yesterday?”
Her already tight heart cracked. Thalia slapped his hand away, irritation flaring at being treated like an invalid.
“I don’t know. What does it matter to you?”
“If there is a problem, we can arrange further treatment—”
“Even the mages of House Taren couldn’t help. What makes you think you can?”
Her raised voice drew his lips into a hard line. Those sharply drawn red lips caught her gaze once more. The real issue was what those lips had done to her last night—yet here he was, fretting over her legs. Thalia moistened her dry mouth.
“More than that… yesterday…”
Why had he done that? Had it truly been only to give her the medicine? The questions died on her tongue. Perhaps the kiss had been nothing more than a fleeting moment; her fevered mind might have twisted the memory. She swallowed and glanced at his face.
Barcas straightened, apparently uninterested in whatever she had left unsaid.
“A healer waits in the adjoining room. Summon her at once if you feel unwell.”
Is that all? Nothing else to say to me? The questions spun on the tip of her tongue as his calm voice continued.
“I intend to remain in the palace until the day we depart.”
Thalia stared up at him as though struck. Cool fingers brushed her forehead; her skin prickled as if grazed by a blade. She flinched, and Barcas withdrew his hand after smoothing a strand of tangled hair from her face. A shadow fell across his features as he stood with his back to the window.
“For the time being, our paths need not cross. Rest easy.”
Thalia opened her mouth, desperate to speak, but her throat seized and no sound came. Barcas turned, retrieved his coat from the wall, and crossed the room. She watched his retreating back in a daze. At the door he paused, glancing over his shoulder; his lips parted as though he might speak. Then he was gone.
The click of the latch left her staring at the empty doorway. She swung her legs over the side of the bed; pain lanced up her bones. Ignoring the burning ache, she limped to the door and opened it. The corridor was silent; Barcas had already descended the stairs. Hollow, she closed the door again and returned to the bedside. The only trace of him was a neatly folded formal suit.
She lifted the garments from the shelf and pressed her face into the smooth fabric. Instead of mint, a heavy rose scent filled her nose. The maids must have drenched the satin in perfume while he held her through the night. She slipped the garment on anyway and lay back on the now-cold bed, remembering the broad arms that had cradled her through every spasm of pain. Caring for a patient all night could not have been anything but miserable for him. What man would welcome such a wretched first night?
Thalia bit her trembling lip. She had accepted the marriage only to satisfy a petty thirst for revenge; making him despise it from the very first night ought to please her. She forced the bitterness down and gazed at the brightening window. Sunlight spilled across the glass. The thought struck her suddenly—this was the first morning she would face as Thalia Roem Siarkan.
She whispered into the empty room, “How will my life unfold from now on…?”
Before long, the day of departure for the east loomed. Roused at dawn by the maids’ relentless urging, Thalia finished her preparations and gazed tiredly out the window. More than twenty baggage wagons stood in orderly rows across the courtyard, piled high with linen-wrapped silks, dwarven-crafted goods, fairy-woven gowns, and chests of rare jewels. Half were wedding gifts from the palace; the rest were treasures she had hoarded over the years.
She regarded the once-precious objects with indifferent eyes, then drew the curtains shut. Only a season ago she had been frantic to acquire the finest dresses and ornaments, hoping her brilliance would make Barcas regret his betrothal to Aila. Now jewels and finery seemed pointless. She could never match Aila’s grace or Senebier’s beauty; any adornment on this broken body would only look pitiful.
Thalia perched on the edge of the bed and rubbed her throbbing knee. The dawn dose of painkiller had already worn off; the ache was stirring again. She replaced the spent candle in the brazier and was about to light it when a knock sounded behind her.
“Your Highness, Duke Siarkan has arrived.”
The words jolted her dulled senses awake. Thalia set the candle down and rose. When she opened the door, a line of maids stood waiting along the wall. She scanned them.
“…Where is the nanny?”
“She has already boarded a carriage.”
Relief loosened the knot in her chest; she had feared the woman might insist on returning to the palace. “Just a moment. I’ll be right out.”
As she turned for her cloak, an older maid spoke quickly. “His Grace asked that this be given to you.”
Thalia looked down at the voluminous garment with a frown. A loose hooded cloak, clearly meant to conceal her limp. Humiliation burned in her ears, yet she accepted it without protest and draped it over her shoulders. The long hem swept the floor; she must look as though curtains had been hung around her. She smoothed the fabric, then nodded to the maids.
“Now let’s go.”