Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The palace was surprisingly empty, the morning light spilling in through the windows like an accusation.

The marble floors were warm under my bare feet, silent except for the movement of my own body down the long hallway. The light breeze brushed against my face as I opened the door.

I shifted my legs, taking a few slow steps into the garden.

The August heat was already pressing in. I could here the rustling of servants inside preparing the dining hall for morning meals.

According to Mom, I was to be on my best behavior. In her words, the suitors weren’t here to see just any princess — they were here to see me.

To watch me flinch under their hard stares and see nothing but a prize to be won. To see not a girl, but something to control. Something to give them the power they so desperately craved.

I wriggled my toes. Felt the chopped grass against my heels.

I reached my finger inside the rose bush. The thorns pricked my skin.

A droplet of blood seeped down my palm as I pulled the stem from the bush. I turned the flower over in my hands to inspect it for imperfections.

The door gently opened behind me. I placed the rose in my waistband as if to hide it.

“Suitors aren’t allowed in the private gardens,” I said automatically.

“It’s just me.” Callie’s voice was smooth. Soft.

She closed the door behind her. Like that would stop anyone else from walking in.

She glanced at me. “What are you doing up?”

I licked the blood from my fingertip. “I’m always awake this early.” 

Callie walked deeper into the garden. She picked a handful of basil from the corner in between the lavender and marigolds and narrowed her eyes.

“Are you aware of the blood on your hands?” she asked.

“Yes.” My voice was flat. I wiped my palm against my dress, ichor smearing on the fabric. “Are you aware of the dirt on your gown?”

“It’s easier to wash out dirt than it is blood,” she spat back. She plucked the rose from my waistband and tossed it carelessly into the bush. “People are going to come looking for you soon.”

I tried my best not to glare. Failed miserably. “Let them look. I deserve a moment to myself.”

She walked past me with perfect, practiced posture. Her fingertips grazed gently over my shoulder like that would make me feel better.

“I never said you didn’t,” she said. “I’m just warning you. You might have forgotten that you have new servants to choose from today, but they won’t.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The weight of duty pressed against my shoulders like rocks.

Callie made it sound like a privilege. A princess who got to pick her own servants. Like a real woman.

But it was nothing more than a test of judgement. A performance that determined who would shadow me. Carry my secrets.

I crossed my arms over my waist. The fabric wrinkled beneath my sweat clinging to my skin.

“New servants,” I said, just so she’d know I heard her. 

The words felt unfamiliar on my tongue. Like taking a sip of spoiled milk and holding it without swallowing.

It meant another set of eyes. Another reminder that nothing I did would ever simply be my own.

Callie said nothing else. She didn’t have to.

She simply stepped into the sunlit palace, headed in the direction of her own room to clean up before breakfast. She made no effort to wait for me.

I opened the door into the palace, the chatter of voices growing louder. The cool marble swallowed the warmth of the sunlit dirt. I longed for the gardens as soon as I left.

I twisted through adults who didn’t recognize me with my head down. I forced my eyes to stare straight ahead. Male voices bellowed through the now busy hallways, shouting about nothing in particular.

“Your highness,” one of the servants greeted me. Her voice was soft as she touched my arm. “Come with me to your dressing chambers.”

I nodded noiselessly at her.

She placed a hand on my back and guided me through a home I could navigate with my eyes closed. The warmth of her hand lingered against my skin.

The dresses inside were deep, rich colors. They were decorated with white and gold embroidery. Matching veils and crowns. Shoes with small buckles and ribbons.

“Purple— the darker one,” I said as servants rushed into action, moving dresses aside to make room for the one I’d chosen. “Lay it out by the mirror, please. Could you hand me the white shoes?”

The women did as they were asked. They whirred past me in a blur — soft, steady hands, caressing the silky fabrics as they obliged.

Their faces were tired, but they moved as if they had been awake for hours. Like they had been waiting like sitting ducks until a voice more powerful than theirs commanded them to do something.

“I can get dressed by myself, thank you,” I said, flatly.

They paraded out the door one at a time. Their shoes tapped gently against the floors.

The purple silk was soft against my skin. The sleeves were loose and not too warm. The fabric fell in gentle folds against my wrists as I adjusted the dress to my liking.

The servants flooded back when I was finished.

One placed my shoes on my feet as if I were a child. Another threaded her cold fingers through my hair for a French braid. 

The tiara and veil were pressed deeply into my scalp, secured with industrial strength and prayers. Curls spilled over my face no matter how hard anyone tried. They gave up after the third attempt at a perfect hairstyle. 

“You’re done, Princess.” The woman pulled her hands from me like any contact between us would burn her skin. “Shall we escort you to the dining hall?”

“No.” My voice was sharper than I’d intended it to be.

I moved with careful, unsteady steps. The wall became an anchor as I battled with gravity in the heavy dress.

Mom waited at the end of the hallway. Her eyes were narrow.

She looked as pretty as she always did — soft blonde hair, warm pale skin. Innocent dimples. It surprised me sometimes how little Callie and I had taken after her.

Norie had gotten Mom's genes and left us both with tanned, olive skin and limbs coated in freckles. We were the spitting images of what Dad had once been.  

He felt like a distant memory now. Something from a dream. Something that had escaped when nobody else was watching and had silently returned one day.

His face was cloudy. Muddled in fog. I tried to conjure the image of him in my head, but I couldn’t.

If I looked in the mirror long enough, I could almost recognize my eyes as his own. That familiar look of something I could never quite place.

“You know you’re not to walk the palace alone.” Mom’s voice was sharp. 

As much as her weariness bothered me, I understood it. The suitors would get handsy with anyone if left alone too long, desperate for attention they thought they deserved. 

I lowered my gaze. “I know,” I said.

Not an apology. But the closest thing I could muster up to tell her I understood.

She squeezed my hand. Her long fingernails dug into my skin.

“It’ll be quick,” she promised.

I didn’t believe her. She didn’t seem to believe herself either.

She turned and walked into the dining hall. She didn’t check to see if I was following her. She knew I was.

Part of me wanted to run away. To jump off the balcony instead of refusing people who brought gifts for me specifically. 

But I followed her with short, careful steps, my face pointed straight ahead.

The throne was placed at the front of the dining hall, a white velvet cushion decorated in gold accents. It sat like a harsh reminder.

I felt guilty. I had to reject the people I deemed unworthy and accept the ones with meaningless gifts. With false promises of loyalty.

“My daughter,” Mom said, her voice loud, “Audrey of Naples, will be choosing you based on the gifts you provide and the questions she deems you must answer. If you are not chosen, you are to be escorted by our steward.”

The servants cowered under her power. A few turned their gifts over in their hands, observing for imperfections. Their faces were twisted into unreadable expressions.

~
~

The gifts were all the same.

Wine made of expensive fruits. Different arrays of herbs and flowers that I could already find in the garden. Shreds of silk in every color.

None of it was personalized. It served as an offering of their riches.

After the next servant was escorted out of the palace doors, thrashing as they tried to reason with the steward, another stepped up to the podium.

He looked like a boy pretending to be a man — small, human. There was a purple bruise fading in the corner of his eye.

“Princess,” he greeted, his bow unpracticed.

The corner of my mouth flickered with a smile.

He didn’t look half bad for a servant. Around my age with messy, dirty blonde hair. Eyes so green I couldn’t tell exactly what color they were. His skin was only a little tanner than Mom and Norie’s. 

“Present your item,” Mom said, her voice a mixture of something in between sharp and kind.

“I don’t have anything for you,” he said instantly.

His face glimmered with the smallest hint of a smile. The corner of his mouth twitched as his eyes flickered towards Mom.

She didn’t like his answer.

She turned towards me with a hard expression on her face. One that said, Don’t do anything stupid.

But I considered his words. “Why is that?” I asked.

He took a step closer to me. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he said.

The whole room seemed to shift.

Whispers rippled through the crowd — shock, amusement, giggles that slipped out without meaning to. But it didn’t matter.

All I saw was his eyes fixed on mine. As if I was the only person in the entire room.

I studied him carefully. “Tell me what you would bring if you knew the answer then.”

His smile faltered for just a moment.

Then he said, “Whatever you asked for.”

The air around us shifted into something softer.

He didn’t come with intentions of showing off — he came with the hope that his words could persuade me. That his wits would amuse the people around us.

It worked. At least, it did on me.

“Bold answer,” I said. “You’re either brave or foolish.”

“I prefer the term clever.”

Mom’s expression soured. She snapped her fingers like it would make him disappear on the spot.

“Next,” she said, her voice disappointed.

“No,” I interrupted. “I’ve made my choice.”

“Audrey. Please be reasonable here—”

“I’ll take him,” I said. “Tell me your name.”

His eyes softened. “Mason.”

Mom’s silence was heavier than any protest. I could feel her disappointment as she stared at me, hard and unwavering.

But for once, it wasn’t enough to sway me. I simply held his gaze as if daring someone to stop me.

“Where are you from?” she asked, sounding mildly disgusted.

“Durham, Your Highness.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Mason of Durham,” she repeated quietly, drumming her fingernails against her knee like she was trying to pick him apart. “Tell me now, what are your intentions with my daughter?”

“I plan to serve her,” he said, “However she needs to be served.”

She was quiet for a moment. And then she scoffed.

“Fine,” she said. She waved her arm towards the steward standing quietly in the corner. “Bring him to the chambers.”

I caught the almost unnoticeable flicker in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitching just slightly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said to Mom.

Her expression shifted just slightly into something softer.

Nervously, he turned towards me and bowed. “Princess,” he added.

The hall erupted in whispers. Confused. Intrigued.

Some were angry, their voices loud enough for me to hear. Some stared, expecting me to crack a smile and send him back home to Durham.

“I’ve made my choice,” I said. “You are all dismissed.”

The crowd dispersed in uneasy silence.

Their expressions were colored in all sorts of different emotions. They clutched their items close to their chests, wrinkled with finger indents and disappointment.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” Mom said through her teeth. “I just hope you’re smart enough to figure out why.”

“I am not a pawn in this game,” I spat. “I will not be swayed by wine and herbs I can find myself.”

She stood — not angry, not disappointed. Something unbearable in between.

“Come with me,” she finally said. Her voice was sharp and clipped. “You have duties to fulfill.”

Just like that, the ceremony was over. Swallowed by the rhythm of routine.

But, as I stepped away from the dining hall, my thoughts of the servant boy came with me.

~

~

“Nothing?” Callie asked, sipping ice water from a wine chalice. “All those gifts, and you picked the one who brought nothing?”

I let myself smile. “He was quick-witted. Smart. Clever.”

She narrowed her eyes. 

I took a small sip of the diluted red wine I’d let sit for half of morning meals. It tasted sweet. There was something fruity that I couldn't quite place.

“He didn’t hesitate,” I said. “Spoke with clear confidence. He smiled like he knew he was going to be accepted as soon as he walked in.”

“Sounds cocky.”

“Sounds shrewd.”

She dipped her bread into olive oil. “Well, he’s your problem now.”

“He is not a problem,” I retorted. “I liked him.”

She put up her hands in false surrender, an almost-smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

She — thankfully — changed the subject. “Mom is seething.”

“Good.”

Her expression shifted into something more knowing. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Partially,” I said. “But— I actually did like him. I do.”

“Don’t start practicing your vows with the servant boy now.”

“Please,” I scoffed, enunciating the word as if it were the funniest thing she could’ve ever said. “As if.”

She leaned back in her chair. One of the older servants rushed to fill her chalice with more water.

“I wish I could’ve been there,” she said wistfully.

“You would’ve enjoyed the show.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tease me, sister.”

“Not teasing,” I said defensively. “Just honest.”

“Well, clearly, so is he,” Callie said, rolling her eyes. “Coming empty handed to the palace and still being picked as a servant.”

“I liked him,” I said again. I suddenly felt shy.

“Careful with that,” she warned, taking a slow sip from my drink. “Don’t start falling in love already.”

“I won’t,” I said, but the words didn’t feel quite right. 

I had felt something. That unfamiliar churn in my stomach that had pooled into something ugly while he was in the room.

I liked the idea of him. The idea of conversing with a man not purely for my hand in marriage or drunken mistakes that left the whole palace drowning in controversy. 

I liked the idea that, for once in my life, I could have someone decent to spend my time with.

A friend, maybe. Something in between that and an acquaintance.

Chapter Text

The room was already occupied when I walked in.

There was a boy sprawled across a thin, feathery mattress. His ginger hair was messy, almost as if he’d wrestled a tornado before I walked in. Twig-like arms that were still somehow muscular.

He barely noticed when I walked in. His eyes flickered towards me for just a moment before he returned to watching the birds outside the windows.

“Hi,” I said — such a simple greeting, but the words felt strange on my tongue. “I’m Mason.”

The corner of his mouth quivered upwards just slightly, his gaze heavy. “Of Durham,” he said softly.

“So you’ve heard,” I said in fake exasperation. I was unable to resist the smug grin that curled over my lips.

The redhead shrugged, his eyes sparkling against the light — ice blue. Ones that matched the queen’s so perfectly that I wondered if, deep down, there was some royal blood coursing through his veins.

“The walls are thin,” he said. “People talk.”

“My reputation precedes me,” I said.

That earned me a genuine smile. It lasted for only a second, but his face was glowing with amusement.

“Um— I never caught your name.”

He looked up at me. “Liam.”

“Of?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, flopping against the mattress. His back slammed hard against the bed frame. “I’ll be working here until I drop dead.”

He said it sarcastically, but there was no sarcasm behind it.

Permission had to be granted in order to leave, and the Queen hardly ever dismissed even the most mistreated servants. In their eyes, there was no worse betrayal than leaving the royals with one less servant. One less man to suffer.

“Are you assigned to a specific royal?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Princess Audrey.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. “She’s a tough one.”

“She seemed nice when we spoke.”

He glanced up at me. “The servants are scared of her. She fights back.”

I tried to hide my smile, but the side of my mouth crooked upward. “Scared?” I asked.

“I once saw her aim a crossbow at a suitor because he entered the private garden.”

I laughed — really laughed at the idea of it. Of the prim and proper woman sitting tall on the throne with dirt on her knees and a bow in her hands.

“Does the Queen know about that?”

“She warned her personal servants of her perfect aim if they said anything.”

”Wow.”

He smiled a little. “You should really see it. She’s better than half the suitors in the palace competing for her.”

I didn’t need to sit it to know she was better than they were. I already knew of Audrey before my arrival to Italy.

Before he died, Dad worked in the palace as a chef. He served meals to royalty and nobles with nothing so much as a thank you, but he was too obedient to ask for the praise he deserved.

Audrey was the only one who acknowledged him. She thanked him for serving her meals, smiling something small and kind. She glared discreetly at her mother whenever she was disrespectful towards him.

When he was sent home to pass in peace, he had nothing bad to say about the dark haired woman who treated him like he was a person. Like he wasn’t just a kitchen slave.

”What about you?” I asked. 

“Whichever princess needs me first.”

There was no humor in his tone. Nothing with even the slightest undertones of playfulness.

He spoke with certainty, like a man who had given up. Accepted the cage he was forced into.

“Sounds flexible,” I said, hoping that it would lighten the mood.

“Sounds pathetic,” he spat back. He didn’t sound bitter — just tired. “But it gives me some pretty good stories.”

“Liam,” a voice said through the door — sharp, demanding. Something that made me flinch. “Princess Nora has requested you.”

His eyes flashed towards me. There was a look in them that said See?

“I suppose that’s my cue.” He pulled his leather turnshoes over his feet. “I’ll see you later, Durham.”

He stood up, and I realized he was much taller than me. If he had told me he was seven feet tall, I would have believed him. 

I smiled a little. “Bye, Liam.”

He followed the higher ranked servant down the hallway in silence.

Liam walked with his head high like he was a royal himself. If it weren’t for his worn down tunic, covered in holes and dirt stains, he would have looked just like a prince.

I peeked my head out the door. My breath caught when I saw Audrey in the garden.

She was wielding a dagger the size of her arm, hidden in her waistband. She was dressed in something that looked opposite of what a princess should wear.

It amazed me just how close I had been to her barely an hour before. One or two additional steps and I would’ve been able to touch her face. 

My feet were moving before I could stop them. Each step was closer to where she was hidden behind an olive tree.

She barely lifted her head as I slid the door open. She uncovered the steel scabbard of the sword, gripped tightly in right hand.

“Suitors aren’t allowed in the private gardens,” she said automatically. She didn’t even turn around. “Get out.”

“I’d make a terrible suitor,” I said honestly. I hadn’t even meant to say it, but it was true.

Her head whipped around to look at me.

Her eyes filled with something familiar — not quite hatred. Not kindness. Something closer to recognition.

“Is there a reason you’re standing here right now?” she asked, her fingers tight around the hilt.

She was dressed in a brown tunic, covered in grass and dirt stains. Her hose was fitted tight on her legs, ankles covered by leather boots. She looked so much like a servant that I barely recognized her. 

“Harsh, Princess,” I said. I made no effort to hide the tease in my voice. “I thought we were getting along.”

The blade fell to her side, her eyes narrow. She almost looked like she was going to smile, but it quickly flickered away.

”What do you want?” she asked.

“I was told your weapon of choice was a crossbow,” I said casually.

That got her attention.

She lifted her head, strands of hair falling loose from her braid. The sword tightened in her hand almost as if she were going to swing it at me.

“I dabble in other weapons from time to time,” she said, her voice tight.

She swung the blade into the air. It sliced it into a perfect arc.

“Are you just waiting for me to slip up?” she asked. Her eyes met mine. “Because I won’t.”

The vibration of her movements rippled through the ground and up my legs. I couldn’t do anything but stare at her. The way her hair cascaded down her back. The daggers shimmering in her eyes as she wielded the sword. 

“I figured,” I said flatly.

She almost smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Then I suppose I was right,” she said, deadpan. “You’re foolish.”

Her gaze weighed heavy against me, pinning me in place. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding when she looked away.

She moved like a trained knight — precise. Skilled. Like she had done this a hundred times before.

I stood watching her for far too long.

Finally, she turned her head and looked at me. Her forehead was dripping with sweat. There was a fire in her eyes.

“Smettila di fissarmi.” Her voice was thick.

I blinked at her. “Sorry?”

She stepped forward — one step. Then two. Then close enough that her face was only inches away from mine.

“I said,” she started, her voice low, “Stop staring at me. It’s distracting.”

Her eyes pierced me with an intensity I hadn’t seen from anyone before. Narrow. Glimmering. Her pupils were so dilated that only a sliver of brown could be seen.

“It’s kind of impossible not to,” I said under my breath.

She heard it. I almost didn’t think she did — but then her posture shifted. The expression on her face. The way her fingers tensed against the sword.

She huffed out a breath. It was almost a laugh, but there wasn’t any emotion behind it. Nothing besides maybe annoyance.

She placed the scabbard over the blade and chucked it to the ground. The clatter of metal against the dirt reverberated through my chest. Like a loud noise in a silent cave.

“Sbrigati,” she said sharply. “Let’s go.”

I followed without a second thought.

~
~

The weapons room was far more intimidating than I’d expected it to be.

The walls were lined with swords larger than me. Crossbows threatened in a dark corner. Daggers glimmered through the sliver of light that shined through the crack in the door.

Audrey’s fingertips caressed the string of a carefully crafted, wooden bow. At her side laid a linen satchel, a dozen arrows spilling from the top.

“Are you going to follow me around all day?” she asked, lifting the weapon off its peg.

My cheeks flushed. I suddenly felt shy.

It had been over an hour since I’d spotted her in the garden. I had absolutely been following her. I was honestly surprised she had let me trail behind her so long.

Despite my best efforts, her walls hadn’t fallen down — they hadn’t even faltered. They stood loud and proud, like a mockery.

“I guess,” I said quietly.

She narrowed her eyes. 

I cleared my throat like it would make me sound less small. “If you’ll allow it, Princess.”

The crossbow rested in her arms like it was something gentle. She almost looked angry now as she picked up the satchel.

“Audrey,” she corrected. She didn’t look at me, but she knew I was looking at her. “It’s just Audrey. Don’t call me that.”

My lips parted in quiet surprise. “Noted,” I said immediately.

Her eyes softened just a little. She swung the satchel over her shoulder. 

“Non so perché tu sia così interessato a me,” she said quietly.

I smiled like it was a response. The leaves crunched beneath my shoes as I followed her deeper into the forest. 

She looked up. Blinked once, twice, like she didn’t understand my silence. Then she turned on her heels, the bow wrapped around her fingers like an anchor. 

“I don’t get why you’re so interested in what I’m doing,” she clarified. 

I nodded a little. Just to tell her I was absorbing the knowledge.

She almost smirked. Almost.

She walked with the confidence of a woman who’d walked this path a thousand times. She zigzagged through olive trees and grazed her fingertips over the bark as if it spoke to her.

She led us to the edge of the gardens. The walls were tall and ivy-covered.

She stretched the string of the bow backwards. She closed one of her eyes as she lined up the shot towards a thick oak tree.

“Be quiet,” she said, her voice a gentle warning.

Her breathing slowed into something calmer. The string of the crossbow sunk into her fingers. She touched the thread as if the weapon spoke to her somehow.

She pulled the arrow back, and I watched it soar through the air like a streak of lightning. The tip of the dart pierced through the bark of the oak tree.

A proud smirk hovered over her lips. The corner of her mouth was slightly upturned.

The urge to applaud her held heavy in the air. I didn’t clap.

The moment was too fragile. It felt as if noise would shatter it.

Audrey glanced at me. She tugged the arrow out from the center of the tree.

“Impressed?” she asked.

“Very,” I told her honestly.

I took a step in her direction. Smiled a little, like it would keep the tension gentle.

She remained still. “You’re standing awfully close to a woman with a crossbow.”

I gazed at her. Not on purpose — but it happened regardless.

“You’re beautiful,” I said quietly. Because she was. Because I thought she’d want to hear it.

She blinked the softness from her eyes. The crossbow lowered at her side, forgotten.

“You're getting bold,” she said flatly.

I tried not to smile and failed. The gentle wind dragged my hair across my face. 

“I think I’ll like you,” she mused, but something in her eyes told me that she already did. “Do me a favor and try not to fall in love with me by tomorrow.”

My entire body stiffened. “What?”

She smirked, huffing a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’ve got that look in your eye,” she told me. “The look boys get right before they do something stupid.”

I opened my mouth to speak. Closed it with no response.

She took advantage of my silence. “Like follow a princess around all day.”

And with that, she began walking away.

I stood in stunned, unbearable silence. For the first time in a long time, I felt unsteady — not from danger or fear. A mixture of both, maybe. But something different. 

“Are you coming?” she asked. She hadn’t turned around, but she had stopped walking.

I stared at her. Then I said, “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

I tore the leather shoes from my feet, the cold marble softening the ache in my heels. My cheeks were sore with fresh burns — ones that would linger.

The palace halls stretched endlessly, unwelcoming and humid. Torchlights flickered in their sconces, long strips of shadows separating them.

Every step echoed too loud. My brain hummed with exhaustion.

When I opened my bedroom door, I’d expected it to be empty. But Callie was sitting in my rocking chair, legs crossed as she threaded a needle through dark blue yarn.

Sprawled across my bed was Norie, snoring quietly. A drop of drool pooled down her cheek.

“How was your outing in the garden?” Callie asked, not even looking up.

”Fine,” I said, the door hinges clicking shut behind me.

Her eyes flickered over my outfit. She raised a brow.

“You look nice,” she said sarcastically.

“Thanks.” I fumbled with the strings of my tunic. “What’re you doing here?”

”You’re late,” she said. “Was someone with you?”

”Yes.”

She said it like it was strange. It wasn’t.

We always had to have someone with us. Not a single moment was my own. 

“Who?” she asked.

”A servant.”

She lifted a brow. “The Durham boy?”

I narrowed my eyes. She didn’t even look up to acknowledge what she’d said.

”Yeah.” I suddenly felt a little shy. “Stop calling him that. He has a name.”

”I don’t know it.”

I blinked at her. Then I said, “Mason.”

”Mason of Durham,” she repeated. The same way Mom had — like she was picking him apart. 

I pursed my lips. 

Callie looked up. She noticed my expression, but she didn’t say anything. Nothing of use, anyway.

”Did you have fun?”

”Do you care?” I asked. 

She almost smiled. Then she said, “I asked.”

I stared at her. Like I hadn’t quite heard her right. Like she’d never taken any interest in my life before — because she hadn’t. 

“I don’t know,” I finally said. “He mostly just followed me around.”

”Annoyingly or endearingly?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Because it wasn’t really either of those things. 

It just felt natural. Like we were friends, maybe. Like I’d known him from somewhere else, and we’d just stepped back into an old routine. 

“It was tolerating,” I said. My voice felt strained, even though it didn’t sound that way.

There was no word to describe how I felt about him. He hadn’t done much of anything. Maybe that was why.

He arrived with nothing. No gift, no practiced speech — just words and a promise. 

It was the same when he’d found me in the garden. He didn’t give me anything except company. A pair of eyes that didn’t judge. And somehow, it was the nicest gift I’d ever received. 

Norie rolled over. She blinked the sleepiness from her eyes. 

“Tolerating?” Callie asked. Like she didn’t believe me. 

“There’s no other word for it,” I said. 

Norie sat against the pillow. Her blonde curls stuck up in strange angles. 

“No other word for what?” she asked. Her voice was rich with exhaustion. 

Callie ignored her. So did I. 

“Did he say something?” Callie asked.

”No,” I promised. 

The tension eased from her face. Not much — just enough for her eyes to soften.

”He called me beautiful,” I said casually. I quickly followed it up with, “But that’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Norie curled over, facing me. She squinted her eyes a little. 

“Who called you beautiful?” she asked.

We ignored her again. 

Callie hummed in acknowledgment. She threaded the blue yarn through the needle. Based on the trail of wool pooling down her legs, I assumed it was in the process of becoming a blanket. 

“That’s nice of him,” she said finally. 

Norie puffed up her cheeks in anger. “Who’s he?”

I said, “No one.”

At the same time, Callie said, “A servant.”

”A servant?” Norie asked in disbelief.

I glared at Callie.

She just smiled in response. 

Angrily, I murmured, “He has a name.”

”Right.” Callie’s voice was tight. “Mason.”

”Who’s servant boy Mason?” Norie asked. “Why’d he call you beautiful?”

”I don’t know,” I said. Because I really didn’t. “He just— said it.”

”You are beautiful, tesoro,” Callie said. But something in her voice was guarded. 

I flopped down into my own bed. I outstretched my limbs, my arms whacking Norie in the stomach.

She made a noise of surprise. She wriggled out from beneath me with a glare on her face. 

“So then why does it matter?” I asked.

Callie raised a brow. Her eyes narrowed a little.

”Because you look like that,” she said. “Your hair’s a mess. There’s dirt on your feet. You were wearing an old tunic covered in holes. No offense, but— I have no clue how he thought you looked pretty.”

Something twisted in my stomach. ”You just said he was right,” I said. 

Callie looked at me like I was being foolish. “Men are different, Audrey. They like women who always look visually beautiful.”

I blinked at her. 

She set her yarn down. Curled up the half-finished blanket and tucked it under her arm.

”You are beautiful. To my standards, of course. But you have to meet theirs.”

I grabbed a fistful of my bedsheets. My fingers twitched against the covers.

Callie noticed. Her eyes lingered on me, watching. Like there was a something inside me she was trying to dissect. 

To my thankful surprise, she said, “Come along, Nora. It’s past your bedtime.”

Norie made an unintelligible sound of annoyance. Disappointment, maybe — it all sounded the same to me. 

Callie narrowed her eyes. A warning she wouldn’t heed. 

She scooped Norie up in her arms. Like she was a baby and not eleven years old.

Norie squealed between belly laughs. She flailed her legs, mocking terror.

“Goodnight,” Callie said quietly. Her eyes were soft.

I would’ve smiled if I wasn’t so tired.

~

~

My hair was matted when I awoke. There were curls tangled in knots from sleep and the lack thereof.

Light flooded the room. Based on the position of the sun, I could see that it was early — too early.

I almost went back to sleep. It felt like I hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours, even though I knew it wasn’t true. My blankets were soft — it wouldn’t have been hard. 

Begrudgingly, I tossed the sheets away.

I slid my legs out of the covers. Warm and humid morning air seeped through the windows.

I draped a blanket halfway over my shoulders. I forced myself to walk down the hallway at the very least while the suitors were still asleep. 

The palace was usually quiet in the early mornings. On Saturdays, servants were allowed to sleep in an extra hour.

It had been my idea — I argued that they needed more rest. It meant better performance. I argued with Mom about it for so long that she eventually gave in to shut me up. 

But not today. Today was different.

Mom had planned something extravagant. Something in between a ball and a banquet.

To meet the suitors, she’d said. I didn’t care for them. She knew that.

Servants were scrambling around. Carrying decorations in their hands. Dragging wheelbarrows behind them with fresh ingredients.

Noblewomen were wearing their dresses — hours in advance. Showing off. I would have rather died. 

I was moving towards the servants quarters before I could even stop myself. Which was strange. Because I didn’t have much of a reason to go.

Part of me wanted to wake up Liam. I’d seen him sneak a bottle of wine under his arm last night — pomegranate. I wanted it back.

Part of it was because I wanted to be with Mason. Not in a sense in which I wanted to talk to him, but I didn’t feel like putting up a front. I wanted to be myself without judgement.

That familiar gnawing feeling pressed on. Buried deep under malice and arrogance.

A different kind of suffering that settled in my bones, eating me from the inside out. Slow. Insistent.

It was desire. For something real, something hidden. Something that wasn’t wrapped in gold and duty.

I swung Liam’s door open. He made a small noise of surprise, but I wasn’t looking at him anymore.

Mason was sleeping on the bed opposite him. He blinked a little as the door swung open, and then his eyes focused on me.

I watched his head circle through a string of emotions. Confusion, then concern, then something softer.

”Good morning to you too,” Liam grumbled, pulling a tunic over his head. 

It seemed to me like Mason was everywhere I wanted him to be. Lingering nearby — like a warm, sticky shadow. Hovering too close.

I tightened the blanket around my shoulders. “I want my wine back,” I said first.

Liam glared — literally glared. And then begrudgingly handed it over.  

I looked at Mason. Really looked — just for a second. “Hello.”

He smiled a little. Lopsided and real. “Hey.”

”Let’s go,” I said immediately, clenching the wine jug so tight that my knuckles were white.

He sat up. Looked at Liam as confirmation.

”What?” Liam asked. Confused, a little annoyed.

”Nothing,” he said. And then he stood up and settled beside me. 

His footsteps trailed behind me. I could hear his steps, soft against the marble. I could feel him smiling. 

I didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at him. I dropped my head to the floor and traced the patterns with my eyes.

“Do you always wake up servants when you’re bored?” he asked.

“Only the ones who know their place,” I said.

He clamped his mouth shut.

I continued, “And you’re a servant. The whole point of your existence is to serve me.”

He almost looked hurt. He blinked it away, but I caught it — the way his smile faltered.

“What am I serving right now?” he asked. His voice cracked on one of the words. 

Guilt slammed against my chest. I wasn’t sure why.

Because — to me, at least — that was the entire reason they were here. To serve. To give themselves to me and heed my every command.

But Mason had looked sad. In a way I’d never seen before.

“My boredom,” I settled on. My fingers twitched. 

“Where are you taking me?” he asked. 

I spun around. Glared at him, but he wasn’t the root of my anger. I was.

“Do you always ask this many questions?” I asked. My voice was sharp.

He raised a brow. “When a princess is taking me on a surprise journey, yes.”

I turned on my heels. Tucked the bottle of wine on the window ledge for someone to find.

I opened the side door. The grass was still wet with dew.

The air felt different this morning. Colder. Harsher. Like it had some sort of bite to it.

Mason crossed his arms. He leaned his back against the trunk of an olive tree. His lips were pressed into a thin line, like he had no idea what to say.

“You’re serving my boredom,” I said, just to say something. I flopped against the grass.

“That’s all?” he asked. “I think I deserve a raise.”

My eyes narrowed. “Well you haven’t served it yet,” I said. “And besides, servants don’t get raises.”

”Why not?”

I blinked at him. “I don’t know. That’s just how it works.”

”That’s bullshit,” he said. Not with bitterness. Not with annoyed acceptance. Something in between. 

My eyes widened. Just for a second, but it happened.

I had never had a servant speak to me that way. Like I was a peer. Like I couldn’t ruin them with the snap of my fingers. 

He saw my expression. Studied it.

And then he said, “It’s true.”

I blinked at him. 

It was bullshit. The servants were paid to serve, and most of them did a damn good job. Most of them deserved better than barely anything. 

He seemed to sense my guilt, though he might have taken it as discomfort. “So, do you always take your servants on secret garden trips?”

I glared. 

He just smiled. “Or am I special?”

I hummed in response. “You know, I meant it when I said you were getting too bold.”

”You woke me up for this.”

”Barely.” My voice was sharp. His grin didn’t falter. “You were supposed to be waking up anyways.”

“You made me come with you.”

“Nobody made you do anything, Mason. You came willingly.”

He narrowed his eyes. Raised a brow, like he couldn’t believe my words.

“My entire job is following you around,” he said. “I was compelled to follow you.” 

The glass door suddenly slid open. Quiet footsteps padded into the garden.

I turned around. Almost said something, but then I saw Callie’s eyes through a clearing in the trees. 

“Audrey,” she said. Not as acknowledgement — as a greeting.

Her eyes flickered towards Mason. The corner of her mouth twitched in an almost-smile.

“Mason of Durham,” she added. Her voice was tight. 

He blinked at her. Like she’d said his name in a different language. Or angrily, maybe.

She didn’t say anything to him after that. She didn’t need to.

“People are looking for you.” She was already turning back into the palace. “You have to get ready.”

I let him watch me leave. I could feel his eyes burning into my back. I didn’t turn around. 

The door shut behind us. He remained in the garden.

Callie glanced back. Her footsteps slowed a little, to let me catch up.

“That’s him?” she asked. 

My silence was enough of an answer for her.

She hummed in approval. “He’s not half bad.”

“Shut up.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “Go on and get dressed.”

I slapped her arm. It probably hurt me more than it hurt Callie.

She put her arm around me. Looked at me with something soft.

Then she guided me down the hallway like I couldn’t get there myself.

~
~

The ballgown was heavy against my skin.

Blood red. A sort of crimson that screamed royalty. It was covered in golden accents. Decorated with velvet ruffles.

My hair was tied up into a braided bun. Curls spilled out and melted around my face.

Despite the fact that it was my event, I felt too dressed up. Out of place. Like an unusual object, dipped in gold.

I didn’t feel like myself. I felt like a princess — in the worst sense of the word. In a way that felt violating even though it shouldn’t have.

“Audrey, smile,” Mom’s smile was tight. Strained. “You look miserable.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I am miserable. This is miserable.”

She pinched my arm as a warning. Her nails dug sharply into my skin.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. She didn’t notice. Didn’t care. 

There were so many strangers staring at me. Men of all shapes and sizes, expressions unreadable. Half of them looked as if they were about to drool at my cleavage. 

I shivered under the weight of it. Their gazes. The looks on their faces.

I placed my elbows on the table. Interlinked my fingers to cover my chest and ward off some of the stares.

It worked for a moment. Then their eyes found other things to look at. To objectify.

It was strange to think that one of these men would become my husband.

One of them — chosen by not me, but my mother — would be the one to ruin me. Take my virginity. Whisk me away from the comforts of home. Take me back to their country.

My face whitened with the thought. My stomach twisted.

My mother had done this, with my father. Callie had done this. Now that it was my turn, that only left Norie behind.

She would do this one day. She would suffer the same way I was now. It was generational. It was a birthright. 

I stood before Mom could protest. My chair scraped against the marble.

She blinked at me. Her eyes narrowed. 

“I’ll be right back,” I said. 

Her fingers twitched around her glass. She plastered a smile on her face. Too tight. Strained.  

“Don’t keep your guests waiting,” she said kindly. There was no kindness behind it.

I dipped my head towards the floor. I felt desperate for a room to hide in.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever. My body was warm with nausea.

I couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought. Of what my ancestors had been through. Of what my sweet, innocent Norie would go through.

What did it mean now that it was my turn?

How long would I have to wait until I was raped by male gazes?

Until their greedy hands gripped my flesh?

I ducked into my bathroom. I collapsed to the floor in front of the toilet.

My face looked green. I pressed my knees against my chest. Pressed my wrists into my eyes until I saw stars.

I grabbed a fistful of curls, praying it would ground me. I didn’t care about the knots forming beneath my sweaty palms.

All I felt was cold realization. Hard, sickening realization.

It was all just part of the process. Everything I hated was bound to happen eventually. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

The slightest hint of a knock came from outside the door.

It was quiet. Like whoever was on the other side didn’t want to be heard.

“Audrey?” a male voice asked.

My heart stopped. I felt a little like crying. “Yes?”

The door creaked a little. Mason blinked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. 

I breathed a sigh of relief. Choked the nausea down with a deep breath.

“Can I come in?” He sounded nervous. 

My face was still pale and green. My reflection stared back at me with something unrecognizable.

“You followed me?” I asked. 

He crossed his arms over his chest. Not obnoxious — nervous. Like he hadn’t thought about his decision before he did it.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “I— didn’t really mean to.”

I opened the door. Leaned against the wall for support. ”Yes you did.”

Noise flooded in from down the hall. The sickness came back full force. 

Mason grabbed my arm. Held me up when I started feeling dizzy. 

“I’ve got you,” he said.

I doubted he recognized the weight of his words. I felt them like a stone in a still pond — rippling out and shaking everything.

“I hate those men,” I said. Vague enough that it didn’t feel like oversharing.

It got the point across. I could see it in the way he looked at me.

Like I was fragile. Like I couldn’t hold my own. 

“Sit down,” he commanded. Soft. Almost warm.

I sat. He sat beside me, leaving enough space between us for another person.

He removed his hand from my forearm. The room suddenly felt a little colder.

It was hard to breathe. It felt like there was something heavy sitting on my chest.

“I could stand next to you and look scary,” he said suddenly. “You know— so they leave you alone.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I responded. 

He blinked at me. Almost smiled. “No it’s not.”

“You aren’t scary.”

“I could be.”

”You couldn’t. Look at you.”

He looked down at himself.

”You’re a boy,” I said. “Not quite a man. And you’re a servant.”

”So?”

”So nobody would ever be scared of you.”

He smiled a little. His eyes flickered towards me, but then they dropped to the floor. Like he was afraid to look at me. 

I almost thanked him. For being nice. For being normal, for lack of better words. 

I didn’t. I thought about it. Opened my mouth to say it, but the word didn’t come out. 

We sat in silence. We didn’t look at eachother. 

Chapter Text

Audrey was better at pretending than I thought she would be.

She smiled at guests. Danced with the suitors. Laughed when she was supposed to.

But there was a familiar look in her eyes. She was miserable. Terrified for what would come.

For what it was worth, I didn’t blame her.

She didn’t look at me. Not once. But I knew she knew exactly where I was standing.

She remained professional. Just as all royalty were meant to.

But her eyes were sad. Maybe something softer. 

She was dancing with one of the suitors now. The ruler of a powerful kingdom, lingering behind her like a shadow.

She was ignoring him. Keeping her distance. Her eyes were focused on the exit.

Her shoulders stiffened when he moved in closer. His hands pressed gently against her hips. It looked like the touch was burning her skin. 

I stepped forwards. Nothing unusual. Nothing anyone would question.

But there was a noticeable difference in her face. Her eyes softened. Her shoulders loosened.

“Princess.” I offered her the tray.

She picked up a fig and pretended to inspect it in her hands. Took a bite of cheese when the suitor turned his head.

“It’s suffocating in here,” she whispered, her eyes not meeting mine. 

“I know.”

She raised a brow. “Do you?”

“I’m suffocating in here.”

She didn’t smile. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

“When they start playing the harp, come and find me,” she said. 

I blinked at her. “What?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Meet me back here in an hour or so.”

I couldn’t stop staring at her. I couldn’t help it.

“Will you?” she asked. Her voice had an edge to it. 

“Yes.”

Her expression softened. Like she’d won something. “Good.”

And with that, she dropped the fig. Tipped her head back to gulp down half a chalice of wine.

She turned back to the suitor. She had that same, unnaturally perfect smile on her face.

“Shall we?” the King asked.

I clutched the tray in my hands so hard my knuckles whitened.

I watched them for too long. The way his hand lingered on her waist. His gaze dipping where it weren’t supposed to go.

Her eyes were closed — like she was trying to pretend she was somewhere else.

He lifted his hand to twirl her. Like he was supposed to.

She obliged. But her footsteps were slightly wobbly.

”Must be the wine,” I heard her say. 

He smiled, but it was strained. Like she was annoying him. 

He was an ideal candidate for a husband. Wealthy. Powerful.

But he looked at her like a possession. A pawn. Something easy to control.

Every smile was a claim. Every step was a reminder of the fact she was being measured. Weighed. Bartered like a piece of land.

I shifted the tray in my hands. Olives slid into figs. Wine sloshed in its chalices.

There was a bitter taste in my mouth. Pity, maybe. Something softer.

Nobody noticed. Nobody cared about her obvious discomfort.

She looked down at the floor to keep herself steady. Her face was pale.

To them, this was just how things were done. Suffer through a few dances. Suffer through a wedding.

Suffer through the rest of their lives. Wonder what could’ve been if they hadn’t gone through with it.

“Are you just going to stare at my sister all night?” Callie asked, suddenly standing in front of me.

Her voice was loud over the music. Even still, it was difficult to hear her.

“Princess Callisto,” I said, bowing.

She rolled her eyes. Placed a hand on her hip.

“How can I be of service to you?” I asked. 

She plucked an olive from the tray. Grabbed a glass of wine she didn’t sip from.

“You could stop drooling, for one.” She paused to let me squirm under her gaze. “Don’t think about trying anything with her.”

I nearly dropped the tray. My eyes widened as she glowered at me.

“I wasn’t,” I said, partially because it was true. Partially because she was scary. “I won’t.”

“Good,” she said.

She glanced towards Audrey.

She was still on the dance floor. Her eyes kept flickering towards her mother.

The King’s hands had slipped lower. His palms rested just below her lower back.

Audrey stumbled when he spun her again. She nearly tripped over her dress. Her footsteps were wobbly.

Her facade slipped for just a moment. She held tighter to his shoulders in order to stay balanced. Played it off with a laugh, mumbled something I couldn’t see.

Callie floated off. Her dress was only slightly less extravagant than Audrey’s.

I hated their stares. I felt bad. I felt guilty.

I couldn’t say anything. It would be unprofessional.

I needed this job. I needed the money. I needed to keep my mouth shut like I was supposed to. 

But I almost did. 

~
~

The harp strung an hour and a half later. 

Audrey was stumbling. Her eyes were half-lidded. Her legs wobbled with drunkenness.

“You’re drunk,” I said as she approached.

“Just a little.” She wrapped her arms around my neck. “I hate it a little less.”

“I wonder why,” I teased.

She smiled. Huffed out a breath, something in between a laugh and a scoff.

Even with the torches burning in their sconces, the warmth didn’t quite reach where we were standing. I stepped a little closer. She didn’t notice.

“Isn’t it a little suspicious for you to dance with me?” I asked. 

She raised a brow. “No. Everyone’s too drunk to care.”

“Are you included in that mix?”

“Ha-ha,” she said sarcastically. She lifted her eyes to look at me. 

We swayed to the music. Not dancing — she was far too drunk. But something softer. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be impressing the suitors?” I asked.

She leaned slightly forwards. She was teetering on the edge of falling onto either me or the floor.

“Aren’t you supposed to be serving me?” she asked.

I smiled.

She glared in response. “And, for the record, I am.”

“Not by dancing with me.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to be dancing with me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. 

“Never,” I said.

Callie’s eyes lingered on us. Like she was waiting for one of us to slip up. To cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

She wasn’t focused on Audrey. She was focused on me.

I loosened my grip just slightly. “Your sister is staring at us.”

Audrey blinked at me. Squinted. “Are you saying that bothers you?”

I paused. Tried to conjure a response. Couldn’t.

And then I looked at her. Tilted my head a little. “Are you flirting with me?”

She barked out a laugh. Sharp — like it startled her as much as it startled me.

She cleared her throat. Tried to pretend it didn’t happen. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know.” I kept trying not to smile. Kept failing. “It seems too good to be true.”

She rolled her eyes. But her grip tightened against my tunic.

I gazed at her. The touch lit a fire in the pit of my stomach.

“You’re pretty,” I said softly.

It was partially because she was drunk and wouldn’t remember. And partially because it was true.

“Stai zitto.” Her voice was soft yet sharp. “That means shut up.”

I hummed in response. “Never heard that one before.”

“Get used to it.”

I smiled a little. “Got it.”

Her eyes softened.

Callie sauntered over. Her gown nearly dragged against the wine-covered floor.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” she said to Audrey. “Snap out of it.”

“Like you haven’t danced with one of your servants before,” Audrey said. 

Callie rolled her eyes. “Mason, take her to her chamber.”

I blinked at her. Like I hadn’t quite heard her right.

She continued, “Don’t let my mother see. You’re already on thin ice with her.”

“Thin ice?” I asked.

She just rolled her eyes. 

Audrey whined. She drunkenly pressed her cheek against my shoulder.

“You’re no fun, Cal.”

I placed my hand on her back to steady her. The touch was barely there. But she felt it. 

“Come on,” I said. I propped her up with my arm.

I glanced in Callie’s direction.

She nodded twice.

I walked her forwards down the hallway.

She stumbled twice in the corridor.

Her shoes caught on invisible uneven flooring. Her hair fell over her eyes. Her ear was pressed against my shoulder.

“Mason?” she asked as we approached her bedroom.

I looked at her. “Yeah?”

She paused for a moment. Her voice was low when she spoke.

”Don’t leave,” she said softly. 

She didn’t ask me to stay. The words were too raw. Too vulnerable. But asking me not to leave seemed to suffice.

My fingers stopped at the lock. Hovered over the doorknob.

“What?” I asked. 

“Wine makes it easier for the suitors,” she said. Like she was telling me the weather. 

My heart dropped to my stomach. Something in my gut twisted with nausea.

The glimmer of vulnerability shifted something in the air between us. It was real. Honest.

It was almost like we’d known each other for years. Not just a couple of days.

I managed to open the door. I refused to look at her for fear that it would make me sick.

I felt guilty. Just for being a man.

I rummaged through her dresser without asking. I felt partially guilty for until she murmured a simple thank you.

The fabrics were soft against my skin. Linen. Silk. All sorts of luxuries I'd never have access to as a servant.

“Here.” I shut the door with a quiet click.

I handed her the nightgown. It was creased in the middle from where my hands had been gripping it.

“Is this okay?” I asked. 

She nodded slowly. Her eyes were half-lidded, like she was half asleep already.

I turned towards the wall to let her change. Covered my eyes with the palms of my hands as if facing fully away from her wasn't enough.

“Mason?” she asked after a minute of silence.

My shoulders tensed instinctively. “Yeah?”

“Can you help?”

With my fingers still halfway over my face, I turned to see her — thankfully — still fully clothed.

She was standing almost hunched over as she fumbled with the buttons on the back of her dress.

I opened my mouth to ask follow up questions. The words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. Like she’d sucked all my air away from me. Left me with nothing to breathe in.

I meant to say something as I advanced towards her. I didn’t. 

Carefully, I moved her curls out of the way. My hands lingered a second too long.

Her breath hitched. Her shoulders tensed.

I fidgeted with the pearl buttons. Threaded them through the gap in the fabric. My finger brushed against her back.

My hands kept moving. Down. Further down. So far that I could see the chasm of skin where the two halves of the dress had once met.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The air was stuck in my throat. The silence was thick and suffocating.

“You’re warm,” she said suddenly.

I looked up at her. “Everything’s warm when you’re drunk.”

I wasn’t sure if it was true — I hadn’t been around many drunk people in my life. But it eased the tension a little.

Her shoulders loosened. Her postured softened a little. 

It was barely anything. She barely shifted.

But I felt it. Something hot pooling in my chest.

I quietly finished with the last button. “Done.”

She started slipping the dress over her shoulders before I’d started turning around.

For just a second, I caught a glimpse of her entire back. Bare with freckles and moles dotted across her soft skin.

I slapped my hands over my face as the rustling of silk filled the room. I pressed my wrists into my eyes like she’d walk around and stand in front of me. Drunk and naked.

I turned around only when I heard her body collapse against the covers.

Her hair was sprawled across the mattress. Curls spilled out like vines of poison ivy. Her cheek pressed into the pillow, like she was already on the verge of sleep.

“Mason?” she asked.

I was starting to get used to her saying my name like that. Soft. Gentle. Like she didn’t mind that I was near. 

I pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Her body twisted comfortably into the duvet.

I glanced down at her. “Yeah?”

“Remember when I told you not to fall in love with me?”

I blinked at her. “I do.”

She raised a brow. Her lips upturned into an almost smile.

“What?” I asked.

She turned away from me. Her cheek pressed into the pillow. “It looks like you’re already ignoring me.”

I blinked at her. Tried not to smile and failed.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. 

“I’m not stupid, Mason.”

“No, but you’re drunk.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s different.”

“Not by much.”

The blankets curled over her body. She buried further into the comforts of her bed. There was a ghost of a smile on her face.

I drank it in — the softness. The vulnerability and comfort I wouldn’t have seen had she been sober. The most selfish part of me wished that this version of her would last longer than just one night.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, half asleep. Her voice was muffled under the duvet.

“If you want me to,” I said.

“I don’t.”

There was something sweet in her voice when she spoke. It wasn’t quite kindness — it was something different. But it meant the same to me either way.

“Okay,” I said softly.

I plopped down into the rocking chair that rested by her bed. And I waited. 

~
~

Audrey didn’t speak to me the next day.

She didn’t speak to me for the next five days, actually. Thus ending my first week in the palace on a negative note.

I told myself she was embarrassed. Ashamed maybe.

But there was something about the way Callie’s eyes lingered on me too long. How she pressed her fingers into Audrey’s shoulder when I walked by. The way her gaze burned into my soul.

Audrey's hands kept skimming the shaft of her chalice. Each night, her fingertips grazing the base — but she never once took a sip of her wine.

To be fair, I hadn’t made much of an effort to speak to her either.

I felt guilty about how much I’d enjoyed talking to her that night. When she was drunk and slurring and vulnerable.

I felt guilty because I had wanted to see so much more of her. 

I hadn’t seen her in the garden, either. I’d offered to take up on weeding. On sweeping the rocky path that led to a small pond, the cobblestone dusted in small flowers and ivy. To harvest fruit and collect herbs. To carry water in the blazing heat.

Just for the smallest chance of seeing her.

It wasn’t until a fateful Thursday morning that I caught a glimpse of her.

She was sitting by the pond. Her curls were tumbling down her shoulders like ocean waves.

She was still in her nightgown. The hem of it was balled up by her upper thighs. Her legs rested in the depths of the water, every movement rippling the calm stream.

She looked so peaceful. Her eyes closed, fingernails digging just slightly into her skin. Legs idly swinging.

It occurred to me just how much I’d missed her presence. The quiet, unspoken connection. The way the hair on my arms stood up when she’d laughed. 

My mouth opened and closed. The words kept dying on my tongue each time I tried.

“Audrey,” I finally said.

Her eyelids fluttered open, legs stilling in the pond. Her shoulders tensed.

For a second, I wanted to leave. The guilt came back stronger than before.

Her eyes met mine.

That unfamiliar feeling burrowed in my gut.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped. Like she’d forgotten she hired me. “I haven’t called upon you.”

“I was assigned to work here,” I told her. 

She spun her head back around. Her chin was pointed up at the September sun.

“Oh,” she said softly. 

I took a step towards her. My feet crunched against a dry leaf weaved into a few strands of grass.

Her entire body clenched. Her nails left crescent shaped marks in the flesh of her thighs.

I felt a little shy asking, “Are you avoiding me?”

“No.” She placed a finger into the water and traced shapes into the pond. “Not on purpose.”

“Is it because you think something happened at the banquet?”

“I just said I’m not avoiding you.”

“Is it?”

Audrey paused. Raised an accusatory brow. “Did something happen?”

“No!” I said immediately.

Her jaw clenched in response. Her shoulders tensed.

I blinked at her. And then I said, “Nothing happened, Audrey — I swear. I brought you back to your chamber and waited until you fell asleep.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You watched me sleep?”

“No. I waited until Princess Callisto came in and dismissed me.”

Her brow lifted. She squinted a little. “Callisto?"

I paused. "Is— is that not her name?"

"No, it's just— you know you can just call her Callie, right?”

“I mean— she seems like the type of woman to find it disrespectful,” I told her. 

Audrey tilted her head. “Well, you’re not talking to Callie right now, are you?”

“Not that I know of.”

She held her gaze. “So you can call her Callie. It’s just me.”

It’s just me. 

The way she said it held a weight I was unfamiliar with. Something warm.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked stupidly. 

She dipped her hand into the pond and flicked water in my direction. “You ask too many questions.”

“You’ve asked far more questions than I have.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have royal blood. Curiosity is not something I should be shamed for.”

“Then you avoid too many questions.”

She paused for just a moment. Her reflection rippled in the water as she tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear.

“Did I embarrass myself?” she asked. 

I couldn’t help but smile a little. “Not by my standards.”

“By mine.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Great,” she murmured. “What’d I say?”

“You asked to dance with me.”

“Well I remember that. I wasn’t that drunk.”

“You also told me to shut up in Italian.”

She almost smiled. 

“Um, I walked you back to your chamber,” I started, but the next thing I wanted to say caught in my throat like a block of cement.

She narrowed her eyes. Like she was anticipating for me to say something normal. Something stupid.

I cleared my throat and said, “You asked if I could stay with you.”

Her entire body tensed. “I asked that?”

I threw my hands up in mock surrender. “Not exactly,” I said, and that seemed to bring her some solace. “You just— told me not to leave.”

“I told you?”

“You just said don’t leave.”

Her fingertips drummed against her thigh. “Did you stay?”

“Yeah.”

She stared up at me. Her eyes softened with something unfamiliar.

For just a moment, it almost looked like she felt guilty. I was sure it didn’t surprise her that I didn’t leave — but hearing it out loud seemed to shift something in her.

I advanced towards her. Slipped my shoes off my feet and stuck my legs into the pond beside her.

She glanced up for a brief moment. Then she continued to sway her legs in the water.

“Where have you been all week?” I asked.

“Mostly the weapons room,” she said.

I hummed in acknowledgment.

And then she said, “My mother’s throwing a ball tonight.”

I looked over at her. “Are you planning on getting drunk at that one too?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Very funny.”

“Thank you.”

Her fingers flexed in the pond. “Do me a favor.”

“Okay,” I said softly.

“Stay close to me tonight.”

I blinked at her. “Isn’t that a little— suspicious?”

“I don’t care,” she said immediately. Then, after a moment of hesitation, added, “I want you there.”

She didn’t mean it as strongly as she said it. I could see it on her face.

But something in my chest tightened. 

“Okay,” I promised.

Her fingertips grazed over my hand.

She didn’t hold it. Didn’t allow herself to linger.

But I felt it deep in my bones.

Chapter Text

I flinched as Callie plucked the last hairpin into my curls, finishing the intricate updo she’d spent no less than an hour and a half perfecting before the ball.

“There,” she said, pulling back to relish in her own work, her fingertips tender with indents from prying the pins open. “Pretty, right?”

I glanced at myself in the mirror, resisting the urge to run my fingers over the braided bun.

It was sprinkled in pearls and topped with a golden crown. The triangle shape added half an inch to my height.

It felt tight. Uncomfortable. Unlike me.

But I forced myself to lie when I saw the hubristic expression on her face. Her eyes were glowing with pride.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, which wasn’t a lie — it was beautiful.

It was prettier than anything the other servants had practiced on my hair. But it didn’t feel beautiful on me.

I looked up at her. “Thanks, Cal.”

She placed the lid over the small, wooden bowl filled with of silver and bronze pins. “You must redeem yourself from the banquet,” she said. 

I could tell she tried to make her voice sound playful. Her words came out chopped. Tight.

I knew she was talking about Mason.

I remembered nothing but what he told me.  But based on the way Callie had acted when he entered a room, it seemed like she recognized something deeper.

I’d danced with him — not particularly unusual, but I remembered his warmth. I had asked him not to leave me behind, and it was so close to asking him to stay. So close to something vulnerable that it terrified me.

“Right,” I said quietly.

“Audrey,” Callie said, her voice motherly — stern yet still caring. “You just can’t let your feelings get in the way of your duties.”

I looked up at her. Confusion blurred my vision. “My feelings?”

She looked at me as if I were an idiot, her head tilted to the left as she said, “You like him.”

“I do not,” I said.

But it was a lie.

I did like him. I liked having a friend, having someone who knew me for something other than frilly dresses and banquet exchanges. I liked that Mason knew me better than the other suitors did.

It was common knowledge that things moved faster within the palace walls. Love was no exception.

But what I felt for him wasn’t quite love. It was closer to admiration. Desire, maybe, for a competent conversation with someone my own age. 

Something had shifted between us. That much I knew. 

Maybe that was why I had been avoiding him.

When Callie told me she had found him in my bedroom past midnight, I thought him to be one of them. A man who strived for lust and not love.

But nothing happened. I asked him to stay, and he did. And then he waited patiently for Callie to shoo him away.

“You don’t even know him,” I said. Even I knew I sounded foolish. 

“Neither do you,” she shot back. “He’s been here a week, Audrey. You’re to be wed soon — you can’t start falling in love now. Especially not with a servant.”

My face burned with embarrassment or something more guarded. My fingers clenched against the fabric of my dress.

“Nobody said anything about falling in love,” I spat at her.

“All I’m saying,” she said, clasping a pearl choker around my neck, “Is that you need to be careful. If anything happened—”

“Nothing happened!”

“If anything happens,” she said, enunciating her words as if to make a point, “Promise me you will not tell anyone about it.”

“You're being ridiculous.”

“Quit being difficult,” she said through gritted teeth.

Something inside me faltered. Twisted with guilt or something softer, maybe. 

My throat tightened. “You talk as if he’s a threat.”

Her eyes hardened as she looked at me. Her expression was dark and familiar. She pressed her lips into a tight, thin line.

“All men are a threat until they prove themselves otherwise,” she said. 

I blinked at her. “Hasn’t he?” I asked.

She raised a brow.

“He could’ve done what the rest of them would’ve,” I said. “And he didn't. Isn't that worth something?”

Callie paused for a brief moment. For a moment, it seemed that I’d said something that softened her exterior.

And then she said, “You don’t know him.”

“Then let me.”

She had nothing witty to say. Nothing remarkable. Her silence was deafening. 

“He’s smart,” I told her.

Her face hardened. Like my words had triggered something inside her.

I continued, “He’s loyal. I told you that much already.”

“And that’s enough for you to risk your reputation?”

I glared at her. I couldn’t help it. “I’d risk anything for a competent conversation with someone my age.”

She pursed her lips. Her mouth contorted into a thin line as she absorbed my words.

Her voice was brittle and raspy as gripped my shoulders from behind and said, “Promise me.”

I clenched my jaw. Tilted my head like I was daring the crown to fall off my head and shatter to the floor.

“I promise,” I whispered.

Her grasp softened. “Good,” she said.

It was like the weight on her shoulders had lifted with my words. Her expression softened. She looked almost calm.

She took a step back, like if she were admiring her work, and said quietly, “Sei bellissima stasera.”

My eyes narrowed. I bit back the cruel quip sneaking its way up my throat.

I felt ridiculous. I didn’t feel beautiful. I felt like my mother. 

But Callie didn’t seem to notice. To care.

She kissed my forehead. Her smile was tight yet somehow still kind. “You are a princess, Audrey, remember that. You have a reputation to uphold.”

“I know.”

She raised a brow. “So act like it.”

I tried to hide the sour expression fading over my face, but I couldn’t help it.

My eye twitched at her words. My fingers tightened by my sides. Pinched my stomach.

“I will,” I said, my voice submissive.

I realized quietly that I wasn’t sure what it was that I liked so much about Mason.

Maybe it was that he was witty and sarcastic. Sharp tongued. Unafraid of me, even with a weapon in my hand.

Something told me it went deeper than that.

Maybe it was that Mom and Callie disapproved of him. They liked being in charge — managing movements, controlling things the way they deemed most fit for the situation. And Mason wasn’t something they could control.

Maybe I liked that it scared them not knowing what his next move would be. Or maybe it was a lot of things that I didn't quite have names for yet.

“Are you even listening to me?” Callie asked suddenly, and I wondered if she’d even been talking. “You aren’t, are you?”

“I was,” I said defensively, though I most definitely was not.

“Really? Then what was the last thing I said?”

I pursed my lips and guessed, “Make sure to treat the suitors with respect. Even though they don't deserve it.”

To my surprise, she smiled. Placed her right hand on her hip like she didn’t have a care in the world.

“Good,” she said. “Now go before you’re late.”

Predictable, I thought.

My feet moved on their own. Subconsciously aware of where I was going.

The entire hallway seemed just a little longer than it had a few hours before.

I could've sworn there were twice as many sconces lining the walls. Larger, longer doors that took up more space than necessary. Floor tiles the size of a small child.

The stone was cold against my fingertips. My face illuminated by the warmth of the torches.

The dining hall entrance was spread wider than usual. The shiny throne sat perfectly centered in the front of the room.

It felt as if it was mocking me as I advanced forwards. My footsteps echoed against the cold marble floor, silk shoes tapping against the silence.

I made eye contact with Mom as I sat down in the chair. The cushion was thin and uncomfortable. I squirmed to find a more pleasant position.

I had been in this very chair just a week before, but it felt different now. Colder. Stiffer, maybe. Taller than it used to be.

“As you all know,” Mom said, and the crowd shuddered under the weight of her voice, “My daughter, Princess Audrey of Naples, is looking for a man to betroth her.”

I made eye contact with Mason from across the room. His pupils dilated when they met mine.

He was standing beside Liam. He was looking at Mom like she was the worst person in the world.

Liam’s face was contorted into a sour expression. His eyes were nearly identical to Norie’s — based on his face alone, it was hard to forget how closely connected he was to royalty.

Mason had a boyish grin on his face. His shaggy hair fell just below his eyes. The blonde strands were messy and out of place.

I forced myself to turn away from him before Mom noticed.  

“In the coming weeks, we will be hosting a series of gatherings during which eligible suitors may have the honor of making her acquaintance,” Mom continued. “Our family seeks not just a union of strength and lineage — but of virtue, loyalty, and devotion to my kingdom.”

The word loyalty made something angry pool in the pit of my stomach.

This entire, awful process was nothing short of disloyalty. Of betrayal to the family Mom had promised to raise.

There was nothing that screamed loyalty less than being placed on a throne and auctioned off to the highest bidder. Like how a farmer would purchase the largest cow or pig.

In this case, I was a pig — fattened, useful. Ready to be brought to the slaughter and killed for meat. Killed for men to ravage my remains. To eat me in every way until I became nothing again.

For just a moment, I wished I’d had my bow. I would have shot an arrow right through my forehead.

I would’ve rather died than sit on the throne, pretending I was trying not to vomit as Mom jabbered on about how important the kingdom’s reputation was. How much more important it was than her own daughter’s comfort. About how much more important a distant kingdom’s riches were than me.

When I stood from the throne, the men clapped for me — loud and echoing like I’d just done something ceremonial. Like I’d won a war and returned alive.

Some whistled, shrill and piercing. Some were silent. Plotting. Waiting.

They rose like a tide. Like a wave, crashing against the shore and destroying everything in its path.

Reluctantly, I forced myself to step down from the dais as men flooded the platform.

~
~

“Can we leave yet?”

Mason’s voice was soft. Slow. Like he was trying to startle me.

I hadn’t expected him to be so close. I could feel the heat of his body from where I was standing.

My back straightened. My shoulders tensed.

He laughed something slow. Soft. Something hidden from everyone but me.

I couldn’t see his face since he was standing behind me. But I knew it was him. I would’ve recognized his voice anywhere.

“Gesù,” I gasped. I spun my head around to glare at him.

He smiled — that familiar, boyish grin.

All the anger faded from my body. I narrowed my eyes and pretended it was still there. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he said. It wasn’t really an apology. I didn’t really want it to be. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I blinked at him. “What question?”

He raised a brow. “Can we leave?”

I squinted at him. Clearly, he didn’t realize how stupid he sounded.

“My mother will know,” I said flatly. 

He simply tilted his head. Like he was feigning innocence. Like he didn’t understand the weight of what he was asking.

“Can you see her?” he asked.

I looked around for her. But he was right.

I couldn’t see Mom through the crowd. Through the hundreds of men dancing obnoxiously, drinking enough for a whole village. I couldn’t even see Callie.

“No,” I said defeatedly.

He smiled a little — something sweet. “Come with me?” he asked.

There was something about the way he was looking at me. The way he asked me to leave with him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It was all too much. Too overwhelming. And it was a high I always seemed to like chasing.

I searched for Callie again. Like she’d give me an excuse to abide by my mothers rules.

I couldn’t see her through the crowd of men. The men fighting eachother in the corner. Sharing drinks and groping noblewomen. Feigning innocence the moment they turned around.

There was nothing. No sign of her. No sign of her watching or waiting for me to mess up.

“What if someone sees?” I asked.

He blinked once. Twice.

And then he said, “What if they don’t?”

There was something simmering between us — something unspoken but so damn loud. Something hanging over every interaction, every word.

It was way he said it — What if they don’t?

Something clicked in my brain. Something unexplainable fell into place.

What if? — what if there was no one watching my back?

What if life could be normal? — no husband. No social hierarchy. No more stupid balls and banquets planned by everyone but me. 

“What if they do?” I asked. I wished I hadn’t.

His hand reached out for mine. I looked at it like it would bite me.

Slowly, he put his hand down. And said, “They won’t.”

And that was all the convincing I needed.

I tipped my head down. Held my crown with my hand as if it would disguise me from everyone. For the first time in my life, I wished I’d hadn’t a veil. I would’ve blended in better.

“Where are we going?” I asked. 

He caught up to me. His footsteps were in sync with mine. 

“Weapons room,” he said. 

I blinked at him. “What’s in the weapons room?” I asked.

I expected him to say something generic. Something along the lines of privacy or quiet.

Instead, he said, “Your bow.”

The word hit something older in me. A life it felt as if I hadn’t touched in years.

“Pardon?”

He took a sharp turn down a hallway I barely ever passed through. “Your bow,” he said again, even though he knew I’d heard him.

I raised a brow, confused. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You haven’t used it in a while.”

He was right — I hadn’t.

I’d spent so much time avoiding the garden. Of hiding in the weapons room with my head in my heads as I tried to escape the banquets. Weddings and marriage and duties I was too afraid to face.

The moment we approached the weapons room, it was like I remembered how much I missed it. The feeling of the bow in my hands. The warm, September wind. The smell of olive trees and moss.

I hummed a little. Just to acknowledge I heard what he said. That I approved.

The torch light spilled through the crack in the door. The smell of oak hit me before I could even blink.

He held the door open a sliver for me to slip in without drawing attention. He moved to the side to let me in first. 

I picked up my bow. It was hidden quietly in the back of the weapons closet.

It felt lighter somehow — softer, unused. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to hold something that was mine and only mine. To hold something that wasn’t handed to me or forced upon me. I’d almost forgotten how much I missed it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started.

I braced myself for whatever he could say. That he thought I was strange. Unkind. Uninteresting beyond the whole princess-thing.

Then he asked, “How’d you start practicing archery?”

I hadn’t expected his curiosity — honestly, I’d half expected him to leave me behind in the weapons room to tend to myself.

And then I realized what he’d really asked. And I felt like throwing up.

Quietly, I said, “My father.”

He raised a brow. “Your dad?”

I paused for a moment. Slung a satchel of arrows over my shoulder as I tried to conjure a coherent response.

“He wanted me to know how to protect the kingdom,” I told him.

He stole the arrows from my grasp. Carried them one-handedly.

I continued, “Callie was busy with her ex-husband, and Norie wasn’t even old enough to speak. So . . . I was the last resort.”

He blinked at me. “Ex-husband?”

I glanced over at him. My footsteps were soft against the marble as I headed into the garden.

The wind had been sharp. Bitter. I’d wondered if winter was coming early.

But tonight, it was gentle. Almost caressing.

Part of me believed it was Mason.

He followed me like a lost dog, bundled in a linen undershirt. His tunic must’ve been far too hot for the warmth of the palace.

“You didn’t know?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“She was married off to this French king when she was sixteen,” I said. “But, apparently, she wasn't what he was looking for, so he divorced her. I don't think she ever really got over it.”

”Got over what?” he asked.

I tilted my head a little. “All the losses.”

“What do you mean, losses? Like— like the suitors?”

I shrugged a little. “I don't really know the whole story. I know she lost a friend of hers. That she had a baby.”

He stared at me. “Had?”

I looked at him. Looked away when I saw his expression. “It happens.”

”It happens?” he repeated as a question.

“Babies don’t survive very often. There was a complication.”

He blinked at me. His eyes shifted into something darker. “A complication?”

”I don’t want to talk about it,” I said immediately.

Something in his face softened a little. And then he asked, “She was sixteen?”

”Somewhere around there.”

He nodded slowly. He looked sad. I felt sad.

”Not to change the subject,” he started to say, “But I’m going to.”

I smiled a little. Tilted my head down and let my hair cover my face to hide it. 

“Do you ever think about the suitors who don’t get picked?” he asked. 

I blinked at him. And then I said, “Not often.”

“Would you feel bad for them?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re wasting their time with me.”

He smiled something real. Something soft. “Wasting their time?”

He used a dagger hidden in his tunic to carve an X into the tree bark. Reached into the satchel and handed me a singular arrow. The metal tip glimmered against the moonlight. 

“None of them are particularly what I’d consider husband material,” I said.

I raised the bow. Pointed it at the target before he even stepped out of the way.

“You don’t like any of them?”

“Would you?” I asked.

The arrow pierced the tree bark just above the center. I winced at the lack of accuracy, my time away from the bow clearly wearing on my aim and precision.

“They’re obnoxious,” I continued. “Loud. And they’ve got their own rooms at my house, for God’s sake — I can’t even get rid of them. Even if I did like any of them, I’d get sick of seeing their faces all the time.”

“Ah, so that’s why you ignored me for so long,” he said — he clearly meant to come off smug or teasing, but it sounded sadder, more disappointed.

I glanced up at him, nearly nicking my finger on the edge of the arrow as I tugged it from the wood. I tossed it onto the ground unceremoniously.

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, holding out my hand for another dart. “You aren’t a suitor. Nor are you anything like them.”

He shifted slightly. Handed me another arrow. Leaned casually back against an olive tree.

That familiar, clever smile was exactly what I’d anticipated from him. What I’d expected to see when I told him he was different in my eyes.

He wasn’t like the suitors. It was half of what scared me about him.

I was used to men being crude. Abusive. Cruel.

But he wasn’t any of those things. He was Mason.

And that’s why he terrified me — because I wasn’t exactly sure how to handle a man I didn’t have to hide from. A man who liked me for anything that wasn't the benefits I'd bring if I agreed to marry them.

“How so?” he asked, and I was dreading whatever answer came out of my mouth.

“Well, for one, most of the suitors wouldn’t be thrilled that their dainty bride was out in the garden with a crossbow and the servant who keeps following her around.”

“I’m not following,” he corrected. “You ask for me, and I come.”

I almost smiled as I raised the crossbow again. My eye centered on the direct middle of the X.

“And if I didn’t ask for you?” I asked. 

He thought for a moment. Then he said, “I’d seek you out.”

Hesitantly, I let myself smile. Just a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

I angled the shot. Pulled the string back. The target suddenly seemed further away than it always had.

This time, the arrow hit. It stuck right in the center, the spade deeply rooted into the tree bark.

My eyes sparkled with pride. I tugged the dart from the olive tree, nearly popping my shoulder out of place as I used all of my force to uproot it from its spot.

He applauded slowly. “Bravo,” he said, and I was sure it was the only Italian he’d come to the palace knowing.

I bowed to him, not bothering to lift my dress in order not to dirty it. I tossed the arrow into the grass.

“Grazie,” I said.

He tilted his head.

I clarified, “Thank you.”

He grinned a little. “I could’ve figured that one out.”

I rolled my eyes as if I were annoyed with him. I wasn’t.

“I’m sure,” I said slowly.

I picked the arrows up off the floor. Stuck them back into the satchel, careful not to accidentally pierce Mason with one of them.

He tilted his head. “Wait— that’s it?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I mean— you only shot two arrows.”

“I can’t be gone too long,” I said. “Someone is going to get suspicious eventually.”

I gripped the bow tight in my hands. Like I was worried someone would steal it away.

I never seemed to like being inside anymore. It meant suitors. It meant weddings. It meant preparation for a marriage I knew I’d dread.

It was strange how much I hated my royal blood.

It was supposed to be a blessing. A gift from God, to have so much wealth and prosperity at my fingertips. At birth.

But it felt more like a curse than it did anything else. I was an asset. A political alliance bounded by a richer kingdom. A contract between two families.

What was there to like about that?

“Do you ever . . .”

He looked at me. Tilted his head a little.

I continued, “Do you ever think about the world around us?”

“All the time,” he said, our footsteps in sync.

“What do you think about?”

“My mom,” he said casually. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And my little sister.”

“Your sister?” I asked. 

He smiled a little. But it was sad.

“I had a life before this, you know,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

He paused at the door to the weapons room. His palm hesitated against the cold doorknob.

“Why?” he asked. 

“Because I hate mine,” I said bitterly. The words spilled out before I could stop them. “And I want to hear about someone who doesn’t hate theirs.”

“What’s there to hate?” he asked.

I was almost angry at his audacity.

“What’s there to like?”

His eyes softened a little.

“The balls, the banquets, the weddings— Mason, I don’t want to be married.

“You don’t?” he asked.

“I love Italy. I love my family. My sisters. I don’t want to leave it behind.”

He held his hand out for me to hold. I didn’t reach for it.

“But I have to,” I continued, “Because, in everyone’s eyes, I’m a political contract that provides us with more money.”

Pity washed over his face before he could stop it. “Audrey.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

What was I doing telling him any of this? It wasn’t like he could help the outcome in any way. Like he could whisk me away. Bring me to his own home and let me live in a spare room.

It occurred to me then that I didn’t mind the idea of living with him.

Conversation came easy to me when I was with him. I wouldn’t have minded the idea of meeting the family he left back at home.

My family — with the exception of Norie — was, for lack of better words, stress-inducing. But Mason wasn’t like that.

He was a breath of fresh air. He was a trip to the garden. A clean shot with my bow. A moment of silence in my bedroom away from the rest of the world.

I tucked my bow into the weapons closet. I was careful to stick it behind a plethora of swords and spears.

I heard the unmistakable sound of commotion brewing in the dining hall. The distant sound of metal goblets dropping to the floor. Wine splashing against marble. Drunken yelling from both men and women, both equally angry at eachother.

My mind was racing — were they looking for me? Were they looking for something else? — someone else?

“Che cosa desiderano adesso?” I asked. 

“No idea what that means,” Mason said softly. His hand lightly grazed over my back as he tucked the arrows into the closet.

“What the hell do they want now?” I spat out bitterly, repeating the words for him.

His footsteps lingered behind me as I headed out. Like he was worried that someone would get the wrong idea if they saw us together.

“Do you want me to take care of it?” he asked.

I raised a brow. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” he said. “But I can take care of you if you want.”

I glanced back at him for just a moment. Something in my resolve softened.

“I’ve got it,” I said.

The anger seeped in as I approached the door to the dining hall. I kicked it open so aggressively that the heel of my foot ached with pain.

The scene I walked into was one I’d never witnessed before.

Fist fights. Blood splattering against the walls as daggers shook angrily in people’s hands. Women cowering behind servants who’d taken it upon themselves to hide in a corner of the room.

Fights had been threatened once or twice, sure, but it had never been this messy. This bloody. Scary enough that even Mom couldn’t find it in herself to interfere.

I screamed, “Enough!”

The room silenced with the echo of my voice.

Chapter Text

Audrey didn’t recognize the power she held over people.

Fists stopped halfway to people’s faces. Chalices dropped to the floor with surprised gasps. Servants’ quiet sobs were silenced.

Wine mixed with blood, that familiar shade of red splashing across the palace floors. Callie watched from the corner in awe of her sister.

“Put your weapons down,” she said calmly, addressing the majority of the room.

There was silence. Nobody moved.

And then she yelled, “Posa la tua merda!”

Despite the fact nobody seemed to understand what she was saying, every single weapon clattered to the ground. Daggers. Spears. I could’ve sworn I heard an arrow drop from the opposite side of the dining room.

Even the Queen, perched uselessly on the throne, opened her palms. Like she was dropping something herself.

“For the love of God, someone tell me what the hell is going on here!” she said, stomping her foot in frustration.

Not a single person made any effort to speak.

She turned to Liam. Her voice was only slightly softer. “What happened?”

“They were competing for your hand in marriage,” he said, his voice lacking any sort of emotion or surprise.

It was like it was just another day for him. Another fight.

“Animals,” she murmured. Louder, she said, “All of you are animals! How could you possibly think all of this violence would win my heart?”

The Queen made an effort to speak. “Now wait a moment—”

“Mama, non può seriamente credere che questo sia giusto!” she yelled.

Her fists clenched against the shiny gold coating the throne.

The sight of the dining hall that had once been beautiful and clean was now tainted in blood and spoiled foods. Fear melted through every servant’s face.

What surprised me most was the expression on Callie and the Queen’s faces. They looked shocked. For once, I didn’t feel bad for Norie’s lack of inclusion in royal events.

I snuck my way into the dining hall without anyone noticing me.

But Audrey noticed. Of course she noticed.

Her eyes met mine for just a moment. Less than a second. But she knew exactly where I was standing.

Audrey took a moment to catch her breath. To take in the sight around her.

There were men with nasty looking stab wounds, their blood dripping onto the palace floor. Women with tears streaming down their faces. Young servants cowering in opposite corners of the room.

Most of the weapons were covered in crimson and rust. Some were shiny. Fresh. Like they’d been made only moments before.

“Everyone out,” she said. There was a fire in her eyes was scary enough to silence everyone.

The Queen opened her mouth to say something. Couldn’t get a word out.

“Out! Everyone get out!” Audrey screamed. 

I noticed something from the corner of my eye. Something I hadn’t expected to see.

A small girl, no older than fifteen. Clinging to Callie. Her hands were bunched into the fabric of her dress.

Callie noticed. She simply allowed it to happen. I could’ve sworn that, for just a second, Callie squeezed her hand. As if to tell her, It’ll be okay.

Audrey's cheeks were flushed. Her chest was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Hands trembling.

She still looked pretty. Something sharper than it was soft. I wanted to tell her — but I figured there was probably a time and place for that.

She opened the doors all the way, stretching the entrance to the dining hall. The hinges creaked angrily.

It seemed that the visitors and other suitors  understood the gist of what she wanted. They threw down their chalices. Lifted their dresses above their ankles so as to not stain the hems of the fabric with blood.

Footsteps pattered against the marble, men and women alike squeezing and pushing through side doors. Nobody reached down to pick up the weapons they’d dropped. They left them behind. Left them for anyone to take.

“Audrey,” the Queen started to say.

I braced myself for impact. Most people had underestimated the fear that she could bestow upon people as a female ruler.

To my surprise, she simply said, “I am far too exhausted for whatever this performance was meant to be.”

Audrey blinked at her. Something angry flickered in her eyes.

“You think this is a performance?” she spat back. “There is blood everywhere — why did nobody put a stop to this? Why didn’t you put a stop to this?”

“It isn’t that easy, sweetheart.”

She raised a brow. “It was easy enough.”

“Of course they’ll listen to you,” the Queen said. “They are competing for you. Your word, to them, is currently stronger than mine.”

“They’re barely competing for me,” she said. “It’s up to you which one marries me.”

”I told you,” the Queen said, “That if you found a man you liked, I’d allow him to betroth you.”

“I don’t like any of them!” Audrey yelled back. “They are all bastards. I wouldn’t pick any of them if given the option.”

I tried to resist the urge to smile. It slipped out before I could stop it.

Liam glanced at me. He seemed to share an expression similar to mine.

“Liam,” Audrey said.

The smile washed off his face just as quickly as mine did.

She took a deep breath. “I want you and the rest of my personal servants to escort me back to my chambers.”

The Queen opened her mouth to say something. Anything that would stop her daughter’s outburst.

And then Callie sighed. And her anger faded into pained acceptance.

The damage was done. The outburst had occurred. It was over, and there was nothing that could be done to reverse it.

Liam gave a single nod. He looked towards me as if to ask, What are you waiting for?

Four other servants walked to her. Their heads were dipped low and terrified.

“She fights back,” he whispered into my ear.

The memory of his words was almost enough to make a smile break across my face.

All of us made a circle around her. I’d somehow maneuvered myself to stand at her side. So did Liam.

There were two servants leading her. Two guarding her from behind.

Both women in the back were barely older than Norie. They had pale faces and French accents that slipped through when they whispered to eachother.

“Enjoy the show?” Audrey whispered into my ear.

“Immensely,” I said.

She didn’t react. For a second, I thought she hadn’t heard me.

And then she smiled a little. Tipped her head down to hide it. It was better than any verbal response she could’ve given me.

There was a long moment of silence. Most of the servants seemed too scared to say anything. Too focused on making sure that Audrey had calmed down. Like they were walking on eggshells.

I brushed her hand with my fingertips. Didn’t let it linger. I knew she felt it.

“Are you okay?” I asked. 

She nodded once.

Her head was pointed upwards — that perfect princess posture I’d seen drilled into every woman in the Naples Kingdom. But her eyes held something heavier.

I could tell she’d meant what she said about the suitors. How could she like any of them?

It was incredible to me. How her mother didn’t understand. How Callie didn’t understand. The process for them had been the same as it was for Audrey. Somewhere in their hearts, they must have felt at least a shred of pity. I hoped they did.

“I hate them,” she whispered.

I glanced at her. Her eyes were sad. Angry, maybe.

“I hate that they have rooms in my house,” she continued. “That they’re always here.”

“I know,” I said. Even though I didn’t really know.

Someone had lit the torches while the gathering was in full swing, the embers flickering in their sconces. I was grateful — for September, it was strangely cold.

The windows were large and long. They stretched far enough that I could see the stars. The night had been awful inside. But it seemed softer out there. Gentler.

When we approached her room, her head wasn’t held as high as it was before. It had dipped low to the ground, her crown tipping forwards with the promise of gravity weighing it down.

Her eyes held something angry. Something sad. Something tired.

“You are all dismissed,” she said. She didn’t look up as the doorknob rattled with the weight of her hand.

I lagged behind the rest of the servants. It earned me a strange glance from Liam as he crossed his hands behind his back and turned the corner towards our room.

The two young girls started talking in either French or Polish. From the little words I understood, they seemed to be jabbering about the food options being served the next day.

It was the same as it always was. Figs. Pomegranate. Spiced wine that stained lips and almost always tainted someone’s clothing.

To my surprise, Audrey grabbed the arm of my tunic. The fabric wrinkled in the palm of her hands.

“You know I didn’t mean you,” she said.

I hadn’t known. But I smiled like I did and followed her inside.

And then it happened.

She let out a single noise. Something in between a choke and a cough.

And then she started to cry. Heavy sobs that shook her entire body.

For a moment, I was completely silent.

I’d never seen someone break the way she did. Raw. Vulnerable. Like she couldn’t hold it back, no matter how hard she tried.

“Audrey,” I said quietly.

She didn’t look up. She covered her face with her hands.

I sat down beside her on her bed. Our shoulders touched. I could feel her trembling against me.

She leaned her cheek against my arm. Her hair fell over her face.

I wrapped a careful arm around her.

Her hands clenched around my shirt. She was squeezing so tight I couldn’t pull away even if I tried.

“I hate them,” she said. Her voice was wrecked. “I’m so sick of them. Of this.”

“I know.”

“You don’t,” she spat back.

I shut up immediately. Because she was right.

Audrey continued, “I just— I keep thinking I want to go home. But I am home. This is my life now.”

I wrapped my hand around her forearm. She leaned slightly into the touch.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Half because it was true. Half because it was all I knew how to say.

What else could I say to someone hurting so much?

“What can I do to help?” I asked. I didn’t know my voice was capable of sounding so soft. 

“Just— be here,” she said.

So I stayed.

I sat with her. It was silent except for the sound of her crying. But I was there.

I brushed her hair away from her face.

She tensed. And then she leaned into it a little.

There was something soft brewing between us. Something that wasn't just friendship but wasn't quite its own thing either.

“Okay?” I asked.

She didn’t look at me. But she said, “Okay.”

~
~

Audrey seemed numb to the banquets after that night.

The rest of the week, she did exactly what her mother wanted her to do.

She sat quietly, her head tilted high. She would only speak when spoken to. Received meaningless gifts with a smile.

I wondered if she meant to look at me during those small moments — the gift exchanges. The gifts that weren’t personalized in the slightest. The gifts that, when I’d first seen her, made her twitch angrily in her seat.

I remained close to her, even when Callie gave me strange looks. Even when other servants asked for help carrying a particularly heavy tray or hauling a drunk suitor back to their room.

Every once in a while, I could hear her whisper quietly to the Queen. It was always in her native tongue. Always words I couldn’t understand. But based on the way her face dropped every time her mother finished speaking, it seemed that Audrey was fighting a losing battle.

Secretly, I’d found ways to sneak her into the garden.

Every so often, I’d pretend that Norie requested her before bed for whatever reason. She’d look apologetically at her mom, but her eyes would squint as if to say What can you do?

And then she would sit in the grass. No respect for her dress that had surely been made with the most expensive fabrics the kingdom could receive. And she’d count the stars, whispering quietly about constellations she’d read about in books she wasn’t supposed to have.

Something told me that Callie had caught on to this secret arrangement we’d somehow made a habit of. She never said anything. I hoped she didn’t have it in her. 

She didn’t cry. She never cried after the night.

But she still had that look in her eye. The one that told me she was holding something back.

When the music started, the first notes of the harp stringing, her hands would tremble. It was that familiar signal for her to swallow her pride and dance with the suitors. Her mother would watch with a strained smile.

This night was different.

For the first time since I’d arrived, Norie was allowed inside the dining hall. Usually she wasn’t allowed where the suitors were for fear of their eyes wandering on a girl far too young to be prayed on. Too young to be told how beautiful she was for her age.

But the Queen had let it slide if only to keep Audrey from slipping away. It made me a little nauseous — the idea of her mother dismissing the very real possibility of Norie experiencing the same things Audrey had. But I was a little grateful that she was there.

She was sunshine in the form of a child. Her big smile lit up the room.

She danced with Callie. With who I assumed were distant female cousins.

She looked like an older version of Sephy. White blonde curls. Huge, innocent eyes full of wonder and joy. It was almost jarring.

Mom had named her after an old friend. Greek woman named Persephone, who’d held her hand during childbirth. Brought her bread and cheese while she was recovering.

They’d become fast friends. And after her death, Mom felt it only right to name her daughter after her. After the woman who’d made her feel safe and comfortable during her time in the medicine room.

Persephone signified the goddess of spring. And there was no one better than little Sephy to carry her name and memory.

Her small, rosy cheeks and light smile. The pure joy she held in her heart. Her little voice that couldn’t quite pronounce all her words.

Sephy who Mom had told me to protect. To never leave behind no matter what.

Sephy who I had left behind. With a rage too deep to contain and hatred in my heart.

I never liked thinking about home. The memories didn’t make me feel nostalgic — just sad.

For what I could’ve had and didn’t. For what I wanted to have but couldn’t.

I missed my sister, who would have turned seven by now. Who would still have that soft smile and those eyes the same color as mine.

I missed Mom, who was buried twelve feet in the ground. A hole that was supposed to be only six feet that I couldn’t step away from until my arms ached. Until the tears streaming down my face had dried.

“Mase,” a voice said, suddenly beside me.

I was grateful to find that it was only Liam.

He looked worried. A little confused. “You okay?”

“Yeah— sorry,” I said quickly. I shook my head like it would erase the empty, yearning feeling. “Just thinking.”

“You okay?” he asked again, because the answer I’d given him wasn’t as clear as I’d intended it to be.

“Yeah,” I reassured. I ran a calloused hand through my hair. “Thinking about home.”

He nodded like he understood. Placed his palm over my shoulder as if to say, You’ll be fine.

It almost helped. Almost made it better.

But it was too deep to erase — that empty, hollow feeling.

Standing beside him, sticky fingers clinging to his jacket was Norie.

Her curls were wild and messy. She observed me with huge, bewildered eyes.

I had never really seen her in person. She was simply another royal figure I’d heard about — another girl who roamed the palace with more power than anyone could ever understand. But she was gentle enough that it didn’t scare anyone.

I glanced up. I hadn’t ever noticed how similar Liam looked to both Norie and the Queen.

Sure, the hair was different — but the eyes were so identical that it was almost jarring. Dark blue irises that had scared me at first. Unkind. Uninviting. But they’d seemed to warm when our bond had switched into something friendlier.

I’d never had brothers. Only sisters.

But Liam had potential to be sibling-adjacent. We shared a bedroom. Talked privately before bed. Helped each other with chores and other necessary servant duties.

He didn’t act particularly brotherly — but I wouldn’t have known either way. So what I had seemed good enough.

Despite how strangely homesick I felt, I actually liked the palace.

Durham wasn’t an inherently poor area, but the countryside was known for its border conflicts and raids. Which made it a little more difficult to live a comfortable, fulfilling life.

Mom gave everything she could. A roof over our heads. Enough to eat. Water to keep ourselves bathed. But it was hard to raise two children in a relatively poor town.

The palace was different. Even being a servant made it so that I got a bed to sleep in. A somewhat built-in brother. Food consisting of olives, cheese, and figs — things I’d never be able to eat at home.

And there was Audrey. Which definitely felt like a plus.

Her dress was yellow this time — a strange contrast from the dark colors she usually wore. Her hair was tied back in a French braid. Over the course of the night, curls had started to slip out of place. She wasn’t really drunk — I’d only seen her drink one glass of wine — but her cheeks were pink nonetheless. Something that made her look soft. Gentle.

“Have any siblings?” Liam asked.

I blinked at him. And then I said, “Yeah, um— sister. My little sister, her name’s Sephy.”

”Sephy?” he asked.

“Yeah. Sephy.” The way her name sounded in my mouth almost made me sick.

He nodded softly. Then he said, “Me too.”

He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t ask him to.

Norie bounced on her heels beside him, clearly antsy to get back to the other festivities. She squeezed Liam a little harder, a little more aggressively.

He looked down at her. Glared a little.

She gave him that big-pleading-eyes look I’d seen a million times. It was that look that said, You wouldn’t say no to me, would you? — and it worked like a charm every time.

“Are you having fun?” I asked her, and the smile that spread across her face was radiant.

She nodded feverishly. I worried that her brain would rattle in her head. Her child-like grin melted into something sweet. Excited.

Even Liam — who I’d known to always be border lining on the edge of stoic and emotionless — smiled just a little. It looked for a moment like he was trying to resist it, and then the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

Callie was standing nearby. As if to keep Norie out of trouble.

She seemed almost angry that I had the audacity to talk to her little sister. Her arms were crossed. There was a sour expression on her face.

Her eyes flashed between Liam and I. Like we’d scoop her up and run away with her over our shoulders. Hold her hostage until we were paid higher wages.

I glanced down at the tunic I’d been given to wear — old and dirty. Covered in holes so big I could stick my fingers through them. And I thought, Maybe the kidnapping didn’t seem like that bad of an idea. 

Despite myself, my eyes found Audrey again.

This time, she was dancing stiffly with a suitor. She was smiling — but it was strained. Her gaze was unfocused and glossy, like she was looking right through him.

Based on the way he was dancing, he was probably on his third or fourth glass of wine. He kept tripping over his own feet. Stepping on Audrey’s clean, white shoes. Sliding his hand too far down her waist to the point of obvious discomfort.

“I’m gonna go ask Audrey if she wants anything to eat,” I said. My eyes were still fixed on the way her eye twitched when his finger grazed over her thigh.

“Have fun,” Liam said sarcastically.

I cleared my throat. “Do you want anything, Norie?”

She took a minute to look at me. Really look at me.

Then, in the sweetest voice she could manage, she said, “You’re Mason.”

Me and Liam shared a confused look.

“I am,” I told her.

She spun her head around to look at Callie.

Callie was shaking her head like her life depended on it.

The realization dawned on me like a sack of bricks — they had talked about me.

I really hoped it was Audrey who’d started the conversation. Callie wouldn’t have had anything nice to say.

Norie, on the other hand, had this mischievous glimmer in her eye. I wondered what could have possibly been said to warrant the look she was giving me.

Her grip tightened further on Liam. She only released him when he gave his arm a good shake and glared down at her. Like they were siblings and not on two completely different status levels.

“Can I come?” Norie asked.

Callie practically face-planted behind her.

“I don’t see why not,” I said, partially because I couldn’t see why not. Partially because it was easier to play into Callie’s anger rather than apologize like most of the other servants would.

If Audrey asked me to apologize, I would. But she hadn’t. So I didn’t.

Norie let go of Liam. His sleeve was wrinkled from where she’d been holding it.

She bounced over to me with a huge smile on her face and a mischievous glare that both terrified and intrigued me.

She attached herself to my leg. Held my hand with a shyness that was unexpected for the attitude she’d had before.

“Let’s go find your sister,” I said softly.

She looked up at me with those huge blue eyes.

Chapter Text

“Would you like another drink, Princess?”

I spun around. And I was relieved — more than relieved — to see Mason standing beside me.

His hand was pressed steadily against my forearm. There was a small smile on his face.

I was sure that I looked disheveled. Exhausted.

But I couldn’t help but smile a little at the mere sight of him.

My smile vanished when I saw Norie clutching his arm.

She had that knowing, annoying, sisterly grin plastered on her face. The one that told me she knew exactly who he was.

With the hand that wasn’t clinging to Mason like her life depended on it, she was holding a glass of pomegranate juice. I was sure he had gotten for her on his way to bring me a goblet of watered-down wine.

“Thank God,” I whispered to him. I leaned close enough so only he could hear me. “I’m suffocating in here.”

“When are you not?” he teased, but it was true.

Was I ever not miserable anymore?

I narrowed my eyes. “Very funny.”

“Thank you.”

Despite everything, I was grateful he was here. Somehow, everything felt a little softer, easier when he was around me.

It was strange. How much I liked being around him.

Maybe it was good for me, letting someone in. Maybe it would be bad, too. But I wouldn’t know until I allowed it to happen.

The suitor had finally, finally disappeared, melting into the crowd. As I took the glass of wine, I thought I caught a glimpse of him.

But it was just another man with similarly colored hair. They all looked the same — but their facial features were tweaked just slightly. To make them appear different.

“Are you okay?” Mason asked softly.

He touched my hand. I pulled away instantly.

His concern was obvious on his face. I could see it even in the darkness of the dining room.

“Just a little tipsy,” I said.

He raised a brow. He knew I was lying.

“Um— what’s Norie doing with you?” I asked.

“She wanted to come with me to find you.”

Of course she did.

“Is that so?” I asked. My smile was strained.

That mischievous grin spread over her face like butter. Her eyes were shining with a look that told me she knew everything.

“Mason got me pomegranate juice,” she said excitedly. It was a delicacy usually reserved for older noblewomen, but I supposed they could have made an exception for Norie.

“Well, that’s very nice of him,” I said. My voice was tight. “Did you say thank you?”

“Thank you,” she said, glancing up at him with a smile that could light up the entire room.

It was strange — the sight of Mason standing there with Norie. Her hands were clutching his sleeve. His smile was boyish and kind and something else I couldn’t quite place.

It felt so oddly natural. Like everything had always just been this way. Like everything had fallen into place the moment he arrived.

It felt like he had always been a part of my life. Like he’d always just been here, living in the palace years before. And not a new arrival that had only just settled into the routine.

Fifteen days. Fifteen days he had been in the palace, and it was like he was always just there.

Maybe that was because I was always with him.

We always found ways to be near eachother, whether it was him sneaking me into the garden after dark or him not-so-subtly offering me a glass of wine at breakfast. He was always near me.

No matter how many glares Callie gave him. The way Mom’s eyes would twitch when he walked into a room.

He was always just there. Always standing there with that kind smile and those gentle eyes and sarcastic comments that should have been annoying but weren’t.

It was strange. I was so used to never letting anyone in. To keeping everyone but my sisters at arms length.

But now, he had gotten under my skin. And I really didn’t mind it at all.

Suddenly, I didn’t care that Norie was watching me. That Callie wasn’t standing all that far away. That Mom was perched high and mighty on the throne.

“Let’s dance,” I commanded.

He blinked at me. “Okay,” he said. His voice was shier than I’d expected it to be. “Um— here? Now?”

“Yes,” I said.

I gave Norie a look. Something in between annoyance and hatred.

Her grip loosened on Mason’s sleeve.

“Eleanora,” I said, “Shoo. Go find Callie or Liam.”

She ran away. In excitement or fear, I wasn’t sure.

I didn’t feel too bad for sending her away. I knew how badly she was to be included.

Norie never said anything — she was far too nice. But I always caught the small glimmer of sadness in her eyes when Callie and I would dress in extravagant ballgowns. Drink watered down wine while she stayed in her room by herself.

She found Liam quickly. He rolled his eyes and said something I couldn’t hear. But he still smiled when she looked up at him with those big, blue eyes.

Mason put his hands on my hips. Steady and gentle.

The air around us shifted. It was almost like the biting, ever-present wind had turned into something kinder in just a few seconds.

“I didn’t know her name was Eleanora,” he said suddenly.

I raised a brow. “What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know— I mean, you call her Norie. I figured her name was Nora. Eleanor maybe.”

I rolled my eyes a little. “My mother didn’t think Eleanor was . . . Regal enough.”

He smiled. My brain felt foggy.

His hands were pressed against my hips. It was so minuscule in the grand scheme of things. But it felt bigger than that.

I had been touched like this by every suitor. It was practically common knowledge for the woman to rest her hands on a man’s shoulders, for his hands to fall just below her waist.

But this wasn’t just some suitor. This was Mason. And the way he was touching me — so simple, so easy, so normal — made something low and deep hum in the pit of my stomach.

“Thank you,” I said suddenly. “For scaring him away.”

“I told you I could be scary.”

I raised a brow. “You offered me a drink.”

“And it scared him away, didn’t it?”

I had never liked my laugh. It was too sharp, too loud. It was a noise that Callie used to mock when we were younger.

I hadn’t told her to stop — she would have felt bad, and her feeling bad would make me feel bad. But sometimes I wished I had. Sometimes I wished I wasn’t so ashamed of a noise that came so naturally to everyone else.

But this time, it did come naturally.

I actually laughed at what he’d said. Sharp and sudden. Something I hadn’t meant to let slip but I was sort of grateful it had anyway.

Because the way he smiled was worth the embarrassment. Like I’d hung the stars. Like he were going to kiss me.

He looked like he was going to kiss me.

He was looking at me with that familiar look boys got when they were about to do something stupid and irreversible. Like break a window playing tag or kiss a woman smarter than them.

It wasn’t a look I was very familiar with. But it was one I’d seen before on hundreds of brainless suitors before. Ones who tried making out with noblewomen so clearly uninterested.

“Are you about to kiss me?” I asked bluntly.

Because how else was I supposed to bring it up? 

But kissing him in private didn’t seem like a completely horrible idea. I couldn’t let him, of course — not in front of so many people — but it wasn't the worst thing in the world.

“No,” he said quickly. His entire face was red. “I’m— I always look at you like that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re always looking at me like you’re trying to kiss me?” I asked.

His cheeks darkened. Posture shifted. His grip loosened just slightly against my waist

He smiled something sheepish. “Not . . . Intentionally,” he said softly.

I hummed in acknowledgment. Just so he knew I didn’t believe him.

He blinked at me. “I mean— are you asking me to?”

“Don’t you dare,” I said. 

He smiled a little. He almost looked guilty. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good. It would be a terrible idea.”

“It would.”

But something was different now. Now that I was thinking about it.

I kind of wanted him to kiss me. I kind of liked the idea of him kissing me.

What was wrong with me?

When did I start thinking stupid things like that?

Things like I want him to kiss me. And I kind of want to kiss him too.

When did I start going against my mother?

Against my life?

Against what was, truthfully, for the best?

When did I start liking him?

“You’re in your own head,” he said suddenly.

I blinked at him. Shook my head as if it would remove every thought from my brain. “What?”

“You’re just staring at me,” he asked. “Are you going to kiss me?”

“You wish,” I said.

He smiled. It looked a little like he did wish.

Was this going to become something real?

Something irreversible?

Something completely terrifying that I wasn’t really that afraid of embracing anymore?

It was a horrible, horrible idea. And I wanted it.

“Are you drunk?” I asked him.

In case he was being stupid. Too wasted to even register the things he was saying. He was hard to read.

“No,” he said. He sounded honest enough. “Are you?”

“I’ve had one glass of wine.”

“I have no idea how much wine it takes for you to get drunk.”

I raised a brow. “Four glasses worth,” I told him.

I thought back to that day. When I’d asked him not to leave. To stay.

Stay wasn’t the word I’d used. But it was the word I’d meant.

I knew myself well enough to know that, even drunk, the walls I’d put up wouldn’t ever let me be too vulnerable. But it was so close. So close to something that was.

While I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it, I was kind of grateful I had. He hadn’t left. He stayed.

He smiled just a little. That boyish grin.

“Four glasses,” he repeated. Like he was keeping it in his mind for future reference.

There was a pause between us. The silence was thick and heavy.

Then he whispered, “Your sisters have been staring at us this entire time.”

He almost sounded scared. It made me smile a little.

Callie was scary looking. But she’d always been all bark, no bite as Mom described her.

Norie was just Norie. As sweet as sunshine. A girl who lit up every room she walked into. 

But underneath all of it, I was annoyed at them. Had they always been this invasive?

It wasn’t all that uncommon for princesses to make friends with their suitors. But it was mostly due to the fact that they were never meant to be alone for more than a few seconds.

It wasn’t strange for Mason and I to talk. To dance together. To find eachother in crowded rooms.

It was like Callie believed that there was something deeper than just friendship. Something rooted within the palace grounds.

“Can you walk me back to my room?” I asked him. I didn’t think I’d ever been so annoyed. “Maybe we can actually talk without my sisters trying to ruin everything.”

He smiled a little. “Yeah, of course.”

He didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree. Didn’t try to make me change my mind or choice of words. 

Maybe I was drunker than I thought I’d been. Maybe I’d just been overthinking for too long.

But I suddenly felt a little weightless. Like I was walking on air and not solid ground. My brain felt foggy. There was an unwelcome sensation pooling in the pit of my stomach.

Mason just put his hand on my back. Guided me out the doors. Ignored the way Callie was glaring at him.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His eyes were worried. His steps slowed.

Was I?

It didn’t feel like a question I could answer. Because, truthfully, I wasn’t okay.

I couldn’t tell what was wrong with me. Why I kept allowing myself to embrace the feeling of him close to me.

It was making me feel insane. I felt like one of the women in the books I’d read over the years. The ones who uprooted their entire lives for men they hadn’t known for more than a week or two.

I had always wondered why, how anyone could have allowed that to happen. But maybe that feeling — the one that hummed deep and low in my chest — could only be dissipated with a stupid decision. Maybe it was what led them to stupidity.

“Yes,” I said, because it was all I really could say.

The walk felt so much faster than it really was. One moment, I was walking through the dining room doors, the oak wood creaking as Mason pushed it open, and the next I was standing in front of my bedroom.

The hallway was empty and quiet aside from the distant humming of voices. I couldn’t help but think about the fact that we were alone now. Nobody would find us. Say anything.

The two of us stood awkwardly outside my door. The heat of the moment cracked under the pressure of tension burning between us.

I wasn’t sure what to say.

He clearly wasn’t either.

There was so much simmering between us. So much that I couldn’t even decipher the good from the bad. The stupid from the smart.

I grazed my fingertips over the doorknob.

He took a step back. Like he could see how overwhelmed I was by the close proximity. His eyes were burning into mine.

”Goodnight, Audrey.” The sound of his voice reverberated through the room despite the fact that it was barely above a whisper. “I’ll see you in the morning.

He sounded soft. Gentle. So overwhelmingly sweet that I wanted to cry. 

“Right,” I said quietly. The revelation of what I’d almost done crashed upon me with the force of a tidal wave. “Um— goodnight. Sleep well.”

He smiled — small, a little shy. Like he was holding back something more. Something less inconsequential. His fingers flexed at his sides, almost as if he were about to reach out to me.

But then he ran a calloused hand through his hair. And he walked away.

I didn’t wait for him to disappear down the hallway before I opened the door and stepped into my bedroom.

The air was cold and sharp compared the warmth of the hallway.

Even in the heavy ballgown I’d chosen to wear, deeply uncomfortable and a little bit hot, I still felt the urge to flop down into my sheets. To bury my head in my pillow. Sleep away whatever feeling washed over my body.

I never slept with my hair still in updos — not after I’d woken up two years ago with my hair so tangled not even Callie could tame it. But now, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to lay on my stomach and contemplate. Sleep away ever thought I’d ever had in my life.

I reached my hands around my back. Pulled the edge of the dark yellow string that held the entire dress together.

The corset loosened around my waist. I sucked in a deep, unrestrained breath.

I slipped the dress down my shoulders. The heaviness of it pooled around my ankles. Cold air grazed over my skin.

Becoming myself again, removing the princess attire from my body and becoming Audrey was something I had always kept unspoken. Secret. But it was something I loved more than anything.

I loved looking into the full-length mirror and seeing not a princess but someone softer. Different. Something that someone would eventually — hopefully — love enough.

I slipped a dark blue nightgown over my body. The silk fabric fell just above the middle of my thighs.

I finally flopped down onto my bed. The smell of fresh linen wafted through my nose.

As much as I disliked being a princess, I had seen the small servants quarters. The beds were barely separated by a single nightstand. It made me grateful that I had a soft bed to fall into each night, freshly washed sheets and silky pillows to sleep on. I couldn’t figure out why people wanted to be in any position of power, but, every once in a while, I thought of the small luxuries. And I felt a strange feeling of indebtedness to Mom.

I rolled over in bed, my mind racing with everything I’d felt standing in front of my door with Mason.

His eyes were warm. His lips were parted. And I’d kind of wanted to kiss him.

Even worse, I had kind of wanted him to kiss me. To break me away from the walls I’d put up as a child. To hold me.

Fifteen days.

How was fifteen days the only amount of time it took for my life to change?

To shift into something different?

I had known Mason barely two weeks. Barely enough time to form any sort of meaningful relationship.

And yet it felt like he’d been in my life for years. I couldn’t make myself understand how my feelings worked like that.

How desperate for a decent human connection was I for it to happen in two weeks?

I knew that, realistically, the best thing I could do to quiet all the noise in my brain was to distance myself from him. But I couldn’t find it in my heart to do it.

He was so nice. Gentle. So strangely sweet despite the fact that not once in my life past the age of twelve had I ever deserved it.

It was overwhelming and unfamiliar. And I selfishly found myself looking forward to it. To him.

I had always been so accustomed to strategy. To devising whatever was best for me, as selfish or pathetic as it may have been.

For once, I couldn’t find a solution.

Of course, there was always the selfish option. But I didn’t want to be selfish anymore. To hurt him for my own gain.

I wanted him to like me. And showing him what I was really like would have no positive effect on our relationship.

I needed, for once in my life, to be selfish for someone else.

His life could be destroyed. Taken away by anyone more powerful than I. And I couldn’t fathom the idea of losing him because I couldn’t find it in myself to give him up.

He was too nice to waste his life on someone such as myself. Someone who would destroy him without meaning to. Someone too destructive for her own good.

~
~

Five days.

I somehow found it in myself to ignore him for five days. Without the guilt completely killing me.

But it was eating me alive. It was ruining me from the inside out.

Every time he glanced at me in crowded rooms. Looked at me with concern in his eyes.

I had never deserved his positive attention, let alone the attention I was getting after I made the decision to ignore him completely. To pretend he never existed in the first place. But he still continued to show it.

The guilt was awful. Sickening. And yet I couldn’t find it in myself to stop.

Callie was thrilled about my avoidance of him.

She smiled a little more. A little wider. Gave me small glances across the table and grinned behind her wine glass. It was as if we were children again. Innocent and sweet. Sharing secrets and kicking eachother under the table when Mom wasn’t watching.

Norie didn’t notice his absence. But she noticed that my face had fallen. That my eyes were tired.

Mom didn’t notice. She never noticed. Never cared. I stopped being sad about it by the time I reached fifteen.

But there was something about the way her eyes flickered towards Callie. Her eyes would narrow into something I’d never seen before. And then it would disappear.

Twenty. Twenty days.

The number shifted something in me. Like stones in a still pond, rippling out and shaking everything.

I had ignored him five days. Tolerated him fifteen. Known him twenty.

And still, everything felt wrong.

Too fast and not nearly fast enough. Too much and not enough at all.

It almost felt selfish not talking to him. It wasn’t fair to him — not getting closure. A goodbye.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My nightgown was twisted around my body from sleeping restlessly. Hair frizzy and tangled so horribly that I almost couldn’t braid it.

I thought strategically about how I could best address the issue.

Apologize, maybe. But what good would that do? — Sorry for ignoring you, it will happen again.

For someone I didn’t want to upset, that probably wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.

For once, I let my brain overthink. Overwork itself to the point of insanity.

I thought mostly about the woman I had been before Mason. A girl with untouched pride. Something worn directly on my sleeve like a badge of honor.

Something that was now bruised in places. In places I didn’t know were capable of bruising.

How had I let him get under my skin so quickly?

And how the hell do I get him out?

There was a sharp knock on the door. One that scared me half to death. One that made me wonder if I had somehow misinterpreted how late in the day it was.

I’d always been an early riser. Had my thoughts somehow clouded the routine I’d developed over the years?

“Audrey?” asked a tiny voice from behind the door. My name trembled as it spilled from their lips.

I pulled the door open as I recognized the sweet voice speaking to me.

Norie. She was standing in a gown that fell to her ankles. She had tear stains on her face.

Her bottom lip shook as she tried to stay quiet. Her hands were clutched around a small, silk bear that Callie had made for her eighth birthday. If she wasn’t so sad, so scared, I would have smiled at the image of it.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” I encircled her in my arms like our shared warmth would fix every problem. “Did— did someone do something to you? Who was it?”

“Nightmare,” she whispered quietly.

I let out a sharp breath of relief. The terror that someone had done something to my baby sister disappeared into the air.

“I didn’t want to— to wake up Callie,” Norie said. “She’s sleeping.”

“She wouldn’t have minded if you woke her up,” I promised.

I hoisted her off the ground like she was still a baby. Still small enough to walk around with and hold like a doll.

She wrapped her legs around me as if on instinct, her arms coming to wrap around my neck. She buried her face in my shoulder.

“I want to go to the garden,” she said. Muffled against my skin. 

The garden. Mason worked in the garden. If it were anyone else — any other situation — I would have said no.

But it was Norie. My little sister who was scared. Who needed a quiet place where nobody would bother us.

Besides, maybe it would be good to see him — I didn’t have to apologize with Norie nearby.

If he tried speaking to me, I’d be able to get away with casual small talk and a plain goodbye. Just to show him I wasn’t angry with him.

Finally. Finally, the strategy had come to me. The selfishness in me was grateful for once that she’d had another nightmare.

I headed down the hallways — still barefoot, still barely covered by the nightgown I’d sewn a few years prior.

I hadn’t realized how much taller I’d gotten in the past two years. It seemed obvious now with the silk draped barely over a third of my body.

My footsteps pattered down the hallway quietly. I was careful not to make a noise. Not to wake a suitor — who would find it thrilling that two princesses were alone in the dark. Completely vulnerable.

“Where’s your servant?” Norie asked. There was a glimmer of mischief in her voice. “Did you break up?”

I blinked at her. My face burned.

“You don’t even know what that means,” I said.

I opened the garden door. The morning air was cold. There was no sign of him thus far.

“And we talked about this,” I continued. “He’s not my servant, he’s just— my servant.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It is not.”

I plopped her down on the ground. My fingers curled around her cheeks to wipe away the tears that had stained her face.

I sat down in the grass, my back resting against the edge of the koi pond. The fish splashed just above me.

Norie didn’t look so scared anymore. But there was something in her expression. Something that said she was trying to look brave in front of me.

“What happened?” I asked.

She laid her head in my lap. Her blonde curls fell in waves halfway across my thighs. Across the grass.

I twisted a strand of her hair around in my finger and added, “You know you can tell me.”

“Daddy,” she whispered.

My entire body tensed. My shoulders scraped against the stone.

“He was— he was all bloody, all over his face, all over his stomach, and— Mama was just standing there, and then she started screaming, and I just— I got scared.”

My face turned pale. Then green. I had to close my eyes to keep from throwing up. 

It had been a reoccurring dream for her.

Norie wasn’t old enough to comprehend what was happening in front of her. What happened the day Mom found Dad with a knife in his chest and a bloodied hand draped over his forehead.

The three of us hadn’t seen much. We had caught the last few glimpses of his face. The spare bedsheets going over his body, blood seeping through the thin fabric as the guards carried him away.

But it was clearly enough for Norie’s mind to form different, increasingly worse scenarios in her mind. It seemed like it was a trait she had inherited from me or Callie. That reoccurring anxiety and the restlessness of our minds.

My nails gently scraped against her scalp. “Anything else?”

She shook her head. “No. It was just Mama.”

I closed my eyes to ask the question I was dreading. “Did you— did you see what Dad looked like? Was it really bad?”

“He was bloody.”

So far, her recollection of that night seemed pretty accurate.

“There was— there was something in his chest, but I couldn’t see what it was behind Mom. His arm was covering his eyes. And it was just— there was so much blood, Rey.”

“Okay,” I said.

My voice was trembling. I bit back tears — some sad, some grateful.

It had been so much worse than what she was describing. So much bloodier.

On the other hand, I hadn’t realized how much older she’d been on the date of his death than what I thought. In my mind, she’d been barely old enough to speak. To comprehend her surroundings.

But she was nine. She was old enough to understand what had really happened. To remember Mom’s scream. Callie’s blank face as she battled between grief and acceptance and relief.

She was old enough to look into my eyes. Witness the battle that was happening in my brain as I reveled between How and Why and When.

She was old enough to see that he would never be coming back.

His intestines were draped halfway out his stomach. His hands were nearly separated from his body, the force of the blade splitting his wrists deeper than intended. His eyes were glossy, his body limp. Skin pale. Lips blue.

I had seen enough for the rest of my lifetime. And the urge to vomit in the moment had overpowered the need I felt to protect my baby sister.

In an instant, I’d run into my garderobe. Collapsed onto the floor, face green as I hunched over the toilet and heaved.

We never spoke of Dad afterwards.

Mom had conjured a story — one that painted him as a tragic hero. One that kept the Kingdom standing tall.

She had blamed it on a soldier from a neighboring country. He’d fought in the war beside him. He was a man who was riddled with grief and trauma. And it was believable enough for all of Naples to fall for it.

After that moment, if any of us — me or Callie or Norie — tried to bring him up, Mom would disappear. She’d go into her room without another word. Refuse to return until dinner.

His death had changed everything. In everyone but Callie’s eyes for the worst.

“Are you okay?” I asked her. My voice was trembling. “Do you need me to stay with you?”

“I can’t go back to sleep,” she said — quiet, scared. “It just— it just keeps getting worse.”

“Do you want to go get Liam?”

She paused for a moment. Lifted her head from my lap. There were fresh tears pooling on her face.

Slowly, with a single movement of her head, she nodded. Her hands were trembling at her sides.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

I stood from the grass. I could feel blood prickling on my shoulders from how hard they’d been scraping against the stone pond. The water still and calm aside from the restlessness of the fish.

I was fully aware of the fact that Mason and Liam shared a room. Fully aware of the fact that I’d have to talk to him alone.

But Norie adored Liam. Almost as much as she adored Callie, And no matter how much he pretended he didn’t care for any of us, I knew he adored her too.

“Alright,” I said. I instinctively reaching for her hand. Tucked a chunk of hair behind my ears. “Come with me.”

Chapter Text

I awoke to the sound of Liam’s voice, his body positioned in the door frame.

His fingers were twitching at his sides. “Norie?” he asked.

A tiny set of arms encircled his legs.

He sounded almost scared. “What happened?”

“Sorry,” the person on the other side whispered.

Audrey.

She cleared her throat. “She, um— she had another nightmare. About Dad.”

“Bad?” he asked as if it were normal. Like it was just another night.

“I mean— worse than usual.”

“Shit,” Liam whispered under his breath. “Are you okay, Norie?”

It looked as if she were biting back tears as she nodded. Her tiny head was still buried in between Liam’s knees.

Her fingers were clutching his black linen pants, wrinkling them in her hands. She let out a small, devastated sob.

I hadn’t known the particular details about what happened to the King, but I knew it was bad.

I’d heard two years before that he died. He’d been killed by someone in a neighboring palace, but Mom had always suspected that there was something deeper nobody was telling us. She practically lived in the infirmary not too far from our house, and she had heard enough stories to know every wound, every injury.

I trusted her judgement based solely on the fact that she was my mother. But the fact that she could name each and every bone in a person’s body definitely helped.

Audrey reached her head to glance behind Liam’s shoulder. Her eyes met mine.

I was suddenly very aware of how I looked — shirtless, hair a mess, drool on the side of my mouth. I did my best to clean myself up amidst her staring.

I could’ve sworn that she almost smiled. But when the corner of her mouth twitched, she looked away. Looked down at Norie and Liam, her expression full of sorrow.

“You okay?” he asked again, but the question was directed towards Audrey this time.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice soft.

Liam nodded once like he understood. Concern was present on his face.

He wrapped his arms around Norie as if they were siblings and not on two completely different social hierarchies. His eyes were tired. His mouth was pressed into a thin line.

“Um— do you want me to walk her around? Get her mind off it?” he asked. 

Audrey nodded. Her hands trembled at her sides. Tears welled in her eyes that she swiped away with the back of her palm.

She looked down at the floor, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find the words. To describe whatever she was trying to say.

Her eyes were cloudy. She looked so unbelievably sad that I felt sick.

“Whatever she needs,” she said softly. She crossing her arms over her chest as if she were wrapping her grief around her. “Just— just take her wherever she needs to go. If you need to skip out on chores, then fine. Someone else can do them.”

Liam glanced back at me. His eyes blank yet still pleading as he rubbed circles into Norie’s back.

“Please,” he mouthed.

I nodded without a second thought.

He lifted her off the ground with ease. Her blonde curls fell easily into the crook of his neck.

“Come on, sweetie,” he said, his voice softer, sweeter than I’d ever heard.

Audrey stood awkwardly in the doorway as they left. Her eyes lingered on me as I sat up in bed and rushed to put on a shirt.

I couldn’t help but notice that her cheeks were red. Like she’d been standing out in the sun for hours.

Her freckles were prominent. Her face was flushed. Her eyes were wet as she looked down at the floor, hand pressed steadily against the doorframe.

“Hi,” I said, my voice soft. Gentle.

“Hey,” she whispered. It was barely audible over the flickering of the torch lights.

I hadn’t registered how awkward it would be — seeing her after not talking for so long. The tension between us could have been cut with a knife.

She didn’t seem to want to leave. If she had, she probably would’ve been halfway down the hall by this point. But it didn’t seem as if she wanted to stay, either.

I was grateful we were kind of on speaking terms again, but it was hard not to hold a little bit of a grudge after she’d stopped talking to me for no reason at all. If there was a reason, I couldn’t remember it in the slightest.

“Are you okay?” I asked from my bed. The covers were still halfway draped over my body.

“It wasn’t my nightmare,” she said, her voice almost bitter. Maybe a little guilty. “You should’ve asked Norie while she was here.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you and Liam’s conversation.”

“Well, if you were actually worried about my sister, you would’ve.”

There was a pause between us. One that made me wonder if I was in the wrong or if she was.

I understood why she was angry, of course, but I wasn’t sure why she was angry at me — she had spent almost a week ignoring me. Avoiding me. And now she was snapping at me as if I was the reason her sister had a nightmare.

“Did I do something to upset you?” I asked, my voice soft — though I hoped she could hear the annoyance bleeding through my words. “We haven’t spoken in a week.”

“Five days,” she corrected. Her voice was short and clipped. “It’s been five days.”

I wondered secretly if she’d been counting. Observing the amount of time we didn’t speak to each other. The long stretch of silence that had started to become unbearable between us.

It had been strange not speaking to her. Keeping my mouth shut most of the day besides the time I spent talking to Liam before bed.

I’d missed it. Her company. The way she smiled when she knew she was right.

“Right— yeah. Five days,” I repeated. My voice was trembling. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

She raised an annoyed brow. “Your question?”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No,” she said quickly, but she twisted a strand of hair around in her finger.

It was an anxious habit I’d noticed from her before. It happened when she was bothered by something — whether it be sitting on the palace throne or standing idly with her bow in her hands.

Sharply, she added, “You didn’t do anything.”

“I know— that’s why I’m asking,” I said, and, to piss her off, added a short, “Princess.”

“Audrey.” Her voice was short, clipped. She was angry. “You know I hate that.”

“I hate you ignoring me.”

“I’m not ignoring you!”

“Then where have you been?” I asked. I got up from bed. Walked over until I was only a few feet away from her. 

“I don’t know— Mason, I have things I have to do! I’m not a pet!”

“I never said that!” I spat back. “I just— I wanted to know why you were avoiding me.”

“I’m not!”

There was a moment of silence — where I couldn’t help but stare at her.

At the way her chest heaved with anger. The flush of her cheeks from yelling. The gloss in her eyes still present from the conversation she’d had with Liam about Norie.

I knew that, realistically, it wasn’t me she was mad at. But it still made me a little sad that she felt as if she needed to be angry at someone. At something.

Amidst my staring, there was something small, minuscule I noticed.

A crimson prickle under her sleeve. Blood seeping through the dark fabric.

It was such a tiny injury. Something so small. But I couldn’t help but feel my shoulders tense at the sight of blood — like the fear had never fully gone away.

“You’re bleeding,” I said without thinking. I reached my hand out almost instinctively. To graze over the wound.

She flinched.

I dropped my arms limp at my sides and added, “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine,” she said. She adjusted her sleeve as if to hide the blood I’d already seen. “It’s just a scratch.”

“It could get infected.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It could still get infected. I knew someone back at home who died from an infection.”

I tried to reach out again.

Instead of flinching, she took a step back. Opened the distance between us. Created space that wasn’t particularly welcome.

“Don’t touch me,” she said. Her voice was sharp. Guarded.

“Audrey, please,” I begged. My voice was pathetic. “Please, just— just let me. I can clean it easily. It doesn’t look like much, but I just— I just want to make sure.”

There was something quiet that shifted in her expression. Something like her resolve softening.

She raised a brow. “Didn’t know you were one of those.”

I blinked at her. “One of those?”

“Sei un maniaco delle malattie,” she said. Her voice was lower now. “A sickness freak.”

Despite myself, my mouth quirked upwards. But it was sad.

“My mom was a healer,” I admitted quietly. “She was a sickness freak. She thought every wound was a death sentence.”

There was silence between us.

She contemplated my response. Then, very softly, asked, “Did you actually know people who died from scratches?”

“Plenty,” I said, and it wasn’t really a lie at all. “The countryside is poor.”

“So?”

“So there are germs everywhere. They don’t have access to sterile tools or proper disinfectants.”

“Disinfectants?” she asked. Confusion bled through her voice.

I shrugged my shoulders a little. Wondered if the motion would hurt Audrey with the wound I’d seen. “Wine. Vinegar. Water works, too, just— not very well.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Ew— vinegar? That must smell awful.”

“Yeah, well.” I grazed my hand over hers.

She didn’t hold it. But she took a step towards me.

“It cleans up wounds really well,” I said.

She nodded once.

Then, very quietly, I whispered, “It’ll be quick.”

She hesitated. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her eyes darted across my face as if looking for flaws.

She seemed skeptical of what I’d said. But, at the same time, I hoped she could hear the concern seeping through my voice. The panic.

Infections could kill. They had killed.

My mother — the strongest, kindest, most incredible healer I’d ever known, had died of an infection. She’d been stabbed by a patient, one gone mad with war and anger.

Without any access to cleanliness, she had gotten a wound so infected that it made even her gag. She’d seen all sorts of things, but the thing that led to her very death was the very worst of them.

I didn’t believe her at the time. But knowing what I know now, it was probably less about the injury and more about the idea of losing her life. Leaving her children behind.

I would have believed that to be the very worst of them, too.

Sephy was a baby when Mom died. Barely old enough to walk, could only say a select few words. She didn’t understand why her mother had been there one day and gone the next.

I was thirteen. A boy already full of rage. Full of something that nobody — including myself — could place even before the grief hit me.

It was an entirely different entity, writhing inside my brain. Ripping at my intestines every time I tried to be happy.

It was like my grief would manifest itself into guilt. Promise an eternity in hell if I so much as smiled at anyone who wasn’t my sister. Thought about anything that wasn’t Mom.

I thought it would disappoint her. I felt guilty about the possibility of disappointing someone who hadn’t breathed in years. Who had been living in nothing but dirt for nearly a decade.

Finally, Audrey looked down at the ground. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she said, “Fine.”

I smiled. Just to show her I was grateful that she was letting me help her. Like cleaning her blood away was the most intimate thing I could ever do.

I took her hand. She didn’t hold it. But she let me, and that was enough.

I guided her to the bed even though she could see perfectly well. My palm was steady against her back like she was something fragile. Something breakable.

Carefully, she tugged the lace string resting just below her neckline. The fabric shifted down her shoulders and revealed the scratches lining her skin.

It looked as if someone had taken a sword to her back and carved into it. Three lines on her left. Four on her right. Blood prickled from beneath her skin.

While not particularly deep, I’d been right. They were deep enough to become something worse. Something serious.

Already, the wounds had started to scar over. Ugly pinks jutting out from under soft, olive skin. Dried blood dusting her freckled arms.

There was one that was worse than all the rest. Covered in half dirt, half crimson. The thick ichor was smudged and solidifying against her flesh.

I rummaged through Liam’s bedside drawer. Pulled out a bottle of red, vaguely pomegranate-ish wine he’d taken while nobody was watching.

Audrey dug her nails into her forearm. The pressure left crescent shaped marks.

“Does it hurt?” I asked quietly.

“No.”

I blinked at her. Raised a brow.

She looked away. “A little.”

”A little?”

“I can barely feel it,” she said. Her eyes were narrow. 

I nodded. Tipped the wine jug over a small square of linen fabric.

The liquid spilled into the cloth. Drops of scarlet splattered against the dirty, unkept marble — covered in dirt stains and scuff marks from whoever had lived here before me.

It almost blended in with everything else — the smell of musk amber muted slightly by the smell of wine. Vaguely mold scented wood covering the thin walls. 

I wished that I’d prepared better for a moment like this.

In Durham, Mom had always kept bandages and a small vial of gin mixed into vinegar — disgusting, but she promised it worked wonders on her patients. She carried everything in a brown corduroy bag she kept slung over her shoulder.

Which included a sharp, metal scalpel tucked into the side pocket in case anyone tried to mug her. I’d only ever seen her use it once. It scared the man half to death.

If Sephy or I were ever hurt, whether it be a scrape or a stab wound, she was always there. With that huge, heavy bag that smelled vaguely of blood and gin, tending to our wounds. Like our resources weren’t severely limited.

“Do you want to sit further on the bed?” I asked. Wine was dripping down my fingers.

“No,” she said, no hesitation. 

“Okay,” I said.

I sat beside her. My finger curled around the fabric of her gown, pulling it slightly downwards.

I touched the cloth to her shoulder.

She winced. Flinched away from me.

“Sorry,” I whispered, guilt pooling in my stomach.

She didn’t say anything. But her posture softened.

The wine stained her skin — sweet pomegranate dripping into the deep blue nightgown she was wearing. I hoped it wasn’t particularly dear to her. It would’ve been nearly impossible to get it out.

She leaned forwards. Instinctively moved her body away from me as the liquid touched her skin.

“Okay?” I asked quietly.

“Yeah,” she said, but her nose was scrunched up. “Just— a little cold.”

“Sorry,” I whispered. I kept the cloth pressed gently against her wound.

She put her hands in her lap. Intertwined her hands.

“I’m almost done,” I promised.

She hummed in acknowledgment. 

There was something soft, intimate between us. The way my hand was pressed against her shoulder blade. The way she began to lean into me when the harsh sting dissipated into something quieter.

I brushed her hair away from her neck. The curls were thick and frizzy and still somehow soft.

Her entire body shivered.

“Shit— sorry,” I said immediately.

She dragged her hair over her collarbone. Held it in place for me.

It was so much more than just disinfecting her wounds. So much more than pressing a wine soaked cloth into her skin. Wiping the blood away.

I placed the cloth onto my bedside table. Didn’t care about the stains that would soon be seeping into the wood.

I pulled out a small, sticky plaster paste wrapped in silk cloth. It smelled vaguely like beeswax and herbs I couldn’t quite place. I recognized the dark, dirt-adjacent color from Mom’s medicinal drawer in the infirmary.

I used my finger to smear the paste against two pieces of fresh linen. Coated the cloth in thick salve to assure that it would stick to her skin.

I pressed the fabric against her shoulder blade. Tried my best to be gentle despite the fact that I was covering her flesh in thick, uncomfortable ointment.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line. Discomfort was present on her face, like she wanted the moment to end as quickly as possible.

The linen flattened against her skin.

She made a small noise. Something that sounded like a hum. Like she was annoyed.

“Done,” I said.

She rose to her feet immediately.

I blinked at her. “Um— you should probably change. Your nightgown is all bloody.”

“It was already bloody when I got here,” she said, raising a brow.

“It’s covered in wine, too,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed into a glare.

And then — without my permission — she dug her hands into my top drawer. Searched absentmindedly for something to wear inside of her bloodied, alcohol stained dress.

I opened my mouth to say something. To ask her what she was doing. Tell her to stop, maybe. But I couldn’t find the words.

She pulled out a dark brown linen shirt. One Liam had given me my first week — because, according to him, it didn’t look half bad on me. It was comfortable enough to wear while working in the garden. To sleep in late. To lay restlessly as I pondered what would be happening in Durham, what would come of my baby sister and the friends I’d made at home.

I didn’t love it, per se, but it was that shirt that I seemed to wear the most. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe that was why she picked it.

“Don’t look.” Her voice was sharp and guarded and rough. Like all the walls that I’d found my way around had been brought back up and barricaded around her. “If you turn around, giuro su Dio—”

“I won’t,” I promised.

She raised a brow. Her hands clenched around the tunic.

I turned my body towards the corner of the room. Covered my eyes with both my hands. “I promise.”

I heard the silk rustling off her body. The lace slipping down her skin.

I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her presence behind me. I could feel her eyes boring into mine as if she were daring me to turn around.

I heard the small sound of her stepping out of the gown. The sound of my shirt — my shirt — falling over her body.

“Okay,” she said. Her voice was gentle.

“Okay?” I repeated, asking for permission she’d already granted.

“You can turn around,” she confirmed.

When I wore the shirt, the hem fell just barely above the middle of my thighs. On Audrey, it fell to her knees. Covered her more than the nightgown had.

Despite how nice she had looked in the deep, regal blue, I couldn’t help but believe that she looked better in my own shirt. She looked softer. More gentle. It was a sight that I selfishly wanted to see more often.

“Stop staring,” she said. She bent down to pick her nightgown up from the floor.

“Sorry,” I said automatically. I dropped my head to the floor. Shifted on my heels.

She snickered. It was barely there. But I heard it.

She reached into Liam’s drawer. Picked up something vaguely resembling a thin tube of elder wood. Mumbled something under her breath, something soft and secret in Italian. And then she tucked the hollowed out reed into the pocket of my tunic.

I leaned back against the mattress. Blinked at her. “Should I tell Liam that you’re stealing from him?”

She didn’t react — except for the obvious way she rolled her eyes. “He stole it from me,” she said.

I raised a brow. For some reason, I didn’t believe her.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m the one who crushed up the hemp leaves. I’m just— taking what’s rightfully mine.”

“I didn’t take you for a smoker,” I said. I crossed my arms. 

She scoffed. Looked away before she could smile. “It’s to help me sleep, Scemotto.”

“You're going back to bed?” I asked.

She shrugged a little. Winced slightly as the bandages against her shoulder blades shifted.

“I don’t want to be awake right now,” she said.

My heart dropped an inch. Sadness pooled in my gut.

She looked down. “I just— I need quiet. Just for a few moments.”

“Do you want me to walk you back?”

She stared at me for a second. Then she said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeated.

~
~

Audrey laid across the warm, rich soil. Her limbs stretched out across the grass in some sort of starfish position. The reed pipe dangled in between her index and middle finger.

She had decided against going back to her room after she’d caught a glimpse of one of the suitors walking up the hall. His body was resting suspiciously close to her bedroom.

She had pivoted promptly towards the garden. Pushed the door open without another word.

She was still wearing my shirt. Still buried in the sleeves that were too big for her arms and the hem that fell to her knees. But it looked much more natural after she’d been in it for so long.

Her eyes were watery as they blinked up at me, irises red from smoke irritation. There was grass in her hair. Dirt sticking to her arms. Fumes wafting around her almost poetically — grey, misty smoke that circled her like a cloud.

Her lips were slightly parted. Her movements were sluggish with either sleep deprivation or the hemp leaves.

“You’re staring,” she said flatly.

“I am.”

She smiled a little. Let her hair fall over her face.

It felt almost as if everything had fallen into place. Like she hadn’t been ignoring me for five days. Like we had always been living in this moment.

“Good staring or bad staring?” she asked. 

I reached my hand out for the reed pipe.

She handed it to me. I felt the weight of it slip into my fingers.

“Good,” I told her. “You’re pretty.”

Her cheeks were pink. “Chiudi quella bocca. That means close your mouth.”

I tucked the pipe in between my lips. Inhaled softly. “Who’d give you compliments then?”

“Suitors.”

I exhaled a puff of grey smoke. “Please. I’ve seen the way you look when they speak to you.”

She turned her head in my direction. Her eyes were narrow. “How’s that?”

I looked up at the sky. My eyes flickered towards her.

She slipped the reed pipe out from my hands. The hollowed stick rested in between her lips as she sucked in a breath of smoke.

“Your eyes narrow,” I said. “Your nose scrunches up. Um— sometimes you cross your arms over your stomach, but not always.”

She looked up at me. Her face was relaxed. Soft.

She looked calmer than I’d ever seen her before. Maybe it was the reed pipe. Maybe it was the warmth of the garden.

“Anything else?” she asked.

I smiled a little. I suddenly felt a little shier than I’d been moments before. “Sometimes your left eye twitches— like, specifically the left, never the right. And your posture always straightens up.”

“It does?”

“You’ve never noticed?” I asked quietly.

She smiled — really smiled. The dimple on the side of her mouth flashed for a rare moment before it faded away.

“No,” she said. 

Her eyes had softened. She exhaled slowly. Smoke swirled around her face before the wind whirled it far away. Until only the spirit of hemp scented herbs remained.

The reed was halfway burnt as it rested in between her fingers. The edge flickered with light red embers. Grey fumes swayed in the warm sun, the ghost of them swallowed by the tree leaves and branches.

“Can I change the subject?” she asked, her voice soft.

I flopped down in the grass beside her. Our shoulders nearly touched. There was barely an inch of space in between us.

I hummed in acknowledgment. Turned my head just slightly towards her.

“I want to know about your family,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause between us. Quiet. Tense — but not particularly unwelcome.

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Tell me anything.”

“My mom was a healer.”

She turned her head to look at me, eyes narrow and slightly pink. “I knew that.”

“I have a sister.”

“I knew that too, Mason. Something new.”

I tried not to smile and failed. The corner of my mouth twitched before I could stop it.

“Her name’s Sephy. Persephone,” I said. “My sister. She’s seven.”

“What about your mom?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Her name was Giselle.”

Her shoulder grazed mine. “Was?”

“She died six years ago,” I said softly. My fingers twitched at my sides.

“Your dad?” she asked. 

“Two years ago,” I whispered.

She nodded once like she understood. Like the grief of losing both parents was something she could comprehend.

She blinked at me. “I’m sorry.”

I looked down at her. “For?”

“I don’t know— everything, I guess.”

There was a pause. Something strangely tense.

I asked, “Do you want to talk about your dad?”

She said, “No,” automatically.

The way she said it — so quick, so guarded even despite the fact that she was lethargic from the hemp leaves. It made me feel almost guilty for asking.

Even as she spoke — that simple No, slurred and sleepy, there was that familiar coldness. I could hear it bleeding through her words.

She dug the burnt edge of the reed into the dirt. The embers died in the rich, soft soil.

I watched with silent eyes. Gazed at her.

“Do you want to just— lay here?” I asked. 

She slowly shifted her head in my direction. Flopped an arm over her eyes. Outstretched her fingers. Dug her sharp nails into her palms.

There was a ghost of a smile on her face. Her nose scrunched up a little.

“Yeah,” she said. Her voice was soft and sweet and gentle. “Mason?”

I hummed. A barely-there gesture meant to signify a response.

“If I fall asleep, will you carry me back?” she asked. 

I blinked at her. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head upwards at me. Her eyes pink and wet from smoke irritation. “You will?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes. Like she was falling asleep as we spoke.

And I gazed at her.

Sleep overtook her body. Her posture softened. Face relaxed. Lips parted.

For just a moment, I let myself relish in her. In the way she looked.

Peaceful.

The walls around her had disappeared. Left behind nothing but the vulnerability and tranquility that came with allowing herself to rest.

Chapter Text

I woke up to the soft, sweet colors of the sun setting. Pinks and oranges danced across the sky.

It took me a moment to remember how I’d ended up back in my bed.

The nightmare. Liam’s room. Mason’s room. The reed pipe. The pure bliss of my back pressed against the grass and his shirt draped across my shoulders as the smoke surrounded us like a barrier. The shirt that I was still wearing, that smelled like him.

I had stolen it from him in hopes that he’d stop me. When he didn’t, I couldn’t tell if I felt grateful or disappointed that he wasn’t as passionate about staying away from me as I was about staying away from him.

There were three sharp knocks against the door. A silent signal that it was either Norie or Callie standing on the other side.

We had come up with the knocking rule when we were little. After Callie had opened the door and found a suitor double her age staring down at her.

There was a voice muffled through the wood, a voice I recognized immediately as Callie’s, and suddenly felt a little disappointed. It meant that it was time to get ready.

“Audrey,” Callie said loudly from outside the door.

I suppressed a groan.

Her hands rattled against the knob, the hinges rattling. “Open the door.”

“What?” I asked, a little angry as I swung it open.

I was suddenly very aware of how princess-like she looked. How peasant-like I looked.

My curls were wild and tangled. Eyes still red. That familiar, suspicious smell was still lingering on my clothes. Mason’s clothes.

She stared at me for a short moment. Her eyes skimmed over my face. The shirt draped over my body.

“Are you high?” she asked. She sounded annoyed.

“No.”

She raised a brow.

I looked at the ground. “I mean— not anymore.”

Callie groaned and pushed past me. Entered my bedroom without permission despite the fact that I would’ve allowed her in if she asked.

“Rimettiti in sesto, Audrey,” she said. “You are—”

“I am a princess,” I mocked. My voice impersonated hers in a way that would have seemed cruel had I not been her sister. “And I am being immature, and I need to get it together if I want to find a husband.”

She tried to cover her amusement with an eye roll. I saw the way the corner of her lip twitched.

“Exactly,” she said, though her voice held a twinge of sarcasm. “Now change out of those clothes. You smell like cannabis.”

“Maybe my future husband likes the smell of cannabis.”

Callie shot me a glare. One that said, Don’t start. 

I simply smiled. Twisted my hair into a loose braid as a placeholder style.

There was a sort of comfortable quiet that washed over us. One that was only somewhat tense.

I glanced quickly at our reflections in the mirror, a strange feeling washing over me.  

Two women with such different ideals. Such different opinions, living the same life in the same house.

Callie — full of acceptance. Defeat, maybe.

And then there was me. Full of rage. Fear. That familiar, lingering sadness that never seemed to go away. All three emotions mixed into something unlovable.

My footsteps were cold against the marble grounds. My bare feet pattered against the floor as I made my way towards the dressing chambers.

I pondered the options. Purples, blues, golds — and found that none of them interested me anymore.

None of the frilly, lacy dresses and crowns made me feel like a princess anymore. I felt like a child. Forced to play dress up, forced to wear the heavy, uncomfortable clothes that everyone seemed to like so much.

I didn’t like playing dress up anymore.

“Mom wants us to dress in dark colors tonight,” Callie said suddenly. “Blue, specifically — navy.”

“We have a dress code?” I asked. “Since when?”

“Since a new French Kingdom is auditioning for your attention.” She leaned on the wall beside the door to my dressing chamber. “The king — he’s from Toulouse.”

I scrunched up my nose. “Toulouse?”

She raised a brow. “It’s in Southern France. We get a lot of our wine from there.”

“Oh, so it’s pretty important,” I said flatly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Mom wants us to make a good impression.”

“Right. Good impression.”

Callie made a face at me. One that told me she didn’t like my attitude.

“Nobody is going to marry you if they don’t like you,” she said.

Her words swirled something awful in the pit of my stomach.

There was a soft quiet between us. One that I successfully made tense and uncomfortable when I waited several moments to conjure a response.

I finally said, “I’ll dress accordingly.”

Callie smiled a little. Like she was proud — not of herself, but of me. For following the rules, for being what I was finally supposed to be.

Callie had always done what was asked of her, no matter how cruel. How difficult.

I was different. And it killed her.

Partially because my disobedience meant that she was disobeying. Partially because I didn’t think she realized not following the rules was an option.

And partially because Norie was now gifted the latter. To disobey or to not disobey. And there would always be someone on her side.

Wear blue. It was something so simple yet so difficult for my brain to comprehend. Because it shouldn’t have even needed to be an ask.

Going through the banquets, the events, the responsibilities were already enough. Yet more was always being asked of me. Demanded from me. It seemed that no matter how much I gave, I was expected to have given twice as much.

Even just arriving at the banquets felt like plenty. And now I was expected to enjoy myself. To entertain.

I hadn’t realized just how miserable I actually was.

I hated anything, everything about my life with the exceptions of only a few things. But even those weren’t enough to convince me that living was worth it. Mason had asked the question with that familiar tease — When are you not? — but I hadn’t realized just how true it was at that moment.

I was miserable. And I would be miserable whether I followed the rules or broke them.

It didn’t seem to matter all that much in the long run. Because my fate was already decided from the moment I was born — raised into royalty, married off to royalty.

Forced to become my mother. Whether I liked it or not.

I was always bound to become my mother. 

~
~

I walked into the throne room in an orange dress.

It was a rustic color, almost like the marigolds that grew in the garden — warm, coppery. A little cinnamon-like. The silk around my waist was fitted, bodice floral embroidered in some sort of deep, spiced amber. The sleeves fell in long, translucent, honey colored waves that cascaded from my forearms to my wrists. The lace string cinched my hips tied into a tight bow.

It was, for lack of better words, a beautiful dress. But that didn’t matter — the only thing I saw as I stepped inside was the look of pure horror on Mom’s face.

I sat down on the throne. There was a grin present on my face that, for once, wasn’t strained.

It was real. Glorious.

Callie stared at me with wide eyes. Mom fumed at me from her place on the dais. Mason bit the inside of his cheek and tried his hardest not to smile.

I crossed my hands and placed them gently in my lap. My gaze flashed just for a moment towards Callie.

She mouthed something angrily that I couldn’t quite comprehend. That I didn’t care to comprehend. 

“I heard we have a king from Toulouse here,” I said. I didn’t even look at Mom.

“We’ll talk later,” she said. Her voice was short and clipped.

Mom started to speak — that familiar introduction speech. She repeated it every banquet just in case someone new arrived.

It was strangely cold in the dining room, the embers reflecting off the torches flickering in their sconces. The music was soft. Gentle.

Stars were glimmering in the night sky. I felt a twinge of anger at the fact that I was stuck inside — stuck sitting on a freezing throne covered in gold.

The room was decorated in navy blue. Silk cloth covered the dining tables. Periwinkle coats draped over suitors’ bodies, azure pendants tied around necks as an easy compromise.

Mom and Callie were dressed similarly. Cornflower blue dresses, their skirts extravagant, corsets tied tightly in the back. Their hair was done into similar updos.

In the grand scheme of things, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Like a woman who either didn’t know what she was doing or knew exactly what she was doing.

Orange and blue were complementary colors. Opposite ends of the hypothetical color wheel. Colors that, when mixed, would neutralize each other.

It was precisely the reason I’d chosen to wear it. Because it was the furthest from blue I could possibly get.

Nothing else felt good enough. Nothing else got my point across, proved where I stood with the suitors and the men from Toulouse. Nothing else showed Mom how little I cared about finding a husband.

The harp strung twice. I stood from my place on the throne. Took a step down from my dais.

It was that same, familiar signal — the one that allowed the suitors to put their hands on me. Whisper questions into my ear like keeping their voices down would make the process any less miserable.

It never got easier to speak with them. To fake a smile. To place my hands on their shoulders and sway with the music.

And yet I was expected to do it every time. The king from Toulouse met me halfway down the throne.

His dark hair was curled and slicked back. He smelled of sweat and pine and lavender — not a terrible combination, but his scent paired with the way he was looking at me was.

His eyes were narrow, pupils wide. His smile was tight and cruel.

“Princess Audrey,” he said. His eyes scanned over my body.

I crossed my arms over my stomach. Like it would hide me away.

“I’m Enzo— King Enzo of Toulouse.” His voice was low. “I see you weren’t aware of my arrival.”

“I was,” I told him.

The charm in his face wavered slightly.

I continued, “But your arrival is not relevant to me.”

His eyes narrowed for a split second. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Is that so?” he asked.

His voice was laced with tease. The sound of it on his tongue — the sweetness, the pretend warmth — made me nauseous.

I made a sort of waving gesture. Outstretched my arm as if to make my point known.

“Who do you think all these men are competing for?” I asked.

“You.”

“Exactly. Therefore, your arrival is irrelevant to me.”

“But not to your mother, yes?”

I squinted at him. “Are you competing for me or her?”

“You.”

“Then you are irrelevant.”

He smiled — something soft, amused. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Would you like to dance with me, Princess?” he asked. 

“No,” I said immediately.

There was a brief pause between us.

He outstretched his hand. Held his palm up to me.

I bit my tongue. “But I will, because my mother is angry enough as is.”

I approached the middle of the dining room. My footsteps inched further from my safe space on the throne. Anxiety pooled in my gut.

His hand was tight around mine. His thumb brushed over my skin softly. That ever-present grin on his face hadn’t once gone away.

“So, Audrey.” He leaned in close despite the fact that I could hear him perfectly fine from where he was. “How old are you?”

I raised a brow. “Does it matter? You’re going to compete for my hand in marriage anyways.”

His hands slipped down to my waist. His grip tightened against my skin. “Let me guess — twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“Nineteen,” I said flatly. 

He made a low whistling noise. Like he was either mocking me or trying to flirt.

His eyes raked over my body for barely a second. It was so minute and quick that I nearly missed it. But I didn’t. 

“Nineteen,” he repeated softly.

“How old are you?” I asked. I braced myself for the answer.

“Does it matter? I’m going to compete for your hand in marriage anyways.”

“Funny.”

He smiled. Something genuine this time. “Twenty-seven.”

I tried to mimic his whistling noise. It came out as more of a pathetic hum.

“Twenty-seven,” I repeated.

He brushed his fingers over the small of my back. “Eight years. Not bad.”

I narrowed my eyes. “It’s pretty bad.”

“It could be worse.”

I looked up at him. Shivered under the weight of his gaze. “It’s still pretty bad.”

“Has your attitude always been this terrible?” he asked.

And, for just a second, he reminded me of Dad. Gentle teasing buried under condescension. Small jabs that still made my eyes sting with tears.

“If you want to be my husband, you’re gonna have to get used to it,” I said. 

He squinted his eyes. Smiled. His hands somehow traveled lower down my body.

“I didn’t know you were such a flirt,” he said.

I looked up at him. Genuine confusion border-lining on anger blurred my vision. “I’m not flirting.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” I said. My voice was tight.

And then his hands slipped too low.

Down my back. Further down. And then his palms were cupping the underside of my thighs.

He squeezed the skin in his fingers. My dress wrinkled under his touch.

He suddenly got this look in his eye — one I’d seen before. One that meant hunger. Ugly, disgusting hunger I couldn’t walk away from.

“Stop.” I tried to make my voice sound strong. It sounded pathetic.

He smiled. His teeth weren’t showing.

Again, I tried, “Stop.”

“Where’d that attitude go?” he asked. He didn’t sound so charming anymore. “I was just starting to like it.”

“Let go of me,” I said through my teeth.

He laughed in response. A sharp, barking noise that made some of the people around us look over.

I loosened my grip on him. “Enzo, let go.”

But he didn’t.

His smile remained thin and terrifying. Ever-present. His eyes were narrow with awareness of how he was making me feel.

I’d been groped before by other men while dancing — sometimes even just walking down the hallway. But this was the first time it had felt real. Raw. Like something I couldn’t walk away from.

He had my body pressed uncomfortably to his. Close — too close.

I tried to push him away. But he was stronger than I was.

There wasn’t much I could do.

So I did the only thing I could.

I brought my hand up. Connected my fist with his face.

Blood spilled down his nose. Bruises formed against my knuckles.

Pain shot through my hand — a low hum against the adrenaline of the moment. But I couldn’t find it in myself to regret it. To regret causing him any harm.

Blood dripped down his mouth. Crimson drops bled into the navy blue fabric.

And I felt nothing but pride.

Then the moment died.

His voice rang out around the room. Thick and blood-filled and angry.

“What the hell?” he asked, loud enough for everyone in the dining hall to hear.

In an instant, there was a guard interlocking my wrists behind my back. His grip was firm and steady.

I thrashed my arms against his. Desperately tried to squirm away from his grip — but he had both hands wrapped around my wrists.

With nothing but my legs to defend myself, I accepted defeat.

“Audrey!”

Mom’s voice was loud. Booming.

She stepped down from the dais. Rushed to Enzo at once as if he were her own son.

“What have you done?” she asked. 

I opened my mouth to say something. Then clamped it shut as tears welled up in my eyes.

There was something brewing in the pit of my stomach, something I couldn’t quite place. Something unwelcome and festering in my brain.

Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was the low hum of pain beneath my knuckles. 

“I’ve got her,” someone said. Mason.

”Mason.” I whispered his name like it was an anchor.

He didn’t look at me. But I couldn’t see feel concern obvious in his eyes. “I can take her to the infirmary.”

Mom waved her hand. Like she was saying, Go ahead. But I didn’t miss the quiet glare she threw in his direction.

She was too busy to dislike Mason. Too busy caring for a man she’d met only once in her life. Too busy tilting his jaw up with her palms as if to commend the bleeding to stop.

She was too busy caring for him to recognize the tears threatening to fall from my eyes.

“After everything I’ve done,” Mom said, her voice low, “This is how you treat people— treat me?”

The guard carefully released his hands from my wrists. His eyes were apologetic under his armor.

Mason placed a steady palm on my back. His touch was warm through the fabric of my dress.

He moved his thumb up and down in a gentle rhythm. Walked me through the halls.

There were a million eyes watching me. Watching me leave with hatred on my face and bruises on my fingers.

Mom’s hands were still coddling Enzo’s face. Her expression was twisted into something hateful.

“Don’t you have something to say?” she asked furiously. “An apology, perhaps?”

I said nothing as Mason walked me out the door. His fingertips were warm against my back.

~
~

Mason didn’t say anything as I sat down on the infirmary mattress. But his gaze was soft and gentle. Like he was worried.

He pressed a bag of ice against my knuckles. The warmth of his hand melted through my palm. The sweetness of his touch made me want to cry.

My lip quivered with tears that hadn’t quite come yet, threatening to spill. To burn through my skin.

To ruin me.

“Can you talk?” he asked. Not an accusation — a genuine question. Like he was giving me a choice.

I shook my head immediately.

He nodded like he understood.

His thumb rubbed steadily against my palm. His lips parted. “Will you talk to me about it when you can?”

I nodded hesitantly.

My eyes were wet. Scared. Angry and so unbelievably tired.

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

He brought my hand to his lips. Pressed a gentle kiss to my knuckles, to the very thing that had caused someone pain.

He had a look in his eyes. One that said, It’ll be okay. I’m not mad.

It was so unbelievably kind. And it made me feel sick.

“That was great,” he said quietly. “That guy— I saw what he was doing. I was going to come and save you, and then you just— wow, you just punched him in the face. It was beautiful.”

I looked up at him.

He paused. And then he said, “You were beautiful.”

The ice pack returned to my fingers, cold softening the ugly purples. A cluster of snow wrapped in linen cloth, the fabric scratchy against the bruises forming under the skin of my knuckles.

I rested my hand atop my knee. Pressed my legs tight to my chest.

He adjusted his position — pressed his cheek against the wooden post supporting the bed. There was a mere bag of cold cloth between us.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, his eyes looking up into mine, “I was impressed.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it meant everything.

He was so sweet. So something that I couldn’t quite place yet. Even though I’d been near tears moments before, I almost felt like smiling.

The door opened with a fury starling enough that even Mason straightened up.

“What were you thinking?” Mom yelled.

She stepped into the room. Her hair was tied into a tight, messy bun by the nape of her neck. Her eyes were still angry, all of it directed towards me.

Her face was red. “Punching the king — the king — of Toulouse in the face?”

I said nothing.

She sucked in a deep breath. Her fingers twitched at her sides, like she was resisting the insatiable urge to hit me.

I felt the familiar pang of tears well up in my eyes. I tilted my head upwards. Willed the sobs to go away.

“You are just like your father,” Mom said.

It was the first time she’d mentioned him since his death.

She continued, “You are reckless, and naïve, and so unbelievably selfish that it truly amazes me.”

Mason’s expression hardened beside me. He pressed his lips into a thin, tight line.

He didn’t say anything — which didn’t surprise me. What could he say?

Even still, I felt a twinge of resentment at the fact that he hadn’t even tried.

Mom rubbed her eyes using her middle and ring fingers. Her shiny, gold wedding band caught the light for a brief moment before it flickered away.

“I asked you for one thing — one thing, Audrey — and you just—”

And then she hesitated. Because she could see me blinking back tears I never cried.

Then, very quietly, she said, “Sono così delusa.”

And that was what hurt the most.

I never wanted to disappoint her.

In fact, I’d spent the majority of my life doing whatever I possibly could to please her. To make myself worthy of attention.

But the life she had promised me had lost its appeal by the time I turned seventeen.

I bit my cheek like it would stop the spill of tears. One slipped down my face anyways, warm and unwelcome as I forced my breathing to be steady.

For a brief moment, I was grateful that the pain in my knuckles had returned. The sting was almost grounding. Comforting.

Pain had always been a distraction for that familiar, hollow feeling that was always buried in my chest. The hole in my heart that had been emptied from grief and hatred and so much anger.

It had always helped to drag a dagger or something as small as a shard of glass against my skin. To watch the blood drip down. To feel the twinge of pain that seeped through my arms and the guilt that pooled in my stomach.

It was a distraction. A damn good one at that.

I wished secretly that I had something sharp I could hold in my hands. Press into my flesh. Taint with blood.

I kept the thought buried in the back of my brain. Like it was something shameful.

Mom left as quickly as she came in.

Her footsteps were loud against the marble floors. Furious.

She left it at that. The words were hidden from Mason. But not from me.

I am so disappointed.

The words echoed in my head. Four words. Four stupid words.

And they had my heart sinking into my stomach. Bile threatening its way up my throat.

Mason’s thumb was immediately pressed against my face.

His finger brushed away the sadness. The tears. The vulnerability.

I had expected his eyes to show pity — but it was something different. It was almost like a deep rooted sorrow he felt for me. For the way I was treated, for the standards I was held to.

His expression was nothing but gentle. Concerned.

“It’s okay,” he whispered quietly. I wasn’t sure if he was telling me because he meant it or because he had to.

There was a short pause between us. Neither of us breathed.

And then very quietly, he said, “Tell me what you need.”

You, I wanted to say. But the word felt pathetic on my tongue.

“Come here,” I said instead. Because that almost meant the same thing.

He obliged.

He stood from his place on the cold floor. His hand never left. He kept the ice pack against my skin even though it was half melted.

He sat on the edge of the infirmary bed. His knees brushed mine.

“I think you did the right thing,” he whispered softly.

“I didn’t,” I said.

He blinked at me.

“You know I didn’t.”

But he didn’t seem to know. There was something sad in his eyes.

“My mom— she taught us that violence is never the answer.”

“Sometimes it is,” he said immediately.

The ghost of a smile rested against my lips.

I couldn’t help it. It was nice that he was still here. Still comforting me. Still defending me to myself the way that nobody ever had before.

He curled his fingers over my palm. The warmth of his hands met the coldness of mine.

“I’m here,” he said softly.

Not quite a promise — almost like a mantra. A prayer he was repeating to me until I believed it.

I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

But I liked the idea that maybe one day I could.

“I know,” I said. And I forced myself to trust it.

Chapter Text

There was an avid silence that surrounded the hallways. The air cold and bitter despite the fact that it was still summer, that the torches were still burning in their sconces.

Audrey laid peacefully on the infirmary bed. Her limbs were sprawled across the mattress as if she were molding herself into a starfish.

Her eyes were closed, still slightly red. Her cheeks still wet, lips still trembling if she thought too hard.

It was killing me. I’d never seen her look so sad. So defeated.

There were a few things crowding the bedside table — a small vial of white wine, discarded bandages I’d changed from the wounds against her shoulder, and a deck of playing cards that I couldn’t remember the rules of. She had insisted that, to pass the time, we should play cards, and I was too embarrassed to say that I wouldn’t know what to do if it hit me in the face.

“You’re staring at me,” she said softly. Because I was.

I smiled a little.

She slung her arm over her forehead. Her knuckles were bruised and raw and obvious.

“I am,” I said. “You look like a starfish.”

She opened one of her eyes, a grin resting against her lips. She was still in her orange dress, the fabric draped over her body uncomfortably. She didn’t seem to mind it anymore.

“Are you insulting me right now?” she asked.

I tried to look offended, but my smile betrayed me. It was too wide, too kind.

I sat down on the edge of the infirmary bed. Looked down at her like she was everything.

“No,” I said.

I meant it — she did look a little starfish-adjacent, but it wasn’t bad. It was good if anything.

I added, “It was a compliment.”

She raised a brow. “Comparing me to a sea animal is a compliment?”

I shrugged. “I like starfish.”

There was something soft, unspoken that was brewing between us. Something we were too scared to speak of.

It had always been present, but lately it seemed stronger. Like someone had increased the tension between us by a thousand. Had shifted something the slightest amount that made all the difference.

It wasn’t a bad difference — not at all. But it was a little unsettling if I thought about it too hard.

She made a noise that was half between a snort and a scoff. Her smile widened.

“Right,” she said. She rested her cheek against the hard pillow.

There was a moment of silence where I considered asking if she felt the tension too. If it was driving her insane.

I thought better of it before I said something stupid. Irreversible.

Instead, I asked, “Have you ever been to the beach?”

She perked up just slightly. “No.”

“Really?” I leaned my back against the wall. “There’s one just outside the palace. It’s got loads of starfish.”

“You’ve been?”

I looked down at my lap. My hands instinctively brushed through my hair.

“My dad— he used to, um— he used to work in the palace. When me and Seph came to visit him, we’d always go to the beach after.”

Her expression shifted into something I couldn’t quite place.

There was something soft, tense that fell over the room. A silence so quiet that I could hear the wind rustling the trees outside the window.

“Your dad worked here?” she asked. “Like— as a servant?”

“Like father, like son,” I said. I tried to sound cheerful and failed. “He was a chef.”

She stared at me as if searching my face for any familiarity. Her expression melted into something I’d never seen before.

Then it seemed to hit her.

Her eyes widened. Lips parter. She used her elbows to prop herself up.

“Holy shit,” she murmured. “I remember him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he was—”

Her voice trailed off. Like she was trying to make sense of her words.

She continued, “My mom— she dismissed him a few years ago after he—”

“Got sick?” I finished for her.

She extended her hand just slightly. Like she was daring me to hold it.

“Yeah,” I said. “That was him.”

She moved closer to me — an inch, a quarter of an inch, but it felt like it should have meant more. It did mean more.

“I remember him,” she repeated as if I didn’t believe her. Like she didn’t believe herself.

There was a sort of silence that would have been awkward if she were anyone but Audrey.

And then she said, “He was nice. He— he made — oh God, what’s the word in English? — um, baccalà?”

I tried not to smile, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me. “Salted cod. It’s a fish.”

She narrowed her eyes. Tried to feign annoyance, but the ghost of a smirk rested against her lips.

“I know what it is,” she said. She stretched out her feet until they were resting atop in my lap. “He always made it with onions.”

I grazed my fingers just above her ankle in a steady up and down motion. Her skin was warm.

“Did you like it?” I asked.

She scrunched up her nose. Shuddered just slightly when my finger brushed below the underside of her knee.

“Sorry,” I said immediately.

She waved her hand as if to dismiss what I say.

Then she said, with a small smile, “Why else do you think I was nice to him?”

I tilted my head in her direction. Blinked at her a few times.

She was laying back against the bed. Her hair was sprawled across the pillow, the curls resembling tangled, ocean-like waves.

Quietly, I whispered, “He used to talk about you.”

Her eyes widened. She gave me a strange look. “Pardon?”

I backtracked almost immediately. “I mean— that’s not what I meant.”

She blinked at me. Smirked a little, like she was urging me to continue.

“He said you were the only one who was nice to him,” I said. 

“That’s not true,” she said instantly. Like the idea of her being nice was a foreign concept. “Norie’s always been a sweetheart.”

“Norie was, like, eight when he stopped working there.”

“Nine,” she said. The correction was barely necessary.

I smiled anyways.

She looked up at her. Her gaze was deep. Something heavier than I was ready to hold.

The steady motion of my fingers against her leg stuttered. They trembled against her skin. 

She didn’t notice. Or maybe she was did. Or maybe she just didn’t care. 

“He was pretty upset when your mom dismissed him.” My voice was trembling.

“Do you like it here?” she asked.

The question surprised me. It was so simple and so loaded at the same time.

I did like the Naples palace. But there was a familiar puddle of guilt brewing in the pit of my stomach every time I thought about it too hard.

I hated Durham. The house I lived in, the people on the streets. The way they looked at me with pity after Mom died.

But it was still my home. And I’d left it without a second thought.

I said nothing to Sephy the night before. I’d tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and told her to sleep well. 

And then I was gone.

I left behind a note, detailed and practiced. One that I knew she’d need help reading. And then I tried not to think about the heavy feeling in my chest as I boarded the boat to Italy.

“Yeah,” I said, because it was the easiest answer. “I do.”

She made a face like she was trying not to smile. The way her eyes creased betrayed her.

“Good,” she said. It was soft and gentle. “I like it here too.”

“No you don’t.”

She narrowed her eyes. Squinted a little. “I like it most of the time.”

I raised a brow.

She rolled her eyes so hard I worried they’d get stuck in the back of her head. 

“Sometimes,” she corrected. “I like it sometimes.”

“It’s pretty infrequent.”

She made a motion like she was going to punch me in the arm — but, with her knuckles bruised and raw, she simply nudged me with the inside of her wrist. Gave me a small shove.

“Shut up,” she said, teasing.

I dug my fingernails into her skin just slightly. The roughness of left small, pink streaks up her lower leg.

She moved another inch closer to me.

Then another.

And then her thighs were in my lap. Warm and unfamiliar and strange.

I looked down at her.

She was already looking at me. Her pupils were so dilated I could only see a sliver of brown.

“Okay?” she asked softly.

“Okay,” I said. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. “You know, I could’ve just— moved.”

She shrugged a little. Picked up my hand and gently placed it on her thigh, too high and too unfamiliar and somehow not enough all at once.

She motioned with her finger in something that almost resembled a wagging movement.

I continued rubbing her leg with my nails.

She nodded as confirmation.

There was only a sliver of fabric between our skin, but it felt like so much more.

One layer. One layer, and my fingers would be on her thigh, that steady up and down motion becoming something less innocent.

She didn’t seem to notice — not the way that I did. But I felt her shiver below my touch when my hand went the tiniest bit too high.

”Sorry,” I said instantly.

She didn’t respond.

I looked down at her. Found the reason for her silence.

She looked peaceful. It was almost as if in this room, at this moment, she had allowed herself to fully relax.

Which was strange — she was still wearing that dress that looked unbelievably uncomfortable. Her face was still powdered and prepped in that familiar princess-esque way. Her hair was curled in that way that looked almost natural — but it was too clean. Too proper.

Her knuckles were still bruised and raw. Blood prickled beneath her skin. She didn’t seem to mind.

She started drifting off. Sleep began to overtake her body.

“Good?” I asked softly, not referring to anything in particular.

She hummed absentmindedly, lazily twirling a curl around her finger as she whispered, “Yeah.”

There was something soft and gentle brewing between us — but there were sharp undertones I couldn’t ignore anymore.

An unfamiliar push and pull. A feeling in my chest that wanted to be as far away and as close to her as possible simultaneously.

Maybe it was interest. Or that social hierarchy difference that made my heart stutter with anxiety and excitement and something I didn’t recognize.

Or maybe it was the fact that, truthfully, I was really starting to like her.

I blinked down at her.

The ghost of a smile resting against her lips. There was a soft expression on her face that told me she was either on the verge of sleep or had let her guard down completely.

Her lips were slightly parted, cheeks red and stained with dried tears. Her knuckles were purple and loud and ashamed.

When she cried, she hadn’t made a sound. And that made it almost worse.

Even in the most vulnerable of moments, she still kept up the walls she’d put in place. No matter how hard I tried, they wouldn’t budge.

I wanted to know her. To know Audrey — the person she’d hidden away from the rest of the world.

But I also knew that it was much easier to stay silent and let the world pass by.

It was something I recognized, because I had done it too.

There were barriers around me so high I couldn’t see over them. The only person who’d had the key was Mom.

When she died, the walls returned, higher than ever. It felt so much easier to become nothing — to become just another person who passed by on the street. To become a boy who kept his head down and avoided eye contact and didn’t speak unless spoken to.

It hadn’t been until I’d gotten to the palace that I let the walls drop just slightly. But even now, I could just barely see over them.

“You’re staring,” she whispered softly. Her eyes were closed.

“Sorry. Lost in thought.”

There was a quiet pause between us. She didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to say anything.

And then, very quietly, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” I told her honestly.

She breathed out a sigh that sounded either relieved or disappointed. “Okay.”

I resumed the steady up and down motion of my hand grazing over her thigh.

Her breath stuttered.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded, soft and sure.

Sleep started to overcome her. Her legs were warm against mine. Her skirt had ridden up just slightly.

Not enough to be suggestive, per se — only enough for the fabric to fall below her knee, the orange flowing gently against her olive skin. Regardless, it made the warmth feel a little softer, easier.

And so much more intimate.

When did we become so intimate with eachother?

I felt my eyes droop, exhaustion overcoming my body. I rested my hand against Audrey’s thigh.

It was too high for my own comfort. Concern pooled in my stomach. A apology rested against my lips.

She scooted just slightly closer. Sighed softly as if she were subconsciously leaning into my touch.

I rubbed my thumb over the silk of her dress, gentle and innocent.

I wasn’t sure which one of us fell asleep first.

~
~

It was early morning when Callie slipped inside.

The sun had barely started to rise, soft oranges teasing the sky as darkness faded away. Despite that, it was still dim enough that I couldn’t quite see her face. Couldn’t see her expression as she pushed open drawers. Like she was frantically looking for something she couldn’t find.

“Callie?” My back was sore from sleeping upright for so long.

Audrey’s thighs still resting in my lap. I could feel them, warm and obvious against my skin.

“Mason.” Her voice was flat and emotionless as she addressed me. Her fingers threaded through ink tainted papers.

There was a heavy, awkward silence that fell over us. The room was quiet.

Except for the small sound of Audrey breathing. Her chest rose and fell in short, peaceful spurts.

Callie seemed almost frantic. The drawers opened and closed more aggressively.

For just a moment, I almost wanted to help her. To ask her what she was searching for. To maybe ask if everything was okay.

And then she glared, her eyes narrow and sharp in the dim lighting.

And I suddenly remembered why I disliked her so much in the first place.

Audrey stirred just slightly.

She flopped over onto her side, the top of her thighs now pressed warm against my stomach. Her curls flopped over her face, covering her eyes.

I tried to hide it — the redness of my cheeks, the way my pupils dilated. But with the combination of her breathing steadily against me and the way her hand seemed to subconsciously reach for mine, it was impossible.

“I should’ve expected to see you here,” Callie said sharply. Her voice was laced with malicious intent.

I made a credible effort not to roll my eyes in her direction. She could destroy me with barely a snap of her fingers.

“I was icing her wounds,” I said. 

Callie raised a brow. “With your hand on her thigh?”

I shrugged a little. Blinked at her a few times. “Only sometimes.”

Callie scoffed loudly. Her words were angry and bitter. “I don’t know what she sees in you.”

“I’m nice to her,” I said defensively.

She rolled her eyes so hard that, for a brief moment, I could only see the whites of her eyes.

I continued, “And I don’t— I don’t view her as something to claim. She doesn’t have to be a princess.”

Callie narrowed her eyes. Looked at me like she thought I was stupid. “She is a princess.”

“Not when she’s with me.”

And that made her pause.

She pursed her lips. Pressed them into a thin, tight line. Crossed her hands over her stomach the same way Audrey did when she was uncomfortable.

“You don’t understand,” she said quietly. 

I blinked at her. “Understand?”

“You’re only going to hurt her,” she said flatly.

I felt something sink in my stomach.

My hands twitched at my sides. My brain battled between defeat and perseverance in winning the argument.

“She’s going to hurt me,” I said softly.

Callie blinked. Opened her mouth to retaliate.

I continued, “I’m not going to hurt her. I won’t.”

“I don’t trust that,” she said. She almost sounded worried. 

“You don’t have to.”

There was a quiet pause between us. We didn’t look at each other.

Then I said, “But it’s the truth.”

She went back to rummaging through the doors. Her hand stilled by a letter towards the middle of the stack of papers, words spilling over the entire page.

She hummed softly. And then she said, her voice guarded, “You like her.”

And I said, “I do.” Because it was true.

She glanced down at the letter in her hand. She was pinching the paper so hard I could see it creasing beneath the weight.

The top line read Dear Callie in soft cursive, the words swirling across the paper. The words were small, almost minuscule — like it was a secret. Something shared between only her and the writer.

Callie quickly folded it into four small squares and tucked it into her pocket. Her expression was solemn, guarded. Like it was something she didn’t want to remember but had to anyways. 

She stared at me for a brief moment, her fingers twitching at my thumb rubbing softly against Audrey’s thigh. She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but the words died in her throat.

Audrey laced her fingers through mine, tired and delirious and not awake but not quite asleep either. She mumbled something, the words covered by dreariness, and then her eyes flickered open.

She blinked once. Twice. Winced as her knuckles brushed against the scratchy infirmary blanket.

And then she saw Callie.

She quickly slid her legs off me and curled her knees up. Her feet were pressed steadily against the mattress.

Her face was red. Flushed — a little angry, maybe. Like her sister had ruined something deeper. More important.

“No need to move,” Callie said flatly. Her voice lacked any emotion. “I’ve already seen you.”

Audrey didn’t move. Her eyes were narrow. Blush crept up her neck.

“When did you get here?” she asked. 

Callie looked at her. Looked at me, like she was searching my face for something.

“A minute ago,” she lied.

The tenseness of her shoulders seemed to dissipated a little. She pressed her cheek against her knee.

“Do you need something?” she asked sharply.

Callie didn’t look at her as she asked, “How’s your hand?”

She held out her fist. “It’s not that bad.”

Callie took it harshly. Pressed her fingers against Audrey’s knuckles.

”Ow— Callie!”

“Sciocca,” she said loudly. She released her hand. “Stupid.”

Audrey’s eyes softened a little. Like she was ashamed.

But she stood her ground. “He grabbed me.”

“I don’t care.” Callie’s eyes were narrow. Angry. “Non farlo mai più, do you understand?”

Audrey’s hands clenched at her sides. Her lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

“I understand,” she said. She didn’t sound obedient — just tired. 

Callie didn’t notice. Maybe she just didn’t care enough to say anything.

She made her way towards the door. The hinges creaked loudly.

“Mom says you’re forbidden from leaving your bedroom,” she said from the hallway. “Three days effective immediately.”

Audrey didn’t respond. But she didn’t look all that upset about it. 

I wouldn’t have been upset about it either.

Three days of peace. Of the quietness that came with isolation, the pressure lifted off her shoulders. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she was excited about it.

Audrey leaned back against the bed. For a second, she almost looked proud.

And then it flickered away, replaced with something more guarded. It was like each time a moment between us was disrupted, the walls around her rose again.

She murmured I couldn’t quite hear under her breath. She suddenly looked sad. 

“La odio,” she said.

I blinked at her. Didn’t wait for her to explain what it meant — I just waited for her to continue.

“Sometimes— she just— she’s not my mother. I don’t know why she’s always trying to be.”

And for a split second, I almost wanted to defend Callie.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said. How she’d very quietly admitted how concerned she was for her sister.

I didn’t say that. That wasn’t what she needed.

Instead, I asked, “Has she always been that way?”

“I don’t know— I guess not?” Her voice was low, softer now. “After my dad—”

I glanced over at her. Waited to see what her next words would be.

She cleared her throat to avoid saying the word died. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

“Maybe it’s an older sibling thing?” I asked. I didn’t say grief. Just the next best thing. 

She narrowed her eyes. Tilted her head in confusion.

I continued, “After my mom died, I became a lot more overprotective of Sephy.”

Audrey scoffed without meaning to. Her eyes widened slightly, like the noise surprised even her.

“That’s different,” she said softly. “She’s young. Still a child.”

I looked up at her. Put my hand over hers — didn’t hold it. Just let it linger there.

“I’m sure you are in Callie’s eyes,” I said.

And that made her pause.

Her eyes softened just slightly. Some of the anger faded from her face as if my words had awakened something in her. Changed her perspective.

She almost looked guilty, and then it flickered away. Replaced with a familiar sadness.

“I’m an adult.” Her voice was quiet. Guarded. “If she should worry about anyone, it’s Norie.”

“I’m sure she does,” I said. I touched her index finger with my thumb. “But— I mean— you’re probably different in her eyes.”

She blinked at me. “Different?”

“Sephy would still mean more to me if I had another sibling,” I said honestly. 

She pursed her lips. Looked away from me. “But—”

“Audrey.” Her name was soft and warm in my mouth.

She stopped talking almost immediately. Like my words had a weight to them.

It was that quiet silence between the sentences that made my heart stutter. The ones that made me feel like I didn’t have to spill the empty space with noise.

“She cares about you,” I said. I recounted the conversation I’d had with Callie. “You don’t have to think about it too hard, okay?”

She didn’t say anything. But her eyes softened. Flickered closed. 

She had never once looked so pretty in my eyes.

She was still dressed in that silk dress. It looked itchy, covered in gems and soft embroidery. Her hair had started to frizz.

It was strange that I’d once had a childish crush on her. Because she wasn’t what I expected when I met her. 

Dad had told me stories of her kindness. The way she smiled when she beat her sisters at card games. The specific ways she took her meals. 

He’d once shared a story of her a month after his leave. One in which she hit one of her personal servants in the nose with a wooden spoon because he’d disrespected her. Said something about her being snobby — and so she retaliated. 

I’d been intrigued. A little frightened, sure, but I knew there was something softer about her. 

And I knew that she was capable of holding her own. Showing kindness when it was deserved. Talented with wooden utensils. 

There was something deeper about her, something that I didn’t recognize. She could be reckless. She could be gentle. She could be human without putting up a facade.

“I should go,” she said suddenly. “We won’t be seeing much of eachother. Might as well get used to it.”

I blinked at her. “I can’t visit?” I asked. 

“No.” Her response was immediate. “My mother is already angry enough. God knows what Callie will say.”

“I’m stealthy. They won’t see me.”

She gave me a look — not quite a glare, but not quite not. “Don’t visit.”

There was a quiet pause between us, one in which I debated whether or not to say anything else.

“I won’t,” I promised.

Part of me wanted to fight her on it. But I didn’t.

Chapter Text

Three days of solitude had proved itself useful when I was met with three days of silence.

It was strange not having any responsibilities. There was nobody breathing down my neck about what dresses to wear. How my hair should be worn. How I wasn’t acting ladylike enough.

It was like I’d put my head underwater while the rest of the world was above it. Had drowned in the silence while everyone around me survived in the chaos.

I spent most of my time carving. The edges of my bed, the corner of my dresser, my own skin — it felt nice to watch a piece of my existence wither away. Just a little bit.

But it reminded me that, no matter how much I enjoyed the solitude, there was still a part of me that existed outside this room. That I was still alive, no matter how much I wanted the quiet to swallow me whole.

I was glad I’d sent Mason away. I knew upon hearing that three days rule that I’d spend most of it wallowing in my own self pity.

I also knew that, realistically, he’d be able to pull me out of that familiar sorrow. But I didn’t want him to.

Sorrow was all I’d ever known. The absence of hollowness had felt heavy and strange in my heart.

I liked him. Of course I liked him.

But I liked the sadness more.

Maybe it made me selfish. Maybe it made me brave. I didn’t care to find out.

Nobody had visited while I was imprisoned in my bedroom. Nobody even tried.

I hadn’t expected Mason to, especially after I explicitly told him not to — but I’d expected at least Callie.

I’d expected her to knock, maybe. To say hello, to update me about everything that had happened while I was isolated. There was nothing.

I knew she was the one bringing me food, leaving it at my doorstep — she’d always arrange it the way I liked, less cheese and extra figs. But she’d never stick around.

I wished that, for just a moment, she would go against the rules. That she would sneak in and have a sleepover with me like we once had as children.

But she cared too much about her own reputation. She loved me, but she put her values above her love. I would always come second to duty.

The first place I went once the three days were up was the garden.

It was my safe space. My happy place.

And, recently, the most likely place Mason would be.

With my bow cradled in my hands, the wood worn with precision and usage, I stepped into the garden. Made eye contact with him for the first time in what felt like years.

“You’re free,” he said.

I blinked at him. Something unfamiliar pooled in my gut.

I’d really missed his voice. Just the sound of it. The way he enunciated his words. The warmth.

But more than him, I’d missed the garden.

It was a safe haven. More than even my own room.

Suitors weren’t really allowed anywhere except for their rooms and the hallways, but it didn’t stop them from trying every so often. To sneak into places they didn’t belong.

But the garden was different.

It was as if they deemed it unnecessary. The sweetness of the sun. The scent of olives and tulips. The warmth of the Italian air.

To them, it was nothing. To me, it was everything.

“I’m free,” I echoed.

I wriggled my toes in the fresh, wet grass. A light breeze blew over my skin as the seasons transitioned.

With my bow perched over my shoulder, I asked, “What’ve you been doing without me?”

He grimaced. Something that only he could make endearing. “Chores, mostly. Hanging out with Liam when I have the chance.”

I nodded once. Took another step towards him.

There was a quiet pause between us. Heavy silence, but it felt easier outside.

Quietly, he asked, “Did you have fun?”

I raised a brow. “Sitting in my room for three days straight?”

He smiled a little. Paused to let me finish talking even though he knew what I was going to say.

“Immensely,” I said. 

“Were you bored without me?” he asked. His smile was lopsided.

I rolled my eyes in an attempt to cover up my smile. It didn’t work — it never had.

“Not at all,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either. 

He took a step towards me. Then another.

And then we were face to face for the first time in three days. Three days that had felt like a lifetime.

His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was resisting himself from reaching out. I kind of wanted him to — I’d missed it.

His gentle touch. The way he smiled. The way he grazed his lips over my still bruised but healing knuckles.

I’d missed the way he looked at me. Soft green staring into mine — like olive leaves attached to brown tree bark.

I had missed him. And what was even more strange was that I wasn’t afraid of it.

Of course I would be at some point — the contentment never lasted particularly long. I forced myself to enjoy it while it lasted.

I had been a little bored without him. The fact that he’d sit with me even when he didn’t have to. The way his gazed always lingered a little longer than it was supposed to.

Subconsciously, my brain had started waiting for him to show up. It never lasted long — but it was there. Always lingering.

“Well, he said, his voice warm and so unbelievably soft. “I was bored without you.”

I raised an eyebrow. Covered my face with my hair to hide my smile. I didn’t work.

I turned away. Took a step further into the garden.

His footsteps mirrored mine — like he was a dog. Following loyally. Blindly.

He never asked questions. Never wondered out loud what I was doing or where I was taking him.

It was like he felt some sort of security with me. Which was bad — I didn’t want him to feel that. I didn’t want to feel it myself.

I’d always been independent. Uncaring and curious about everything.

Now, I just wanted to trust the universe. Let him follow me around. Let myself follow him around — like an idiot.

“You’re following me,” I said flatly. I didn’t turn around.

“I am,” he said.

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” I clutched my bow tighter in my hands. Spun my head to look at him.

He tilted his head, a not hurt but not quite not hurt expression on his face. He said, “I can go.”

I felt stupid. Selfish. “That’s— not what I meant.”

“It’s not?” His voice was soft, curious.

I started, “I just mean— you just—”

And then my voice trailed off, because the words just wouldn’t come. I tried to conjure the words, but it felt as if they’d gotten stuck halfway up my throat.

“You just followed me without a second thought,” I finished. 

He blinked at me. “You’re just going further into the garden.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, even though he did. 

He made a waving motion with his hands, gesturing towards the olive trees. The trees were multiplying the further I walked.

“Are you not?” he asked. 

“Well— no, I am.”

He gave me a look that said without words that I was being ridiculous.

I continued, “But— that’s not the point. You didn’t— you didn’t even question it.”

“Was I supposed to?”

I paused. Looked down at the ground, because I didn’t know the answer to his question. 

“Yes,” I hesitantly decided. Because going back on my statement would’ve made me look stupid.

“Okay,” he said, soft and understanding.

His tone made me feel guilty. The way he was looking at me made something ugly twist in my gut.

“Can I come with you?” he asked. 

I knew I should’ve said no. It would make the whole argument I started valid, the stupidity of my don’t follow me comment not as stupid. 

And still, I found myself saying, “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asked as confirmation.

I turned around before he could see the blush that crept up my neck. “Okay, you can come with me.”

He hummed in recognition, like he already knew what I was going to say. He probably did.

It was only when he caught up to me that I realized he had that stupid, endearing smile plastered across his face. It was so big that his eyes creased.

He knew. He knew what I was going to say before I did.

And that was what terrified me. But it simultaneously comforted me at the same time.

It was nice having someone who knew me so well. Who recognized me for what I was and what I’d do.

But it was strange at the same time — because I’d never had anyone like that. Not Callie. Not Norie. Especially not Mom. There were familiar faces who recognized me in a crowd but didn’t recognize me for who I was.

Faces who didn’t look at me the way that Mason did.

I tightened my grip on the bow. The wood was warm and rough against my skin.

There was a sack of arrows I’d left stashed between two branches of an olive tree. It was hidden beneath the leaves.

The small, green fruits were growing so large that they’d started dropping to the floor, rolling into the dirt. Hidden behind roots and shards of grass. I remembered the cooks talking about them ripening, because they’d have more dish options.

I reached my arms up, suddenly aware of the cold breeze as my shirt rode up my stomach. I brought the arrows to the ground with a slight shove, the sack hitting the ground.

Slowly, almost as if I’d forgotten how to, I tucked an arrow in between the string. Pulled it back with a sharp tug as if I were aiming for something that wasn’t a tree.

When Dad had taught me how to shoot, he’d told me to imagine I was aiming at someone who’d wronged me. Who’d wronged the family. Sometimes, people who’d wronged him.

I had always — almost always — chosen small, inconsequential people in my life. People such as suitors who’d groped me in the hallway, or servants who’d bumped into me when I was already in a bad mood. It was always something stupid.

But, at some point, it was like the target to aim for had become me. It had been a gradual change, but it had eventually become undeniable to my brain.

It was like my own personal punishment. The only thing that made some of the anger wither away. Somehow, it always led back to me as the root of the problem — I’d dressed too boyish, too scandalously. Showed a little too much cleavage during a banquet that deemed me worthy of assault.

Somehow, it always ended up being my fault.

Realistically, I knew it wasn’t true. Nobody deserved to be assaulted — no matter what they wore or who they were trying to seduce. But it was a rule that I’d been taught to follow.

Everything was my fault — never the man’s, never the perpetrators. And it was important to everyone that I was aware of it.

After so many years of being told it was my fault, I started to believe it. And so I started taking my anger out on myself in the easiest, most inconspicuous way I could.

“Hey,” Mason said. He sounded almost panicked, snapping his finger in front of my face.

I blinked up at him. And then a sharp pain rippled through my hand.

Blood was trickling down my palm — thick and dark. I’d been subconsciously digging the arrowhead into my skin.

I hadn’t even noticed. I’d become so used to drawing blood whenever I got in my own head that it had become second nature to me. Some sort of screwed up comfort.

“Oh— shit,” I said immediately. My hand was trembling.

I dropped the arrow to the floor and wiped the blood away with the hem of my tunic. It didn’t do much to seize the flow of it, but it was something.

In an instant, he was in front of me. Touching me. There was barely an inch of space in between us.

He gently took my hand in his. Put his thumb along the edge of my pinky.

“I’ve got it,” he said. His voice was flat yet still concerned. Like he’d practiced it. “I have bandages.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, even though it wasn’t nothing.

The cut was an inch long and a few centimeters deep. Crimson trickled endlessly down my hand, the flesh around the wound protruding just slightly. I wished I could say that it looked worse than it actually felt, but the pain that shot through my palm was almost incapacitating. A pain that could only be described using the word ow.

“Jesus, Aud,” he muttered under his breath.

Aud. He’d never called me that before.

He said it like it meant something. Like he’d said it because he wanted to. Like the nickname tumbled from his mouth before he could stop it. 

But it didn’t even seem like he’d noticed. He just said, “Come here.”

So I did. I took a step towards him and held out my palm, my hand trembling from adrenaline or shock or something scarier.

He brushed his index finger over the wound. Like he was testing my limits.

A ripple of unfamiliarity and pain reverberated up my arm. I bit back a whine that threatened its way up my throat and shut my eyes tight. Like the darkness would be a good distraction.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

I lifted my head to look at him and bit the inside of my cheek. “A little,” I said through my teeth.

He made a noise that sounded like a scoff.

I opened my eyes to glare at him, but the anger softened the moment I saw it.

He had that fond smile on his face. The one that made me feel warm inside.

“A little?” he asked as confirmation.

I glared at him anyways, though it probably looked more like a wince. 

Almost methodically, he fished a small roll of bandages from his belt. He didn’t even look at me as he poured a tiny vial of wine against my skin.

”Ow!” I yelped without meaning to. I flinched away from him, but his grip on my wrist was tight.

“Sorry,” he said, though I could barely hear it.

He wrapped my hand twice with the bandages. His hair fell over his eyes in blonde, ocean-like waves. I could feel his eyes burning a hole into my flesh.

I’d never seen him so focused. When he’d cleaned me up before, I hadn’t seen his face. I didn’t even try to. But now, seeing him so concentrated, something shifted in me.

”Your nose scrunches up when you focus,” I said without thinking.

He blinked. Looked up at me and asked, “What?”

”Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed a little. A small smile flickered across his face, but it faded away the moment I went to smile back. 

And, just as I’d expected, the tip of his nose scrunched up with concentration. 

I racked my brain in an attempt to find a good describing word for the way he looked, but I couldn’t think of anything. There was something softer, more intimate about it now.

Something I couldn’t place. That I didn’t want to place.

“So, you just—”

I tried to speak just to distract myself from the pain, but the words trailed off when he looked at me. I just blinked at him for a split second. 

Then I continued, “You just carry bandages with you? Like— at all times?”

He grimaced. His eyes flickered up to me for only a brief second, and then he kept wrapping the now blood-soaked bandage over my palm. I could feel his thumb rubbing the skin below the wound in a steady up and down motion.

“Force of habit?” he said sheepishly, though he phrased it like a question. 

I nodded carefully. Squeezed my eyes shut so tight my vision started whitening.

The idea of digging the arrowhead into my skin in front of Mason, of him treating my wounds — it all made me feel dizzy. It was either that or the amount of blood that had dripped into the soil below us.

My head drooped forwards, like I was about to fall asleep. It seemed so much easier to lean against his shoulder and let the pain disappear. To let him finish healing me while I enjoyed the bliss that came with being unconscious.

“What’s your favorite color?”

His voice sliced through the silence like a dagger. I almost thought it was part of my imagination before I opened my eyes and saw him already looking at me.

I blinked at him like it would ease my confusion. “Pardon?”

“Your favorite color,” he repeated.

It did nothing to solve my confusion.

He paused for a minute. And then he clarified, “My mom— it was a trick she used. To stop people from fainting.”

“She’d ask them their favorite color?” I asked. 

He shrugged. Gave me a small, lopsided smile. “It distracts them. Confuses them. It worked on you, didn’t it?”

I looked up at him only to find that he was already looking at me. I tipped my head down before could see me smile.

“Heliotrope,” I said flatly.

He blinked at me, confused. His gaze was heavy. “What’s that?”

“It’s a wild flower,” I said. “It doesn’t grow in the gardens, so I’ve only seen it in books. But it’s a mix between warm and cold shaded purples.”

“Oh.” His voice was soft. And then he raised a brow and said, “Would’ve been easier if you’d just said purple.”

I narrowed my eyes.

I could see him smiling, warm and kind — but I was in too much pain to smile back. His fingers were still rubbing the edge of my hand in that familiar up and down motion.

Then he said, “Are you going to ask me mine?”

I blinked. “Ask you what?”

“My favorite color,” he said, deadpan. “Focus, Audrey.”

My name in his mouth caught me so off guard that I laughed — sharp and harsh. It was strong enough that it made my hands shake.

Almost like it was second nature, his fingers gripped me a little tighter. Holding my wrist in place, like he was grounding me.

I felt my breath stutter. I couldn’t meet his gaze.

His eyes shifted into something warmer. Kinder. “You alright?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah,” I said, but my voice was weak. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” he answered, not even missing a beat.

I scoffed without really meaning to. “That’s boring.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So is purple.”

“I didn’t say purple, I said heliotrope.”

He tied the bandage into a knot tight enough to only sting a little. His gaze against my skin was warm, not quite burning — though if he looked at me like that much longer it probably would be.

He was smiling as he stepped back, opening the gap between us. His hand was still touching mine, despite the fact that we now had a foot of empty space between us.

My palm gently throbbed under the dressing like a heartbeat. A soft thrum against the scar forming beneath my skin.

“Okay?” he asked softly.

My bow was forgotten at my feet, the arrow still blood against the dirt. I tried to speak, but it felt as if my words were clogging my throat.

Everything between us felt so intimate. So personal. It felt like my body had begun the process of shutting down.

I opened my mouth to say something, to stupidly ask if he was feeling what I was — but the only thing that came out was, “Okay.”

He smiled, and I felt a wave of tenderness wash over me.

He picked up the bag of arrows from the ground and tucked them back in between two branches. Picked up the bow without even a second glance, wielding the worn wood in his calloused hands.

I wondered for a split second what he’d look like using a bow. Not mine, out of fear that anyone besides me using it would taint my abilities — but his own.

I started heading towards the front of the garden. My fingers clenched around the bandage.

Mason followed without a second thought. His footsteps trailed behind me with quiet reliability that I felt deep in my bones.

“Have you ever used a bow?” I asked, just so I didn’t have to listen to the silence.

He blinked at me. “No. I mean— not really.”

“Not really?” I repeated back.

“I’ve tried, but I’ve never gotten anywhere close to the target. I’m better with a dagger.”

I tried not to scoff. It came out anyway — pretentious and obnoxious. “What targets have you been trying to hit?”

He shrugged. It was a motion that was too casual for the words that came out of his mouth. “Rabbits, mostly. Sometimes deer.”

I stopped moving. Turned towards him slowly, like surely he’d said something different.

He backtracked instantly. “Um— not for fun, sorry— that sounded bad. For food.”

And, just like that, I’d never felt so privileged.

It was a harsh reminder of the fact that there were people who actually had to hunt for their own food. People who weren’t born with food on their plates and soft beds to sleep in. People born on the streets and not in palaces.

It was strange. Mason — one of the only people in my life who had grown to be decent — was someone that I’d been taught to look down upon.

There was an angry guilt pooling in my stomach as I thought about all the common people I’d turned my nose up at for so many years. I’d never given food a second thought before, never even considered it. Never even thought about the people in Durham who’d have killed for even scraps of a basic palace breakfast. Who would’ve given their first born for a half decent meal of too-soft figs and molding cheese. It would have meant something to them when it meant nothing to me.

“So— what, you’d just throw a dagger?” I asked. My voice was still strained.

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he said, “Yeah. It made more sense.”

”It made more sense?”

He shrugged a little. Looked down at the ground, like he was ashamed. “I’m better with a dagger.”

I couldn’t help but think for a moment about how impressive that was.

I wasn’t sure how long he’d had to adapt to the dagger, to throwing it across woody forests with only luck and rare precision. To the sick process of skinning small animals for meat — just to feed his sister.

I’d gathered over time that he would do anything for her, based solely on that faraway look he he’d get. I wholeheartedly believed that, if there was no other option, he’d have resorted to cannibalism just to keep her fed.

Though the thought of Mason cannibalizing someone made a wave of nausea roll through my entire body. I forced it down with a quick glance towards my bloodied hand.

I turned around. Started walking again, because I couldn’t stand to see the sad look on his face anymore.

“Was it hard?” I asked.

He ran to catch up with me, but I made sure there was still distance between us. “Was what hard?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “You know— the killing.”

“Oh.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I mean— it got easier over time, but—”

I looked up at him. Waited for him to continue, but the words never came. “Mason?”

He exhaled. “My mom barely made enough to feed herself, let alone me and Sephy.”

I hummed in recognition. Used my non-injured hand and wrapped my fingers around his. They were warm, a little clammy from the heat — but it was worth it.

It was just so he knew I was there. That I didn’t understand it, but I would try.

He squeezed my hand, clenching his fingers in mine — a thank you. For trusting him enough to be vulnerable.

“Um— can we talk about something else?” he asked. His voice was quiet, almost ashamed. “I just— I don’t like thinking about it.”

A familiar sadness washed over me. My fingers twitched in his as I asked, “About— about the animals?”

His jaw clenched. “About home.”

I nodded, slow and soft and a little disappointed. I wished he’d tell me more.

Instead, I just said, “Okay,” and squeezed my hand in his. 

~
~

The dining room looked strangely different.

Not different in a way where it was an obvious change. Different in a way that something was hanging in the air — unspoken and invisible. Something I couldn’t see, but felt heavily in the pit of my stomach.

I thought for a second that it was because the navy decorations had been taken down — but it felt bigger than that. Like something had shifted. I couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad thing yet.

For once, I’d abided by the rules.

My dress was dark green, hair tied into a curly bun by the top of my head. My face was prepped and powdered to hide flaws and imperfections.

Mom considered darker colors to be more royal. Despite that it felt like it was in my blood to disobey her, she was already angry enough. Wearing this specific dress was my equivalent of a peace treaty.

She’d requested I should wear my hair up in order to stand out in the crowd. But, upon walking into the room, I saw that more than half the people had the exact same updos I did. That familiar bitterness swirled in my chest before I could push it down.

I hadn’t expected people to cheer when I stepped up to the dais. But they did — loud, obnoxious cheering. Drunk men screaming my name with their chalices raised as if I’d just arrived back from war.

I tried not to scowl at the amount of noise but failed. I could feel my nose scrunching up, my eyes narrowing.

I sat down against the cold throne, the cushion worn with the weight of my body over the years. The shimmering gold trim reflected the sunset brewing outside.

It was only upon the squinting of Mom’s eyes, her expression a warning, that I stopped. That I became conscious of my movements.

I blinked the anger away. Pressed my lips into a tight, thin line as if to erase my emotions.

I could see Mason across the room, a quiet smile on his face. His arms were crossed as he watched me tap my fingers against the armrest of the throne.

His curls were falling over his eyes — soft, messy. A little endearing.

He pressed his back against the wall. His hands twitched at his sides like he was looking for — hoping for — something to hold.

He only blinked and looked away when Liam smacked him on the arm. Gestured towards the trays filled with fruits and cheese that desperately needed to be carried around.

He gave me another lopsided grin. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

And then the two of them disappeared into the crowd. The room seemed a little less light.

The harp strung twice, quick and sharp.

I spun my head around to look at Mom, as if to ask, Already?

She simply raised a brow. Like she was telling me without words that she’d already finished her introduction speech for the thousandth time.

I hadn’t realized how much time had passed while I was staring at Mason. How much time we’d spent making eye contact across the room.

It was surely in no way inconspicuous. I could already feel Callie’s unhappy eyes on me, her mouth a scowl.

I stepped down, already threading through drunk men and women in an attempt to find Mason. To have him stand near me as if to scare off the other suitors away.

Looking past the rags he was forced to wear, he did look a little bit like a prince — hair clean, eyes soft and green. Gentle hands that would have made any woman fold. And, thankfully for me, it seemed to make other men swerve the other way.

It was, selfishly, one of the reasons I liked being around him so much. He made life easier for me, and he didn’t even need to try.

And then, finally, I found him.

He was talking to one of the suitors with a tight, fake smile plastered on his face. It quickly soured when the man stuck his finger in Mason’s face and started ridiculing him over something I guaranteed wasn’t his fault.

The suitor’s wine was swishing in its goblet, red dripping from the sides. It was dribbling down his fingers in a way that unsettled me.

I put my hand on Mason’s forearm. Like I was claiming him. I squeezed his bicep just to tell him it was only me.

His eyes softened when he looked at me. There was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey,” he said. His attention diverted from the suitor in an instant. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just trying to find you.”

He grinned. His eyes creased at the sides. “You went looking for me?”

It wasn’t even teasing — it was genuine. Excitement or something softer, but it was real nonetheless.

I plucked a chalice from his tray. Took a careful sip to hide the blush creeping over my face.

He set the tray he was carrying against an occupied table, much to the dismay of the men sitting there. They drunkenly babbled, angry and slurred, but shut up pretty quickly when they realized there were still a few goblets of wine left.

“Having fun?” I asked, just to fill the silence. I licked the wine away from my lips.

He watched. Like it was the most important thing I’d ever done.

Blush crept up my neck. The room suddenly felt hotter than it did before. I’d never felt so aware of his eyes on me before.

“As much fun as you’re having,” he finally said. He had a smug smile on his face.

I guaranteed it wasn’t true. Nobody had less fun at the banquets than I did. But I didn’t feel like correcting him.

Quietly, he added, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I promised. It was empty and pretend, but it was a promise nonetheless. “I just— wanted to find you. Being alone during the banquets is miserable.”

I didn’t expect him to notice the glimmer of vulnerability — but he did. His eyes softened into something warmer.

“Okay,” he said. He brushed his fingers over mine — not grabbing. Just there. “I’ll stay.”

The words held a weight to them. Something heavy and undeniable.

And that was what really solidified my feelings for him.

It had been easy to push them down and pray. To hope that, eventually, they’d disappear the way that feelings always did.

But they hadn’t. They’d gotten worse. More intense.

The more time we spent together, the worse it got. But, even when I tried to distance myself, it never went away. I didn’t feel relief when he was away — I felt guilt.

The butterflies fluttering in my stomach had multiplied. They’d gotten overwhelming. Filling.

It was just the fact that he’d agreed to stay — he made it feel like easy. That was what really made me realize that whatever I felt for him wouldn’t be going away.

“Thanks,” I said, even though he deserved more than just that.

The music slowed. The violins began to play in that familiar, romantic way. 

Mason repositioned his hands against my waist, steady and sure. I felt the distance in between us close in until there was barely any space in between us.

An inch. Maybe two — but it felt like mere centimeters. And still, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

I wrapped my arms around the back of his neck, almost as if on instinct. I pressed my body just a little closer to his, like I was daring a suitor to try and pry me off him.

“You look pretty,” he said. His voice was warm.

“What?” I asked. I’d heard him — I just wanted to hear him say it again.

He blinked at me. He suddenly looked shy. “I said you look pretty. I mean— you always look pretty, but—”

I bit my lip to stop from smiling. It didn’t work — I had to tilt my head down to hide from him.

He stopped talking about immediately. Then, in an accusatory voice, said, ”You heard me the first time.”

I snickered. Looked up at him to find that he was grinning. “Maybe.”

He rolled his eyes. But, very quietly, he said “You look good in green.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly. My face felt hot. “I kind of miss the orange, though.”

“What, your rebellion dress?” he asked.

I snorted a little. Tipped my head down, like hiding my face would make me stop laughing.

He smiled. “I liked that one too. The blood was a nice detail.”

My entire body froze — not in fear. Something else entirely.

My eyes widened. “I got blood on it?” I asked.

His expression shifted immediately. It was border lining on the edge of panic and guilt. “I mean— no, not a lot. Just a little bit.”

“Was it bad?”

“No,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

I narrowed my eyes.

He grimaced slightly. “A little.”

I tried not to smile. To uphold the stoic princess attitude I was supposed to have — but I couldn’t. I didn’t even notice I was grinning until the corners of my mouth started to hurt.

“Where was it?” I asked, clearly amused.

He looked absolutely confused. A little bewildered, maybe, at the expression on my face.

“The corset,” he said. 

“Was it obvious?”

“Um— maybe?” His voice was thin. Quieter than usual. “I don’t know. I noticed, if that means anything.”

It didn’t. If nobody else did, he always noticed me.

Whether my hair was a disastrous, frizzy mess from tossing in my sleep or tightened into neat curls. If my face was powdered into oblivion or my eyes were puffy from crying. Green dresses showing cleavage or orange dresses covered in another man’s blood — he always noticed.

It made my skin crawl. In a way that didn’t bother me as much as I’d expected it to.

Of course, men had watched me before. But they’d never been there to see my flaws or dry my tears.

It was a skin-crawling sensation. And, over time, I’d started to embrace it without even realizing.

I tried not to laugh — really tried. But, combined with the way he was looking at me, concerned and almost guilty, it was impossible.

I giggled — and then it quickly turned into a full belly laugh. One that was not at all helped by the way that Mason’s eyes widened in complete shock and bewilderment.

His cheeks flushed so red I was almost worried. “What?” he asked.

I felt my eyes begin to prickle with tears from laughing so hard. I couldn’t stop.

That sweet smile washed over his face. He tightened his grip around my hips and asked, a little louder, “What?”

I said the words between giggles, my mouth jumbling between English and Italian. “It’s just— non ce la faccio— Mason, I can’t believe I did that.”

“I can’t believe you did that,” he said.

His pupils were huge. There was barely a sliver of green left in them.

I tried to force myself to believe it was because of the dark. But there was something else, too.

Something louder. Something between us that spoke without needing words, growing stronger.

He just blinked at me. “It was— wow. It was beautiful.”

I looked up at him. “You already told me that.”

“I’ll say it until you believe it,” he said. He was smiling.

I’d never wanted to kiss him so badly.

It was the way he’d slowly begun to look at me — that stupid, boyish look. That had slowly become less scary and more endearing.

Every time I smiled or touched his hand. Even when I glared in his direction when he said something dumb — that familiar grin would melt over his face. His eyes would soften into something I’d never seen before.

It had become so common between us. So common that, if he ever looked at me any different, I could feel anxiety pooling in my gut.

“I believe it,” I said, soft and unsure.

He smiled in the way I’d grown to adore so much.

Chapter Text

The smell of figs mixed with pulled pork and cheese was so overwhelming it almost made me nauseous.

Audrey was standing with Callie across the room, mumbling something in Italian. Her movements were frantic and animated, like she was trying desperately to explain something Callie wasn’t understanding.

Callie just stood there. Her wine glass was wedged in between two of her fingers. She was shaking her head slowly, like whatever Audrey wanted wasn’t even a possibility.

“Mason.”

Liam was suddenly by my side. His voice in my ear surprised me so much that my gray rattled in my hands, pomegranate juice splashing onto the meat.

He blinked at me. Guilt flickered in his eyes. “Shit— sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

I was suddenly aware of my surroundings. Of the fact that, since the moment Audrey had disappeared back into the crowd, I’d been standing stupidly off to the side. Watching her every movement.

I hadn’t meant to — not for as long as I was, anyway. But it was like my eyes would subconsciously drift towards her. Watching and waiting for her to find me again.

“You didn’t,” I said — though it was very clear that he did. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah, someone to talk to.” He leaned against the wall. Spiced wine stained the inside of his lips. “It’s usually not this boring.”

“Audrey punched a suitor in the face. Anything after that is gonna be boring.”

He snorted. His mouth twitched upwards into a smile.

“She fights back,” he repeated. The familiar phrase rang in my ears. “Did you see the look on Callie’s face when she walked into the room in that dress?”

“The orange one?” I asked — even though I knew exactly what he was talking about already.

He nodded enthusiastically.

“I didn’t see it,” I said honestly. 

Liam rolled his eyes. Crossed his arms over his chest, like he was bored. “Yeah, you were too busy making eyes at her from across the room.”

Blush crept up my neck before I could even stop it.

He didn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he said, “She was mortified — like, she had this terrified look on her face. Like Audrey had trashed the event or something.”

“It was that bad?”

He tilted his head in that familiar way Audrey always seemed to. I didn’t like it as much when it was Liam and not her.

“You really didn’t see?” he asked. 

With the way his eyes were lighting up, a smile tugging at his lips, I kind of wished I had. “No.”

He sighed as if I’d missed something revolutionary. Rolled his sleeves up just below his elbows, like it would combat the heat surrounding the room. Sweat had begun to pool at his hairline — not obvious from up close, but small coils were now stuck to his forehead. He served food to the guests and forced smiles in the scalding hot room.

It had never been hotter.

Even in mid September, the heat was unbearable in the crowded room. The warmth of bodies and stuffy air was almost overwhelming. It seemed that everyone had, in some way or another, rolled up their sleeves or folded their trousers as far as they could go. Had done anything that would keep the heat prickling on their skin at bay.

Everyone except for Audrey.

Her dress was tight and long sleeved. The skirt fell just above her ankles, and was clearly not granting her any solace in the suffocating room.

Even from across the room, I could see her pinching the fabric on her arms and lifting it just slightly. Then, almost like she’d practiced it, she’d snap it back into place the moment that the Queen scanned the crowd to find her.

Her cheeks were flushed. While it could have been from the wine, the way that she kept subtly swiping at her forehead made it obvious that it wasn’t just that.

“How has the night barely started?” Liam asked. “I mean— it feels like we’ve been serving these shits for decades. Non ne posso più.”

I tilted my head in his direction. Blinked once, twice. “Since when did you speak Italian?”

He smirked a little. “Please, I’ve lived here my entire life. I’ve picked some of it up over the years.”

“Your whole life?”

He shifted just slightly. His eyes barely widened before that small smile melted over his face.

“I was born into servantry,” he said casually. “I grew up with the princesses.”

I glanced at him, then at the Queen. I waited for a moment of clarity.

And then it hit me.

That small comment — the I grew up with them. The eyes. The same lopsided smile and head tilt as Audrey.

There was no explanation for where the red hair had come from. But everything else — everything else — seemed clear as day.

His expression shifted. Realization glazed over those familiar bright blue eyes he shared with both the Queen and Norie. His grin faltered just slightly, like I’d stumbled upon something he wasn’t expecting me to catch.

“You— grew up with them?” I asked. My voice was low, like I was piecing a puzzle together. “You mean, like— like you grew up with them?”

“There’s no hidden meaning behind it.” His voice had that familiar sarcasm in his voice, but it seemed softer now. More vulnerable. “My dad was a servant. I became a servant. When he died, I stayed in Naples.”

“And your mom?” My words were barely comprehensible over the voices surrounding us. “Um— was she a servant too?”

His eyes flickered just slightly towards the Queen.

It was so fast — so barely there that I almost didn’t catch it. But I did.

He opened his mouth once, twice, but nothing came out. Then he said, his voice trembling, “Yeah, she just— it’s— it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. He rubbed a calloused hand over his face. The corner of his mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a grimace. “Complicated.”

The words came out harsher than I’d meant for them to. “You’re a bastard,” I said softly.

He blinked at me. And then he barked out a surprised laugh after a moment of silence.

“You could’ve said it a little nicer,” he muttered. But there was the smallest hint of a smile on his face.

I gaped at him. “Sorry, I just—”

“Take your time.”

“The Queen?” I sputtered. “Your dad— the Queen?”

“Surprised you didn’t find out sooner.” He sipped a glass of wine, the stem resting in between his fingers as he held up his bronze tray with only his left hand. “There’s some resemblance there.”

“How did that even happen? How were you not . . . ?”

“My dad was a servant,” he started, and I shut up immediately. “He fell in love with her, and she was bored. I mean— every queen lives a loveless marriage here anyways, so . . .” He took a deep breath, then another gulp of his wine. “She had an affair with him, the King found out when I was born — there’s no red hair in the family, and he was right to think it came from somewhere else — and he had my dad executed.”

“Shit— I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I never got to meet him.”

“Does that . . . Does that ever make you sad? Like, at all?”

He shrugged a little, then downed the rest of his glass, redness dripping from his mouth right before he swiped it away. “No. I grew up with the princesses — the King and Queen raised me. They’d just had Callie, and he was scared that I’d be the only son she bore.”

“I mean— he was right.”

Liam smiled. “Good intuition, I guess.”

“Do they . . . ?”

“Do they know I’m their brother?” he finished for me, and I nodded once to confirm. “Yeah, the Queen likes me enough to somewhat include me in the family. I’m the only son in a family of three girls, so, despite the whole bastard child thing, I hold a little bit of power here.”

I hadn’t noticed it before, but he was right — his ability to get away with half-assing his chores, stealing bottles of wine and stashing them obviously in his bedside table drawer, his casual ability to talk to the princesses without even a shred of nervousness made it almost perfectly clear to me. If he were any other servant, some of his behavior would have been punished by the Queen in an instant, but it seemed as if she’d given him a quiet glance and looked the other way every time.

“So . . .” I started to say, but he opened his mouth before I could finish speaking.

“So basically, you’re right. I’m a bastard.”

“Metaphorically and literally.”

He smiled a little. “Shut up.”

“Non dire al mio amico di stare zitto,” a voice said behind me, and I recognized it immediately — despite the thick Italian accent that bled through her voice — as Audrey. “Hi Mason.”

“Hey,” I said, a little flustered — how long had she been standing there? “You okay?”

“Quit asking me that,” she said, but there was no malice behind it as she gripped my wrist as if to claim me as her own. “I’m okay. A little drunk, but fine nonetheless.”

“How drunk is a little drunk?” Liam asked before I could.

“Three glasses.”

I tried not to smile, but it slipped out before I could stop it. “Do you need me to walk you back to your room?” I asked quietly, my voice only loud enough for her and Liam to hear. “You’re stumbling.”

“Barely,” she spit back, but she leaned her body against mine as if to prop herself up. “Four glasses, remember? That’s how much it takes for me to get plastered.”

“The chalices are bigger tonight.”

“Three is smaller than four.” Her voice had an almost sing-song like tone. “Plus, wine’s the only thing getting me through the night.”

“Mama si incazzerà se ti vede,” he said, and the words slipped out so easily that I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it before.
(Mom will be pissed if she sees you.)

“Non me ne frega,” she almost whined, and I slipped a hand beneath her waist as she teeter-tottered beside me. “Mi odia già comunque — tanto vale divertirsi.”
(I don't care. She already hates me anyway — might as well have some fun.)

His voice was sharp as he said, “Sai che non è vero.”
(You know that's not true.)

Audrey leaned into my arm, her cheek pressed against my forearm lazily as if she were about to fall asleep. “Beh, la odio,” she said, and I tried piecing together her words — she’d said the same thing about Callie the other day, and I couldn’t decipher if it was a term of endearment or hatred.
(Well, I hate her.)

“Sei ubriaca.” Liam rubbed a hand over his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if he was completely exhausted with her. “Rimani con Mason per il resto della notte,” he said, and my head perked up at the mention of my name. “Devo andare.”
(You're drunk. Stay with Mason for the rest of the night. I have to go.)

“Bye, Liam,” she said, her lips moving against my arm.

He spread his fingers and turned his palm so the back of his hand was facing her, and she dramatically gasped in mock disbelief before that soft smile melted over her face.

Audrey lifted her head up and looked at me, big brown eyes blinking slowly, glazed over and a little hazy. “Hi,” she said, warm and sweet, and I was sure my cheeks were just as red as hers were despite the fact that I was completely sober.

“Hi, Audrey,” I said, and her grin somehow spread even wider. “Do you want to go back to your room?”

She shrugged a little, and I placed my palms against her sides in order to look at her face. In turn, she wrapped her arms around my neck in that familiar way and said, “My mom’ll get mad if I leave early.”

“Is that what you were talking to Liam about?” I asked, leaning my face closer to hers so she could hear me.

“Something like that.”

I pursed my lips, trying not to let the disappointment show on my face — though, to be fair, she was probably too drunk to notice much of anything. “Um— Liam’s your brother?” I asked, and something in her face shifted just slightly.

“Unfortunately,” she grumbled, but her eyes had this fondness to them that couldn’t be replicated even if I tried. “He’s five years older than me, so . . . Sei merda.”

“All this Italian is making my brain hurt,” I admitted, though I didn’t hate the way the language made her voice sound. “In English, please?”

Audrey whined — literally whined — and, without even trying, my heart stuttered, breath catching in my throat. “He’s shit — annoying as hell, but I love him most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” I asked, and she smiled a little.

“Most of the time,” she repeated, her voice a little slurred, her movements slow. Suddenly, her cheeks paled a little, and she leaned her face against my chest as if to block out the rest of the world. “Ugh— can you walk me to my chamber?”

“Are you okay?” I asked immediately, placing a gentle hand against her back as if to either hold her in place or keep her standing upright.

She nodded against me, her hair prickling my skin as her head moved up and down. “My head is aching.”

“Do you need me to carry you?”

“No.”

“Do you want some water?”

“No— you’re asking too many questions. Just walk me to my chamber.”

“Right— okay,” I managed to say, my arm slung around her waist as I walked her towards the exit with her head tipped down.

For a moment, it almost didn’t register to me that she was a princess — she seemed so much softer, more normal when she was drunk, like the facade had shifted away and the real her had started to slip through the cracks. For a moment, she wasn’t Princess Audrey — she was just Audrey, something that sounded so similar but was so different when looked at from an outside perspective. With her head tilted down, crown dripping from her head and threatening to fall, I almost thought of her as someone with the status of a noblewoman.

I nodded my head towards Audrey as I approached the steward, his eyes cold and uncaring even as he glanced at her rapidly paling face. He seemed to recognize her as a princess, but he didn’t recognize her as someone who was allowed to leave the premises early, and almost shook his head until Audrey tilted her face upwards, her pupils unbelievably dilated. His expression shifted into something more understanding, maybe fearful, and stepped aside to allow us through the door.

As we headed down the hall, her movements still slow and unbalanced, she placed her hand over her eyes as if to block out the little light fading in through the torches. Her lips were pressed shut, stained with whatever wine the other servants had been offering her, a color that didn’t quite match the spiced drink I’d been serving throughout the night. She looked almost like she was going to be sick, and I sincerely hoped that we’d make it back to her bedroom before anything happened.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked, soft and a little concerned, concern that multiplied when she shook her head slowly.

There was a quiet pause between us, one that was only filled with the shuffling of footsteps and the rattling of doorknobs. There was something so unspoken between us, so different, something that I refused to do anything about — mostly because she was drunk, but also because, even if she was sober, I was far too afraid to say anything to her.

And then everything shifted, because Audrey stepped into the bathroom and immediately started heaving into the toilet, her breathing unsteady as she dipped her head in between the wooden seat. There was something in her energy that told me I wasn’t supposed to go after her, that I was supposed to leave and let her puke up her regrets by herself, but I couldn’t — I couldn’t, in good consciousness, leave her vulnerable, alone and sick, and pretend that nothing happened.

In an instant, I stepped into the bathroom behind her, the door left open in her rush not to make any sort of mess. I brushed my hands to her forehead and drew them towards the nape of her neck, holding the little amount of hair framing her face away from getting any upchucked wine in the curls. She tried to choke out something, something that sounded a lot like an apology, but I simply removed the golden crowd from atop her head, placing it against the floor before resting the same hand against her side.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice clearer between coughs, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. “I’m— che cosa c’è che non va con me?”

“It’s okay,” I said gently, and her posture softened just slightly. “It’s fine. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“You’ve seen princesses vomit in their bedrooms before?”

“Well— no,” I said, my voice a little hesitant, but she smiled something warm and embarrassed before she tipped her head back into the toilet. “But I worked in the infirmary after my mom died for a while. And Sephy got some sort of stomach sickness a couple weeks before I left, and I was the one who took care of her.”

“Stomach sickness?” she asked, her voice muffled in between the lid.

“Yeah, almost a week,” I said, only talking because it seemed to be a distraction for her. I leaned towards her sink, pulling her hair just slightly as I grabbed a small jar of what I assumed to be herbal infused water, smiling just slightly when she took it gratefully and swished the liquid around her mouth before spitting it back into the toilet. “I’m pretty sure it was something in the water — it wasn’t particularly clean where we lived. Honestly, it was pretty common.”

She nodded just slightly, then took a sip of the mint flavored liquid and held it in her mouth for a suspiciously long time before she spit it out again. “You took care of her?” she asked, her voice soft as she pressed her back into my chest, forcing me to be suddenly aware of how close my body was to hers.

“Um— yeah. She was three.” The memory almost made me nauseous.

Sephy could barely speak when she got sick — she was so small, so fragile that I could barely look at her without guilt pooling in my stomach. Mom had died two years before, which made me only fifteen, fifteen taking care of a child that anyone but me would have considered my own. I didn’t want to get sick — I needed the small amount of money infirmary customers paid for me to treat them — but I couldn’t let Sephy suffer from afar, couldn’t watch her puke up stomach acid and cry those tiny wails.

By some miracle, I’d managed to avoid getting sick, but not without feeling that familiar, deep sadness in my chest from watching my baby sister slowly die in front of me. I had been scared — so, so scared — that she would die of dehydration or some sort of pneumonia that followed after the vomiting had subsided. She hadn’t died, but the memory hadn’t either. The concern in my stomach for Sephy hadn’t once gone away.

Audrey leaned her head back onto my shoulder, the sickness clearly having dissipated from her body, the scent of fresh mint so strong I could barely smell Audrey’s natural scent. Her eyes closed with exhaustion, her lips pressed tight, the color filtering back into her cheeks as her hair tangled over my tunic.

“Come on,” I said, standing from the ground with my hands on her hips, in turn lifting her up just slightly as well. She scrambled to her feet, still pressed against me as I said, “Let’s clean you up.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said, but she didn’t seem to mind much as I walked her back into her bedroom, sitting her down against the bed and threading my fingers through her hair.

“I know,” I said, despite the fact that she hadn’t fought me on the subject at all. “But you’re sick, and you’re drunk, and I’m here. So let me take care of you.”

She obliged without another word, leaning back slightly as I plucked hairpins from her scalp, freeing her now-frizzy curls that were — thankfully — not stained with wine vomit. One by one, the strands of hair dropped like waves, falling down her back in a way that was so simply regal it was almost impossible to register her as a real, living person. By the time I finished, she almost looked at peace — not quite the same way she had in the infirmary, but something that wasn’t quite as far off as I was expecting it to be.

“Um— do you need help with your dress?” I asked, the unspoken question hanging in the air like a knife — I was really asking if she needed help taking her dress off, but the question felt far too scandalous to ask even when she was sober, let alone drunk.

Audrey hesitated — a beat too long, something so quiet that I could hear the rustling of her fingertips against her silk bedsheets — before she nodded, slow and soft and unsure. Her fingers twitched for a brief second, and then she stood, my hands on both sides of her waist keeping her upright. Her back remained slightly hunched, her posture anxious, but she seemed to relax just slightly when I rubbed my palm over her skin to remind her that it was only me.

“Okay,” she said quietly, and I got to work almost immediately.

I brushed my hands over the green velvet, the pearl-like buttons slipping down to the small of her back as I popped the first one open. Her hair narrowly avoided getting caught in between the clasps, and, without thinking, I twisted the curls around my fist and held them just above the nape of her neck to keep the tangles at bay. Despite the fact that the gesture wasn’t meant to be particularly intimate, I felt the way she shuddered under the simple touch — a full body shiver, like I’d touched her somewhere I wasn’t supposed to.

“Shit— sorry,” I said quickly, but I didn’t drop the clump of hair that I was holding between my fingers. The chasm of olive skin widened in between the separating fabric as the second and third buttons became undone, freckles prickling across her skin like a hidden valley. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” she said, though she sounded a little breathless.

There was a short pause in between us. “Is this okay?” I asked, the need for confirmation hanging heavy in the air.

She nodded, the movement almost hesitant. “It’s okay,” she said, voice soft and a little shy. “Just— sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and she made a motion with her hand as if waving me off in response. “Do you want me to continue?”

Her breath stuttered, shoulders stiffening for a brief second, and then she said, “Yes.”

Slowly, the dress started to come undone, more and more skin spreading down her back, tension between us so thick it could be cut with a knife. As the last button unclasped, I dropped the hair I’d weaved in between my fingers, curls soft and warm and a little frizzy in a way that wasn’t nearly as messy as it should’ve been from the events of tonight. My hands hesitantly pulled back from her skin, my palms hot with her drunken warmth, and moved quickly towards her dresser as if she’d strip down in front of me.

“Any color preference?” I asked — a stupid question, but it eased some of the tension.

She laughed, soft and a little hiccupy, a sound that made my heart skip a beat. “Um— it doesn’t matter. I think I’ve got braies and a chemise in there somewhere.”

I felt a little guilty rummaging through her drawers, but there was no indication based solely on her facial expression that she minded. I hesitated, a movement that lasted only half a second, my fingers stuttering halfway buried in clothes that she’d worn before and after she met me, and then I searched for the familiar linen I’d seen Liam wear once or twice before. Her eyes shifted into something softer, and then she smiled just a little as I glanced towards her as confirmation.

“Have you sobered up at all?” I asked, tossing a red piece of fabric towards her that I recognized as a tiny pair of braies.

“Did vomiting half the wine I drank throughout the night sober me up?” The fabric of her dress dangled loosely from her shoulders, still hiding the majority of her body. “A little.”

I tried not to smile as I rolled my eyes, but it slipped out before I could stop it. “God forbid I make sure you’re alright,” I said, and she giggled something soft at my sarcasm, something rare that I’d started to cherish without noticing. I pulled out the linen chemise, the one I assumed she’d been talking about, and threw it to her, a grin slipping out when it lightly smacked her in the face. “Tell me when.”

“When?”

“When to turn around.”

“Oh,” she said, and her cheeks pinkened a little. “Um— when.”

I spun around immediately, eyes covering my face in a fashion that would’ve been dramatic if Audrey wasn’t so wary around men — I tried to make her as comfortable as possible, and if turning around and covering my eyes in a dramatic fashion made her life a little easier, it was worth it. I heard the rustling of fabric, the sound her heavy dress made when it collapsed onto the floor, the small pitter-patter of her feet as she stepped out from the velvet pooling around her. I heard the sound of the chemise dropping over her body, the silk braies slipping over her legs, the sound of her voice when she opened her mouth to speak.

“Okay,” she said, soft and warm, and I turned around hesitantly as if I’d been imagining the sound of her undressing and dressing herself.

I noticed something I’d never noticed before upon looking at her with less clothes than I was used to — scars lining her upper thighs, some healed, some halfway filled with blood that had dried under the skin, the healing process slow and silent. She didn’t seem to have thought of it in her drunken state, to recognize how high up the shorts rose to her thighs, but they were there, obvious and clear. With just a quick glance, I could see the healed wounds prickling her skin in more places than just her thighs — the underside of her arms, the soft spot in the middle of her wrist, the marks most likely hidden deeper where fabric could cover every trace.

The scars were different — too neat, too hidden, deep enough that blood would shed but not enough for it to pour. Too carefully placed that they couldn’t possibly be from accidental spar cuts or knicks from the arrowheads she used. They were too familiar to the marks I’d carved into my own flesh.

She slipped under the covers, rolling uncomfortably until she kicked them away and settled for a thin, cream sheet to drape over her body. She tucked it under her chin, tossing an arm over her eyes as if it wasn’t already dark enough in her bedroom, her lips parting with slurred words.

“Don’t leave until I’m asleep,” she said, but she sounded halfway to sleep already.

“Okay,” I promised — the simple words, the Don’t leave, the vulnerability that was so soft and sweet, kept me standing over her bed until her breathing slowed.

Chapter Text

It was late at night when the door creaked open.

I hadn’t slept long — an hour, maybe two based on the darkness swallowing the night — but it felt as if I’d been resting for hours. I was still nauseous and delirious.

I didn’t particularly like drinking, but it got me through the banquets — it did its job, and I was grateful for it. Puking up half of it had definitely sobered me up, but that familiar dizziness still swirled around my brain as I faded into consciousness.

“Mason?” I asked drowsily, but the sharp laugh that followed didn’t sound like him.

As I lifted my head, I saw the fluid motions of three men entering my bedroom, all of which I recognized as suitors that I didn’t individually know. One of them — a king, I’d been told once by Callie — advanced forwards first, almost as if he was leading the other men into battle. Like he was leading them towards slaying an enemy with a battle strategy he’d practiced.

His hair was dark, eyes that would have been a warm hazel if they didn’t look so cold. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but his expression still held a hint of pride at his ability to make a wave of fear wash over my body like a tidal storm.

“Is that who you were hoping for?” he asked, his voice low, so low that it sent shivers coursing through me. He turned towards one of the men — golden blonde, blue-eyed and only slightly paler than Mason. “Hold her down.”

The words rattled in my brain, swimming around as two huge men pressed their hands against my forearms, fingers digging harshly into my skin. I made an effort to thrash, but my movements felt too slow, too sluggish, too buried under drunkenness and sleep. Hold her down. The words made me shrink as he stood over me, his presence unwelcome at the foot of my bed.

“Callie!” I yelled. In an instant, he was crawling over me, slapping his hand over my mouth in an effort to shut me up. Desperately, I screamed, “Callie!”

“Be quiet,” he snapped, and the weight of his voice was so heavy that my breath caught in my throat. He trailed his hands down until they were toying with the waistband of my braies, the fabric wrinkling in his fingers.

Slowly, deliberately, he drew a sharp, bronze dagger from where it had been hidden in his belt and pressed it against my neck, the blade just barely grazing my skin. Drops of blood trickled down my chest as I choked and tried to steady my breathing so as to not plunge myself further into the knife, but I simply couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t calm down.

He was double — triple — my size, and he had a knife. He had two followers forcing my arms into the mattress, holding me in place.

I recognized the look in his eyes now — hunger that rattled against my bones with a weight so heavy that it hurt. I hadn’t let any of the men close enough to feel me, left them longing for a body they never had the chance to violate. I hadn’t locked my door, had allowed the knights to enjoy the party with a promise of my wellbeing.
I had passed out drunk and expected nothing to come of it. I had let myself be vulnerable, and it had come back to kill me.

For a moment, I was mad at myself. I was the one who’d asked for privacy, who’d pleaded to roam the halls alone and let the night guards get their much needed rest. I could’ve been safe if I hadn’t been so stupid, if I hadn’t trusted that the door locking wasn’t all that important. If I hadn’t let myself believe that I’d be okay. As his hand slid beneath by braies, his expression bewildered and desperate, I was mad at myself.

I tried to stop the tears from falling — tears meant defeat, exhaustion, and I wasn’t ready to give up yet — but my body betrayed me. I gasped and choked back sobs that shook my entire body, every small movement sending the blade just a little closer towards my throat, pain fueling the fear coursing through my veins. Every tear that fell was an admission of defeat, and yet I couldn’t stop them from slipping.

“This,” he sneered, eyes flickering down to the knife for a brief second, “Is what happens if you disobey me. Do you understand?”

I simply gasped in response as he forced his fingers beneath my underwear. A wicked smile flashed across his face as he kept his thumb steady and cold against my core, head tilting upwards towards one of the men. In one quick motion, he forced my chemise above my breasts.

The cold air was pressing into every inch of my skin, prickling like pins and needles beneath my flesh. He pushed half his finger inside of me as I opened my mouth to tell him I understood, the words dying in my throat as the unfamiliar sensation shivered through my body.

I choked another vulnerable noise as he started to undo his belt, the rattling of it so loud it felt as if it was the only thing I could hear. I wondered if anybody else knew of his plan, if he’d told anyone but the two men accompanying him, if anyone had seen him walk in and thought better of asking about it.

But it didn’t matter anymore. He was either going to rape or kill me — maybe both — but, out of the two, I couldn’t tell which was worse.

I had never liked being alive, but I hadn’t expected my last moment to be the feeling of a man I didn’t like forcing himself inside of me. The first time I’d tried to die, I’d been seventeen and unafraid, laying on my back after a long day of forcing my sisters to spend time with me. I’d felt the warmth of the sun crash against me as my heartbeat thrummed to nearly nothing in the garden. Despite everything, it had been a half-decent memory.

Now, my last memories were going to be getting so drunk I was unable to fight off a suitor. Someone who took whatever he could get from me. Whatever benefited him the greatest. I was losing to a man I never should’ve lost to.

“Do you understand, Princess?” he asked again, and I’d almost forgotten he’d said anything in the first place. Slowly, as if I was a child, he repeated, “Do you understand?”

I nodded in confirmation, unable to stay anything without sobs shaking my entire body. I watched him smile and relish in the uncomfortable groan that slipped from my mouth as he forced another finger inside me, a sensation I reminded myself that I’d, eventually, have to get used to at some point. For the time being, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed quietly in my head for someone, anyone to walk in and save me. For Callie to come barging in or for Mason to check on me with a glass of water. But nobody came.

It was just me. Just me, alone and scared and overpowered as I watched a man whose name I didn’t even know unbutton his pants. Just me, defeated and drunk as he groped me blindly in the dark and stretched me uncomfortably. Just me, biting back screams and whines in fear of him pressing the knife deeper into my neck.

I recounted the words servant women had cooed into my ear even as a child — It’ll be over before you know it. He would satisfy himself and then he’d leave, retreat to the safety of his chamber and sleep well knowing he’d gotten exactly what he wanted. He would win, and I would lose, and that was how it always worked, wasn’t it? The men won, and the women suffered.

It only hurts for a moment, I reminded myself, and then I squeezed my eyes shut.

~
~

It was over in seven minutes.

The three of them spilled out of the room, footsteps clumsy and quiet as they fled back to their respective chambers, the door shutting gently behind them. Underneath me, I felt the warm trickle of blood drip down my leg, crimson seeping into the sheets as I pressed my ear into the pillow and tried to drown out the noise around me. The only sound still lingering was the muffled sobs that spilled from my throat.

The wound against my neck was still leaking just slightly, warm and thick. The blood was level with my collarbones, staining my skin in a way I felt I’d never be capable of washing away.

I pressed a hand over my mouth the same way the suitor had, but this time it felt more comforting — it was my hand. It was a little clammy and calloused but my hand nonetheless, which brought me some solace.

I wasn’t sure how long I laid there trembling. I desperately tried not to think about the feeling of his hands pressed into my thighs, fingers forced under my clothes, a part of him inside my body as he turned it into something meant for his pleasure. He’d said my name as it ended, but it didn’t feel warm or comforting — it made me nauseous, bile pooling in my stomach as he pulled out of me and left my thigh sticky with his release.

He hadn’t cleaned me up after — of course, he’d cleaned himself, but it seemed that once it was over, I’d ceased to exist in his eyes. He put his clothes back on, tucked the bloodied dagger into his belt, hidden beneath his tunic, and then he was gone. I was left a mess, covered in blood and fingernail bruises and other things I didn’t want to even think about, and he was gone.

I laid still until vomit started coming up my throat, forcing me into the bathroom to puke up the rest of the wine I’d drank. Half of it was because I was hungover, but the other half had everything to do with the thick, sickly end-of-the-world feeling that had started swirling in my stomach. With my head in between the lid, I heaved and sobbed until there was nothing left but acid. Until tears had started dripping down the drain and the reverberating in my gut had slowed.

I had once thought of my room as a safe space. It had once been somewhere I could be my most vulnerable, somewhere I could hide away from the rest of the world. Now, it was tainted.

It was no longer my place — no longer mine. It had been ruined by a man I didn’t even know the name of, by a man who only needed seven minutes to uproot my trust in safety.

I wanted Callie — Liam, maybe, but I doubted he would understand the way she did. Part of me wanted Mason, but there was a sensation in my belly that was cold and scared that he was the same, that I’d meet the same cruel fate a second time. That Callie was right when she said he would be like the rest of the men and find his way under my skin and rip me apart from the inside.

I tore the clothes I’d been violated in from my body, tossing them onto the marble floor in the bathroom. I pressed my naked body against the cold as a distraction, blood still sticky against my legs, thick and bright and obvious.

Sluggishly, my arms bruised and exhausted, I used a scratchy scrap of wool perched on a mini stool beside the toilet to wipe it away. I cleaned both the ichor and his release away from my skin, but it wasn’t enough.

It didn’t clean him away, didn’t erase his violent touch or the way he spoke my name. Nothing would ever be enough. But at least it was something.

I forced myself to stand, to dress myself. I used the clothes that were still mine, untouched by anyone except me — new pair of underwear, a nightgown that fell to my knees, a pair of socks that raised far above my ankles just to cover as much skin as I possibly could. Still, I wrapped a spare blanket around my shoulders, one that used to be Callie’s but had been passed down to me when she was too tall for it. It was thick enough that it both kept my body shielded and muffled the cold prickling against my skin.

I kept my head tipped down, hair falling over my face, hiding me away from the rest of the world. I felt like a shell of the woman I used to be as curls spilled over my eyes, obstructing my vision.

I had laid numb against my bed for so long that the sun had started to rise, that the rustling of servants outside could be heard through the walls. The wind was soft, warm outside, something that almost felt unnatural for the restlessness crowding my brain.

Mason. The thought dawned on me like a thousand bricks — I needed him and nobody else. My mind was too addled to understand why, but it felt important that he was near me. Crucial.

He was comforting in a way that I couldn’t quite comprehend. I trusted him, not the way I trusted Callie or Norie or Liam, but something foreign. Mason felt different. He was different.

The front door creaked open quietly as I squeezed the blanket a little tighter to my skin. As I stepped into the hallway, cold rushing in, I felt my vision swaying slightly with the weight of what had happened and what I was doing. I felt a little smaller than I did before.

Callie’s room was only a few doors to the left, but, even still, I found myself turning right towards the servants’ quarters. I needed somewhere safer, needed warmth to wrap around and melt into. I knew I would find it in the servants’ quarters.

~
~

I curled my hand into a fist and pounded it against the wooden door, the tears still prickling in my eyes, my reflection pale in the small window carved into the entrance of the room. The banging was loud and incessant — a little obnoxious, really — but I didn’t care. I needed human contact, for anyone, anything, to hold me and tell me it was okay.

“Jesus, what?” Liam asked — I’d forgotten how cranky he got in the mornings. But, upon seeing my face, the way my lip quivered, his eyes softened immediately. “Rey?” he asked, and I collapsed.

I fell into his arms sobbing, my chest heaving, my head dizzy from crying and puking and still being a little bit hungover. From the corner of my eye, head mostly buried in Liam’s shoulder, I saw Mason scramble to sit up, concern present in his face. His gaze was almost terrified as I started to choke on my own breath.

“Hey.” Liam’s voice was immediately stern, condemning me to focus on him. His eyes flickered towards the dried blood prickling under my neck, his volume dropping to a whisper as he asked, “What happened?”

“Non sono più pura,” I choked out, the words easier to say when only the two of us understood, and his posture shifted immediately.
(I'm no longer pure.)

“What?” he asked, his grip tightening against me, his hand rubbing gentle circles into my back the same way Callie did. He nudged the door closed with his foot, clearly unbothered by my hair that was tickling his cheeks, and whispered, “Chi?” Despite how quiet he was being, he’d never sounded angrier.
(Who?)

I shook my head, feeling a little guilty for keeping the violation a secret from Mason. “Non lo so. Non l’ho riconosciuto. Um— erano in tre. Solo— solo uno di loro mi ha realmente violata.”
(I don't know. I didn't recognize him. Um—there were three of them. Only—only one of them actually raped me.)

I could see the way Mason’s head perked up at the familiar word — violata, violate. His entire body stiffened, his eyes shifting into something so much softer, his fingers twitching against the sheet he was gripping.

Liam pulled away from me the tiniest bit, but he remained close enough for me to bury my face in the crook of his neck. “In tre?”
(Three of them?)

“Due mi tenevano bloccata.”
(Two were holding me down.)

His breath caught in his throat, his fingers stuttering against my back and interrupting the steady rhythm he’d been keeping up. “Okay. Okay, um— te la senti di restare qui con Mason mentre vado a chiamare Callie?” he asked, his voice softer, warmer than I ever thought it was capable of being.
(Would you be okay staying here with Mason while I go call Callie?)

I nodded immediately. “Sì,” I promised him, and he let go of me slowly as if going any faster would shatter me. “Mi fido di lui.”
(Yes. I trust him.)

“Prometti?”
(Promise?)

English shifted in my brain, the two languages swimming until I said, “I promise.”

Liam nodded once and brushed his shoulder past me, and I let myself finally look at Mason fully, three emotions swirling through his eyes — anger, then concern, then complete confusion. As if he’d come to the wrong conclusion. I tried to open my mouth to say something, but it died in my throat as he stood up and took a few steps toward me.

“Hi,” he said softly, his hands twitching hesitantly as if he wasn’t sure if I’d allow him to touch me. “Are you okay?”

I closed the space between us, burying my face into his chest as if the need to be held by someone had completely muffled the anxiety pooling in my stomach. I tried not to cry anymore, to keep my eyes dry, to force myself not to be vulnerable anymore, but the hiccup slipped out before I could stop it.

He wrapped his arms around me, one resting against my back, the other in my hair, fingers brushing through my tangled curls. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, and I melted into him a little more. “I’ve got you, Aud, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I choked.

He paused for a brief moment, a moment that was so quiet that I could hear the gentle wind rustling the branches outside. “I think— I think I understand what happened.”

“Probably,” I whispered, and his fingers dug just the tiniest bit further into my back.

“Do you want to lay down?” he asked, gentle and soft, and, despite the fact that doing that exact thing had gotten me into the predicament I was in now, I could feel my knees buckling under me. When I nodded, he wrapped a steady arm against my waist and walked me towards his bed and whispered, “Okay.”

He laid me down, careful not to let his hands touch anywhere below my lower back, hair falling over his eyes in a way that felt a little endearing. “Is it okay if I lay in Liam’s bed while you stay here?”

“No,” I said immediately.

He paused, breath catching for a split second before he very quietly said, “Okay.”

He didn’t fight the issue — didn’t argue, didn’t ask Well, what do you want me to do then?, just stood and stared at his feet as if looking at me would turn him to stone. But I wanted him — I wanted him near me. I needed him near me.

“I need you,” I said, biting back my pride to say the words aloud.

His eyes were wide and scared and a little surprised. “Okay,” he said.

He crawled into bed beside me, any contact between us separated by the thick blanket I kept tight around my shoulders. It was almost enough, but something was still off — maybe it was the barrier the quilt created between us, maybe it was something else. I couldn’t tell.

There was silence — comfortable silence — but silence nonetheless that had sickness pooling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t have quiet — my mind was already loud. The vast nothingness and the absence of noise made everything so much worse.

“Mason?” I asked, and his attention was on me instantly. “Can you—”

“Whatever you want,” he said quickly, even though I hadn’t said anything. I usually didn’t like being interrupted, but the way he said those words — immediate, completely genuine — made any ounce of anger fade away.

I looked up at him — really looked at him. At the way his hands rested against his stomach, unsure of whether or not he could touch me, his eyes flickering towards me every few seconds as if making sure I was still there. He was hesitant, like he wasn’t exactly sure what to do with me, and I couldn’t tell if that made me feel grateful or dirty.

Hesitantly, I glanced up at him, watched the way his fingertips drummed against his skin, the way his eyes lingered on me. I tipped my head slightly and watched in real time as concern started seeping into his expression, his lips parting with a question I wasn’t sure I was ready to answer.

“Are you okay?” he asked, even though he already knew what I would say.

I tried to shake my head, but instead, very slowly, rested my head against his chest. I let my hand drape against his stomach, my fingers digging into his shirt so hard I could feel myself pinching his skin. He said nothing, but I felt his shoulders tense just slightly, the sharp intake of breath as he processed my movements.

“Can I— um, can I wrap my arm around you?” he asked, soft and gentle. “I just— I think it might be more comfortable. For you, I mean.”

I nodded once.

His arm snaked under my neck and folded around my side, calloused hands resting gently against my hip. His touch was soft, barely there, but I felt the weight of it burning through my skin.

“Is this okay?” he asked, and I melted into him.

I hummed in response and intertwined my fingers through his. “Yeah.”

The door swung open not even a moment later. Loud and harsh, quiet footsteps pattering down the hallway and into the room that I recognized as Callie.

Her hands trembled at her sides as she unpacked the scene in front of her. In an instant, her eyes softened, hand flying over her mouth as if she were trying to find the words but couldn’t, couldn’t fathom what she was seeing.

“Oh, baby,” she said quietly, and I sat up to catch her embrace.

She wrapped her arms around me, her fingers sliding through my hair. “Va tutto bene, tesoro, sono qui con te. Siamo qui.”
(It's okay, darling, I'm here with you. We're here.)

Those words made something stir inside me. Siamo qui — we’re here. It was her version of quiet acceptance towards Mason, was her way of telling me that, even if I didn’t trust him, she did. I wasn’t sure how he’d gained her trust — Callie didn’t trust easily — but it made everything feel a little easier.

“Chi è stato a farlo?” she asked, her voice guarded and unbelievably angry.
(Who did it?)

“Non lo sa.” I hadn’t even seen Liam enter behind Callie, but he was standing in front of the door like a bodyguard, back pressed against the wood. His gaze lingered on Mason for a brief moment, their eyes silently communicating something I didn’t recognize, and then he said, “You feeling better, Rey?”
(She doesn't know.)

It was different from Are you okay? — he saw in my eyes that I wasn’t, but he recognized that my expression had softened just a little, my posture slightly less tense. And it made it a little better to know that he was right — I did feel better.

“Yeah,” I said, Callie’s fingers tangling and untangling the knots in my hair.

“Ne parlerò con Mama, okay?” she promised, but it felt empty, like she said it to comfort me only temporarily. “It’s okay. It happens to the best of us.”
(I'll talk to Mama about it, okay?)

But it wasn’t okay — it wasn’t an accident, not like Liam breaking a window when he was thirteen or Callie tripping over her dress during her first ever banquet. My body had been violated, innocence ripped away from me, skin tainted. The words meant something different entirely — it happens to the best of us essentially meant careful women who slipped up once or twice.

“Right,” I said dismissively, my eyes closing despite the fact that all I could see was the man’s face lying over me.

Chapter Text

“I need you to sleep with me.”

I choked on the wine I’d stolen from Liam, the jug pressed to my lips, wine halfway down my throat when she’d said it. “Pardon?”

Audrey’s face remained completely stoic, though I could’ve sworn her cheeks flushed. “I don’t want to be alone,” she said, and a piece of my heart chipped away. “It’s just for a few nights. I just— I can’t be alone. Not in that room.”

I nodded noiselessly and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Okay,” I agreed instantly.

For three days, she’d slept in the servants quarters — Liam had offered her his bed, and Audrey obliged, settling on his mattress while he slept in sheets on the floor. He didn’t seem to mind much, but, recently, he started whispering to me about how sore his back was. How much he missed sleeping on something that wasn’t unclean marble.

In the meantime, Callie had ordered the servants to clean Audrey’s room. To replace the sheets and scrub the reminders away. She’d had everything moved around, everything changed, everything new. As if that would help her forget what happened.

It was a nice gesture, sure, but it didn’t feel like enough. It wasn’t enough. Audrey didn’t feel safe, and I didn’t blame her — I couldn’t understand how nobody else did.

Somehow, some way, the other suitors had heard of the attack. My best guess was that the man had thought to brag about it to his comrades and someone had overheard.

He bragged about what he’d done. About how he’d planned to take advantage of her and how it had worked. How he’d always known she wasn’t as strong as she claimed to be. With that comment, I dumped a glass of wine down the front of his tunic. I pretended it was an accident — Clumsy me, I’d said to him — and, from across the room, I almost saw Callie smile.

It made me sick how little they cared. How confused they were by her absence in political events and banquets that were once centered around her. In their eyes, she was merely a princess. A political asset.

With the rumors, I was glad Audrey had been granted a few days to collect herself if not for the Queen thinking she was being hysterical. That she was sorry but, It happens to everyone, sweetie.

I'd  clenched my fists at that. Liam had to place a gentle hand on my arm as if to remind me who I was about to scold.

I passed her the wine, careful not to let my fingers graze over hers — then felt an immediate surge of guilt when she stared down at the jug and swirled it around in her hands. Her lips parted gently, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Like the rest of the world had turned her into something she was unfamiliar with.

“I’m angry,” she finally said, and, despite the fact that there was no anger in her voice, I believed her.

“I know,” I said as she handed the wine back. Instead of taking another sip like I’d intended to, I placed it upright in the grass and slid down next to her against the olive tree deep in the garden. “I’d be angry, too.”

“I’m— I’m mad at myself,” she clarified, and the way I looked at her must have scared her into thinking she was wrong. “Not because it was my fault, but . . . What if I hadn’t gotten drunk?”

“Then he still would’ve come in.”

“I could’ve fought him off.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” I said immediately, and she turned to me with an expression on her face that was either anger or confusion. “There were three of them.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

I clarified, “I know three in Italian. I’ve been here a month— I’ve picked up some of the words.”

“Like?”

“Like Shut up,” I said, and she smiled for the first time in days.

She inched the tiniest bit closer to me, our knees touching. “I just keep . . . Thinking about it.”

I plucked a piece of bark from her hair. “I know.”

She leaned her head against my shoulder — light, barely there, but I felt it like an electric shock. She didn’t say anything else. She just sat there beside me and steadied her breath, focused on the trees rustling in front of us.

She jumped when an olive pattered to the ground beside her. To me, the sound was barely audible, but it was enough to make her flinch — her fingers dug into the skin of my knee, her eyes suddenly wide.

“Hey,” I said instantly, commanding her to look at me with a quiet sternness. “It’s okay. Just— just an olive.”

“I know,” she said quickly, but her voice wavered. “I— I know.”

“It’s okay,” I repeated as if that would make it any better.

She was quiet as she moved her fingers from my leg, the bruises still lingering against her knuckles. Her skin was mostly healed over, but the center of the damage was still a little raw.

“I think I should go to my room,” she said.

“Okay,” I said with a nod, and her eyes softened just a little.

~
~

Despite the fact that the bed was the centerpiece of the room, Audrey pretended not to see it as she walked in.

With the work Callie had done, the chamber seemed smaller, less crowded. The dresser was moved next to the bed, far from across the room where it had once been, and in its place rested a white couch with golden accents and soft-looking cushions.

Next to it was a bed tray, wooden and slick like it had been recently polished, covered in small trinkets — gray stones with strange patterns, oak carvings shaped to look like olives and wolves. There were half melted candles and a broken arrow that laid across the middle.

To fill more space, the servants had installed a huge white rug, one that was positioned under the windowsill. The overgrown trees prickled through the open windowpane.

I went to say something stupid to fill the silence like, Wow, this looks great, but I quickly shut up when I saw the look on her face. She was hesitant to move, hesitant to do anything but stare.

I watched her fingertips graze over every object, every rock and stone and olive carving. She clumsily fumbled through her dresser as if to prove to herself that her clothes were still there, still hers. Her eyes flickered incessantly towards the freshly pressed silk bedsheets.

With the way she was looking at it, I knew she was seeing something I wasn’t — a spot of blood, maybe, perhaps a vision of herself lying in bed. Her lips were parted with something soft, something that sounded like half a gasp. Like a sharp inhale of breath, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Audrey,” I said, my voice so quiet I didn’t think she’d hear it. When she turned around, her eyes a little glazed over, I asked, “Do you want to leave?”

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“But do you want to?”

There was a quiet pause between us, one in which the air felt thick and suffocating even for me. “Yeah,” she said, but she flinched when I tried to reach for her hand. “But I can’t. I have to— I have to get used to being normal again.”

“Normal?” I asked, because her behavior seemed completely normal to me.

“I’m expected at tomorrow’s banquet.”

Anger swirled in my stomach before I could stop it. “Are you even ready for that?” I asked.

Her expression shifted. “It’s not a matter of readiness, Mason. I’m a princess. I have a reputation.”

“Yeah, a reputation for punching people and running away from your own balls,” I spat without thinking, and her eyes narrowed into a glare. My voice softened as I added, “Aud, you don’t have to do this.”

“Can we just . . .” Her voice trailed off, hands clutched tight around the blanket she’d been wearing the night she knocked on the door. It had become a sort of comfort to her over the nights. Something she’d wrap herself around at night — something she used as a sort of barrier between us when we touched. “We should sleep on the couch.”

I nodded once. “We should.”

She hesitantly laid back on the fainting couch, her hair flopping across the cushion as she made herself comfortable. Despite the fact that she seemed slightly more at ease, her face was still twisted into a concerned expression.

Her eyes were a little glazed over as she crossed her arms over her stomach, her fingers digging into the fabric of the tunic Liam had offered her. The blue linen wrinkled in between her palms.

“Do you want to sleep by yourself?” I asked.

Her eyes were so wide I wished I hadn’t said anything. “No.”

“Okay,” I said quickly, but my feet remained planted by the doorway, grounded by doubt. “Um— do you want me to sit with you?”

She hesitated a second too long, then nodded.

I plopped down on the cushion beside her, her feet dangling off the couch. They were pressed flat against the floor like she was ready to run.

I took a moment to really look at her — the way her curls flopped over her face, her eyes, half closed but still wary. The steady rise and fall of her chest. Her hands were clutching her own clothing so tight, like she was afraid I’d take it from her.

I placed one of my hands over hers, guilt immediately pooling in my stomach when she flinched. I tried to pull away, but she firmly wrapped her fingers around me.

“Sorry,” I whispered, but she just shifted her head towards me.

Audrey swung her feet so they were in my lap, her lips parting just slightly. She didn’t say anything — no acknowledgement of my apology, though it wasn’t much of a thing to be acknowledged — for a long moment.

Then she whispered, her voice broken, “I’m scared.”

“Scared?” I asked.

“Of being alone.”

I blinked at her for a second. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

“Yeah, but— you won’t be here forever.”

“Are you threatening me?”

She glared at me. “Be serious.”

“Sorry,” I said immediately. I squeezed her hand once, twice. “You don’t have to worry about being alone.”

She looked down, her eyes pointed towards my wrist though I doubted she was really looking at anything in particular. Her mouth twitched, and then she rolled over, her cheek pressed against the cylinder shaped pillow. I could see her visibly swallow as if forcing the words back down her throat.

“I’ve got you,” I promised her in the darkness, and she brought my hand to her lips, pressed thin and unmoving. Despite the fact that I knew she’d heard me, I felt the need to repeat myself. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” she said, but she didn’t sound very convinced.

~
~

I awoke in the middle of the night when Audrey promptly sat up.

She gasped, choking on her own breath, sweat dripping down her face as her hands shook in the air and writhed for something to grab. When she remembered I was there, she cupped her palms on either side of my face as if to bring her back to reality.

She shivered when I placed a hand on her forearm. A whole body shiver, like my touch had reverberated something under her skin.

“Hey,” I said, half asleep yet very aware of my surroundings. “Are you okay? What— what happened?”

She brought her hands to the nape of my neck, hands weaving through my hair as an anchor. Her mouth opened with not words but desperate breaths she couldn’t hold onto. She looked terrified.

“Audrey,” I said softly, and her chest finally began to rise and fall a little more slowly. “What happened?”

“I— I don’t . . .” Her words came out messy, almost like she didn’t know she was even saying them. “My— my dad—”

“It’s okay,” I told her, even though it wasn’t.

“There was so much blood,” she choked out. “It was just— it was just everywhere.”

Something sick swirled in my stomach. “There’s no blood here, Aud,” I reassured her, and, for good measure, added, “It’s okay.”

“It was everywhere.” She was crying now, small broken noises that made me feel guilty that I was too scared to touch her. “It was on the floor, on the walls, on my hands— Mason, it was on my hands.”

“Hey.” I took my hands in hers and removed them from my hair, twisting them around so she could see both sides. I let her watch, her eyes darting across her skin, and then gently asked, “Do you see any blood?”

Hesitantly, she said, “No.”

“Look around the room,” I told her, and she obliged. “Do you see anything? Any blood?”

She swallowed, choking on her own saliva as she tried to bite back a sob. “No.”
“It was just a dream,” I promised her, but her eyes were still so wide, like she was expecting the body to materialize behind me like a ghost. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“I— I could see his intestines,” she cried, her voice quiet, and I could feel my cheeks go pale with the image of it. “It was— it was so—”

“It’s over now,” I said, trying to sound confident despite the fact that I wasn’t. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She shook her head feverishly, tears streaming down her face. “It’s not over. It’s never over, it always comes back— it’s always in the back of my mind.” Her sob came from deep in her throat as she said, “It’s always there.”

I leaned in closer to her and hesitantly placed my lips against her hand, her breath stuttering. “I’ve got you,” I whispered, and her eyes softened a little. “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“It’s going to come back.”

“Audrey,” I said, and she flinched as if I’d said something hurtful. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

She pursed her lips. Her expression was still one of disbelief, but she seemed to realize the pattern we were circling around — Audrey desperately trying to explain what she’d seen, me promising that she was okay even though she very much was not.

Her hands wrapped around my back. Not pulling — just a steady weight that made my skin tingle. Her hands clenched into fists, clutching my tunic.

“Are you okay?” I asked, and wasn’t surprised at all when she shook her head no.

Hesitantly, I rested my head against her stomach.

Her hands settled in my hair, her fingers twirling around the curls. Against her skin, I could feel everything — how quickly her heart was beating, the way her stomach had twisted with the memories. The sharp intakes of desperate breaths.

I wrapped a careful arm around her waist, and, when she leaned into it slightly, snaked my other arm across her side. My legs were dangling off the couch, but I didn’t care — her body had begun to settle, and that was all that mattered to me.

I held her until I could feel her heart beating at a normal pace, her breathing steady. Until she’d stopped hiccupping softly against me, until the tears on her face had dried. Even still, I couldn’t find it in myself to pull away.

“I was so scared,” she said quietly.

“I know.” I looked up at her, our faces close enough that I could almost feel her breath against my skin. “I’ve got you.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She paused the steady motion of her fingers rubbing circles my hair and wrapped her legs around my torso as if to hold me closer. I felt the warmth seep into my cheeks as I pressed my face back against her stomach, her heartbeat pounding in my ear as she whispered, “Thanks.”

“For?”

“I don’t know, just— being here?” There was a comfortable silence between us, then she said, “I’m not used to that.”

“I know,” I said immediately, and she stiffened and looked down at me in confusion. “I mean— it’s just how life works. You grow up around people, but nobody’s really . . . There.” She tilted her head the smallest bit as if urging me to continue, so I said, “I’m not used to people being there either. Not in the way I need them to be.”

She nodded, twirling one of my curls around in her fingertips. She let out a breath, one that was mostly steady except for the brief second it got caught in her throat, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” I rubbed gentle circles into her middle back, watching very quietly as her eyes flickered closed, hands twitching as she welcomed the touch. I felt the need to say, “I’ve got you, Aud.”

“I like that,” she said. “Aud. It’s cute.”

“I didn’t even realize I started doing it,” I told her honestly.

“I like it,” she repeated softly. “It makes me feel safe.”

“It does?” I asked, but, when I looked up at her, it seemed that she’d already fallen asleep.

~
~

It took five days of sleeping on the couch for Audrey to sit down on the bed.

For nearly the entire week, she’d settle against the cushions and motion for me to lay with her. My head always ended up on her stomach or — very rarely — the crook of her neck.

Any time I suggested sleeping on the bed, she’d lean against the cylinder pillow and stare with empty eyes at the furniture. Then, very slowly, she’d shake her head. And I’d say okay, because there was nothing else to say.

She continued going to banquets, wearing dresses of all sizes and colors, but there was something different about her. She kept to herself, flinching away from the suitors when they tried to touch her hips. She refused wine and drank only ice water throughout the course of the night.

Now, in her bedroom, the world felt more gentle, warm. It was dark, but there was a quiet light sparkling in the sky, the torches burning a little brighter than usual.

Audrey was wearing a black nightgown — linen without lace. Her curls fell over her back like vines that grew on the garden walls. Her lips were pressed tight together, like she was too scared to open her mouth.

She was quiet tonight. Her fingertips kept grazing across the sheets, eyes flickering towards one specific spot. One where the mattress dipped in the center where I assumed she’d been lying that fateful night. I could see that she was reliving the moment for the thirtieth time — a cycle that kept repeating. One that never ended.

“Aud,” I said softly, “You don’t have to do this. You— you know that, right?”

“I know,” she said quickly, and she made a point of stepping forward — a point that quickly backfired when her entire body shuddered uncomfortably. Her hands trembled as she added, “I just— I need a second.”

I’d never seen how much rape could affect someone — of course, I knew that it did, but it was something that most women had been taught to deal with. Something that, if spoken about, was considered weak and dramatic. Now I saw what it really meant. 

Audrey had become a shell of herself, had become so much more quiet and guarded in only the last week, and, while she was improving, it was in small, hesitant steps. She would shrink away from touch, flinching at affection if it wasn’t specifically asked for. Even when it was, she would still stiffen beneath someone’s arms around her or a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Somehow, we had become even closer — she trusted me enough to let me near, to hold her while she slept. I didn’t know how it had happened, but it had become a sort of routine between us — she would lay down, I’d settle my body on top of hers. My head would rest against her stomach, and we’d fall asleep to the sound of the other breathing. It wasn’t always the most convenient of positions — her knee would dig into my hip, my hands would fall off her body uncomfortably, our faces too close or not close enough. But we made it work.

“I can lay down first,” I said softly, and she tilted her head a little. “You know— to show you it’s safe.”

I watched her for a brief moment. The way her brain processed my words, the way the smallest amount of anxiety melted from her face.

Very hesitantly, she nodded.

I liked that I was safe to her. We hadn’t known eachother long, but there was something we had both found that we needed in the other. Something that made my chest feel tight.

I laid down in the bed, the mattress softer than I’d expected it to be — it seemed unfair now that servants in the palace had to sleep on thin bedding that made everything feel sore. She had four pillows, all covered in silk sheets, two large and square, the others round and a bit more firm. Her bedsheets felt thick and warm under me, but she’d likely been using a thinner blanket due to the warm weather, possibly a sheet or finer linen.

“It’s okay,” I promised her, my hand extended towards her just slightly. “You’re okay.”

“I know.” She tried to sound firm, but her voice was trembling.

I looked up at her, attempting a smile that died when I saw her expression. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, shoulders tense, lips pressed into a thin, tight line. She was scared.

“Aud,” I said, and she blinked at me like she was hearing me for the first time. “I’ve got you.”

She stared at me for a brief second, then very slowly put one palm on the bed, her fingers clenched against the blanket. She extended her other arm to pull herself on, but she paused, the motion catching halfway.

I brushed my fingertips over her knuckles, and pulled away when she flinched immediately. Almost like I’d bitten her. Her eyes flickered with guilt, but there was a hardness to them I recognized as a barrier that hid her fear away.

“Hey,” I whispered softly, and she tightened her grip on the sheets. “I’ve got you.”

It felt important to repeat the phrase until she understood that it was honest. I was there, and I was safe — and I’d say it until she believed it. The words held a weight to them that I thought she needed to feel.

Audrey, albeit hesitantly, climbed into bed, groping blindly for my hand in the darkness. When I intertwined my fingers in hers, her posture seemed to soften, her breath stuttering. Her hip met mine, our shoulders touching.

Almost as if on instinct, I flopped my body over hers. I buried my head in the center of her stomach, my knees flat against the mattress as she widened her legs and wrapped them around my torso. I nearly pulled away and apologized, too caught up in the guilt that came with not asking before doing something, but I didn’t.

Because then she put her hands in my hair, fingers absentmindedly massaging my scalp. She was still tense, but the familiar position had seemed to soothe her nerves.

“Are you okay?” I asked as she pulled a sheet up to her chest, the silk resting just below my neck.

“Yeah,” she whispered. Even though her voice was barely audible, it felt nice to hear it. “Can you— can you come closer?”

I lifted my head, her eyes already on mine. “Closer how?” I asked.

“I don’t know, just— closer. It makes me feel safer. When you’re over me.”

My cheeks flushed red, but I used my arms to push myself up anyways, trying not to linger over her too long. Hesitantly, I buried my head in the crook of her neck, my arms wrapping carefully around her waist. I rested my palms against her back, warm and steady.

She melted quickly. She rested her head atop mine, hands tracing circles into my spine, her legs crossing at the ankles as she tucked them around my hips. I could feel her shudder when my breath grazed her throat, and I wanted to pull away. But she was gripping me so tight that I couldn’t move.

“You okay?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.” She rested her cheek against my forehead. “I think so.”

Chapter Text

Mom was fourteen when she got married.

Dad was twenty-two. He’d just been crowned the King of Naples and was in need of a wife — someone needed to bear children to carry his legacy. 

Mom was his favorite potential bride. Of course, she was pretty, but she had also been smart — quick-witted and sarcastic in the same way he was. And obedient. 

She’d made a vow to obey and never remarry, and that was that. They were married within two weeks.

She had Callie when she was fifteen, me when she was twenty-four, and Norie at thirty-two. She had children before she even grew out of being a child herself, became a mother before she had stopped asking for hers when she cried. She was breastfeeding before she even had breasts. She had nothing but a baby and broken pride to offer before she could speak a lick of Italian. 

She was a good wife and a decent mother. She promised loyalty and children to Dad when he offered stability and raised the three of us to be political assets the way she was supposed to. She wasn’t a bad mother, per say, but there was a sort of distance she’d put between herself and her children, distance she kept sacred. Distance we could never maneuver around. 

As I grew up, I noticed something about her — when she’d smile, there was something that would flicker in her eyes, a hint of resentment or maybe regret. Being a mother was hard, and nobody had clarified what it really meant — constant headaches, baby spittle on every surface, and a husband who didn’t care enough to make an effort. A husband who she never really loved all that much, but pretended to for the sake of her reputation. 

She could’ve had a better life, maybe with a better man — someone who loved her better than Dad did. Someone like Liam’s father, maybe, who was barely a man when they’d met. 

He was her age with dark brown eyes and fiery red hair, and he paid attention to her — remembered her favorite flowers were poppies, noticed when she cut her hair a few inches shorter for maintenance. Secretly brought her spiced wine when she was feeling down. 

He was everything Dad wasn’t. That was why it hurt so bad when he died. 

Callie had been there when he was executed — she remembered Mom’s scream, her wails, the way her entire body collapsed with grief and guilt all at once. She remembered the satisfied look on Dad’s face as he cradled Liam in his arms, inconsolable and thrashing. She remembered how she felt, barely three and freezing cold, her curly brown hair whipped in all different directions from the wind storm. She remembered feeling confused, because she’d never seen Mom cry the way she did that day. 

Liam was kept alive in case he was the only son Mom bore. Dad had, for Mom’s sake or maybe the throne’s, promised him a safe life in the palace if he became a servant the very second he was old enough. Mom agreed instantly, and Liam was forced into servantry before he could even speak. 

Mom loved Liam more than the rest of us. Of course, she loved us just enough, but Liam was the only living trace she’d ever have of her lover. She tried to keep it a secret, but I saw the way she’d hold him when she cried. The way she’d defend him when Dad was angry. Liam was the product of love, and the three of us were products of necessity. 

She was barely eighteen. She was a year younger than me with two children, a shitty husband, and a lover she’d one day forget the voice of. She hadn’t even grown out of being a child — she was still so young, so much smaller than she thought she was, so much more fragile than Dad made her out to be. 

She was a girl, not yet a woman. She was wounded and not quite powerful. 

She was known as a queen but not as the European noblewoman she had once been. She was the Queen of Naples and no longer a young girl named Alessandra who’d once run barefoot in the grass and picked flowers without a care in the world. 

She was no longer herself. She would never be herself again. Because she was a mother — and that was what mothers were meant to be. They were meant to be nothing but caregivers.

Alessandra had died, and in her place was the Queen of Naples. And nobody even noticed she was gone.

~

~

~

I awoke to the smell of pine needles and something boyish. 

I felt his warmth before I became fully conscious of him over me — his hands on my back, head buried in the crook of my neck. His body was heavy on top of mine, like a weighted blanket. I could feel his breath, warm and heavy against my skin, muddled with sleep. 

I slid my hands up into his hair, his curls frizzy and a little damp with humidity. There was a familiar prickle of drool that rested against my collarbones, his snore reverberating through my throat. It felt almost domestic.

Maybe it was the traumatic experience I’d just lived through, or maybe I was imagining my feelings, using them as an escape. Maybe it was a lot of things combined.

Or maybe it wasn’t, and I wasn’t crazy to think that our friendship had started rocking against the thin beam that fell into a completely different category. Not love — definitely not love — but maybe partiality. Infatuation, perhaps. Something softer. 

He stirred just slightly, his lips pressed against my neck. Not kissing — just resting. Like they belonged there. 

“Hi,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. 

“Hi.” My words came out strained, almost heavy. “Sleep well?”

He smiled lazily against my skin, then mumbled something I couldn’t quite hear. His hair tickled against my cheek as he shifted. 

He wiped the drool away from his mouth and tried to subtly wipe it from my collarbones, but I felt the absence of saliva that had been there moments before. He rubbed the spit onto his tunic, a small wet spot forming on the fabric.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his syllables coarse. 

“I’m used to it,” I said.

He smiled again. 

I expected him to get up. I braced myself for the split second he’d be hovering over me, the split second I’d see the suitors face again. But he didn’t. 

He rested his head against my stomach, steady and unmoving. His ear was pressed to my belly, hands wrapped awkwardly around the center of my back. His eyes were closed like he’d gone back to sleep. 

“Mason?” I asked. Part of me wanted to know if he was awake, another part liked the feeling of his name in my mouth. 

He looked up, his eyes a muted green. The sun wasn’t hitting his face right. “Everything okay?”

My hands were still in his hair, his bed head worsening under the gentle caress. “Yeah. Just checking.”

“Checking?”

“That you were awake. I have to get up soon.”

He looked disappointed. “Already?”

“It’s almost noon.”

Mason whined, muffled against the skin of my belly. His arms somehow pressed closer to me. 

“Mason,” I warned.

Begrudgingly, he rolled away from me. The weight lifted from my legs as his head came parallel to the dip of my hip. He mumbled something unintelligible into the mattress, then shifted his face towards me. 

His eyes were tired and warm. “Did you sleep okay?” he asked softly. 

Blush crept up my neck. I tugged the corner of the blanket up to my chin to cover it up. “Yes.”

He smiled like this conversation was normal. Like we’d always been sleeping together. Like it was just another morning. 

It wasn’t. 

It was so far from normal. I woke to the smell of him in my bed. I felt his warmth before the sunlight spilled onto my face. There were nights where I’d wake up gasping, and he’d simply hold me a little tighter. Because he knew what to do with me now. 

Some mornings, I woke to him in ways I hadn’t expected. His hair in my mouth, his snoring in my ear. The way he’d rest his lips against my skin. The way his heat consumed me. 

It was strange. It wasn’t what normal friends did, and I knew it. And I knew he did too. 

But I didn’t want to stop — and that was what scared me most. Because I should’ve. I would’ve, if it hadn’t been for everything else. 

If he wasn’t so kind. If he didn’t look at me like something worthy of attention. If he wasn’t him, I would’ve. 

But he was. And it made me sick to my stomach. 

He said nothing as I slid my legs over the side of the bed, but I could feel him looking at me. Studying me. Like there was a code inside of me that he was trying to crack. 

“You’re staring,” I said flatly. 

He didn’t even try to deny it. “Yeah.”

I could still feel his eyes burning into my back as I stood up — heavy, unrelenting. Half lidded and closed with sleep, but I felt the weight of it. The burden. 

My hands fumbled through the fourth drawer of my dresser, fingers pinching the fabric of a sleeveless gown. Sleeveless, almost flowy — like a Roman toga. A pale cream that fell in soft folds. 

“Turn,” I said. 

He twisted his body, his back facing me. He tossed the covers over his head like it meant something. It did. 

My eyes flickered towards the door. The lock was still upright, a rusted barrier — a promise of safety.

I slipped my nightdress over my shoulders, the cloth pooling at my feet. The pale gown was cold against my skin. The skirt fell to my ankles like a thin blanket. 

Mason was curled up almost as if in fetal position. His breathing was slow and steady. The duvet was still wrapped around him like a wall in between us. 

I crossed my arms over my stomach. “Okay.”

For a brief moment, I thought he’d fallen back asleep. And then he peeked his head out from beneath the cover. He rolled over, his eyes flickering over my face. His smile was soft, barely there — but I saw it. 

I crossed a leather belt around my waist, the dagger hidden in my top drawer fastening into the loop. The blade could be felt through the silk — cold. Bitter. 

“Where are you going?” he asked. 

“Garden,” I said. “It’s warm today.”

But I didn’t care much for warmth. I cared for safety. 

The suitors had never given the garden much thought. To them, it was merely decor. Something that filled space between the palace walls. 

To me, it was paradise. The pond. The forests. The olive trees — and the ripe green fruits I’d pluck from them. The way the sunlight poured across my face. 

It was secure. Protected. Reliable. And that’s what mattered. 

Mason slid out of bed, his ankle catching around the corner of the blanket. He kicked it away as he brushed back his hair, his eyes catching the light. 

Jade. Mossy — like the soft plants streaking down tree bark. Or stachys byzantina. Lamb’s-ear. 

 “Can I come?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. 

I narrowed my eyes. 

He smiled and advanced towards me. 

~

~

I let the warmth of the garden swallow me whole. 

Mason laid beside me, his arms crossed under his neck like a pillow. There was an inch in between our hips. My arm was sprawled across his chest.

My hair was draped across my left shoulder. Twisted into a braid, held in place with a white ribbon. Mason had complimented it. 

“Do you know anything about Roman mythology?” I asked. Mostly to fill the silence. 

He glanced over at me. He squinted as his head turned towards the sunlight. “No.”

“Nothing at all?”

He looked away, up at the sky. There was a hint of a smile on his face. “My mom grew up in Athens. She taught us the language and the myths.”

I turned towards him even though he wasn’t looking at me anymore. “Athens?” I asked. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She didn’t move to Durham until I was twelve.”

“Why would she move?” I felt like my chest had tightened. I wasn’t sure if it was pity or fascination. 

“My dad started working here.”

“Yes, but— Athens is closer to Naples than Durham is.”

He shrugged, his shoulders raising against the grass. “It was safer. We were protected under the church.”

“Then why’d you grow up poor?” The question came out ruder than I meant for it to. 

His jaw clenched. 

There was a brief pause between us. I managed a quiet, “Sorry.”

“We didn’t know how to adjust,” he said gently. “We grew up in a cottage. We only spoke Greek. My mom couldn’t work for months, because she couldn’t communicate with anyone.”

My fingers twitched across his stomach. “Do you remember it?”

“It?”

“The language. Greek.”

He smiled a little. “Lígo móno.”

His voice was rich and smooth. I’d always wondered where his accent came from. We’d had Northerners who sounded nothing like him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked, mesmerized.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He wasn’t quite smiling anymore, but it was close. “There’s no reason to. You don’t speak it.”

“No, about Athens.”

“Oh.” He looked guilty. “I don’t know. It’s kind of like a distant memory. Hard to place. I don’t— I don’t like to think about it.”

“Do you miss it?” 

His eyes dulled under my question. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

My gaze flickered over his face. Something dawned on me. “Mason of Athens,” I said softly. “Not Durham.”

He tried not to smile, but I saw it anyway. “Technically.”

“Why’d you say it then?”

He brought his arm to rest against his chest. His hand touched mine — not grabbing. Not holding. Just there. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “It’s easier. Athens is too different from Naples anyway.”

“Different?”

“Politics, mostly.”

I hummed in acknowledgment. 

There was silence between us — steady, soft. Almost as if to make room for absorbing the knowledge of what he’d said. 

Then, he said, “Tell me about Roman mythology. Who’s the goddess of love?”

I smiled a little. Fascination bubbled from my stomach. “Venus. Beauty born from chaos.”

“What about war?”

“Mars. Or Minerva, in some cases.”

His fingers twitched against mine. “Some cases?”

“Mars is more representative of violence in its rawest form. Bloodshed and courage. He represents the action of war.”

“And Minerva?”

“The strategy of it. How and why the war is fought. The tactics and preparations needed to win.”

His index finger touched my thumb. “Where did you hear about this?”

“Books, mostly. Stories kept in the secret library.”

“Secret library?”

I wrapped my fingers around his. His breath stuttered under the weight of it. His eyes flickered over my face as if searching for something. 

“It’s on the opposite side of the servants’ quarters,” I said. “You wouldn’t know where to find it unless a member of the royal family told you specifically.”

He smiled. I saw the way his cheeks flushed with either blush or sunburn. 

“Who’s your favorite?” he asked. 

“Favorite?”

“God or goddess,” he clarified. “Do you have one?”

I looked up at the sky. My eyes squinted up at the brightness. “Diana. Goddess of the hunt.”

“Artemis,” he said softly. 

I absorbed his words. With no response, I continued, “She’s the protector of women. Of the forests and uncultivated land. Like the garden.”

“The garden,” he repeated softly. “Is that why she’s your favorite?”

I blinked at him. And then I nodded. “Yes, but— she’s powerful. Even men worshipped her. Honored her.”

“And women?” he asked.

“They idolized her. She was a spiritual guardian. A respected figure in mythology.”

He squeezed my hand. “What about you?”

My lips parted. “What about me?”

“Do you worship the Gods?”

“No,” I said, though it wasn’t the full truth. “I worship the concept of them. I think they’re fascinating.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement. His eyes closed. He breathed in the sunlight.

“Do you?” I asked.

“No,” he said. It looked as if he didn’t believe his own words. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember much about them. I can place some of their names and what they represent, but not enough for it to mean something.”

“Mean something?”

“Something to believe in,” he clarified. 

I looked at him for a moment — really looked. At the softness of his eyes. The way he almost smiled, but not enough for it to be real. His hand pressed to mine, steady and unmoving. 

He still had that familiar gaze — the one that meant he was thinking with something other than his brain. The one that boys got when they wanted to do something stupid. Something unforgettable. 

His lips pressed against my fingers. It was almost nothing. It was so close to nothing that it almost didn’t matter. But that’s why it did.

It was the restraint. The way he knew not to go any further. To be slow. Careful. 

He’d kissed my hand before. In the infirmary, after I’d punched the King of Toulouse. It had been soft then, too, but he had held back significantly less.

Now, it was barely noticeable. Practically nothing — like a feather grazing over my fingertips. But I felt it, down to my toes. 

“Do you want to know something?” he asked quietly. His eyes were almost hopeful. Nervous maybe.

“Yeah.” The word trembled as it spilled from my mouth.

He kissed my hand again — this time, just below my knuckles. His top lip grazed over the bone beneath my skin. 

He paused. And then he said, “I think you’re my best friend.”

My entire body froze. I could feel my hand trembling in his. Because the words meant so much more than what he’d said.

“Your best friend?” I asked.

“My favorite person,” he clarified. 

My face paled. I felt the knot in my stomach tightening, like a coil wound too tight. Ready to snap. 

It wasn’t that his words upset me. They scared me. They meant something deeper than what was on the surface.

It wanted to throw up. I wanted to kiss him on the mouth. I wanted to run into the garden and use the ivy to climb up and over the castle walls.

He was my best friend too. That was what made it worse. Not quite my favorite person — I didn’t think I’d ever be able to put anyone above my sisters. But it was close. Too close. 

And I hated it.

Chapter Text

I awoke to the smell of something sweet. 

Audrey’s legs were still wrapped around me, my head resting on her stomach. I could feel the warmth of her skin as her arm brushed over the nape of my neck. 

I could hear the faint sound of her chewing. A fragile page turning. The quiet melody she was humming.

I shifted my head to the left. Beside her, there was a half-open book written in Italian she was propping up with her thigh. The stem of a fig rested in between her fingertips, pinched carefully as to not drop it. 

“Hi,” she said. She didn’t even look over at me. “Do you want a fig?”

“Yeah,” I said, but I made no effort to grab one. She made no effort to give me one. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You looked peaceful.” She turned the page like she hadn’t said something thoughtful. “Besides, I haven’t been up long.”

I tried to decipher the words lining the pages — but it was impossible. Defeated, I asked, “What are you reading?”

“Il Canzoniere,” she said. Her voice was smooth. Rich. “A series of romantic poems to Petrarch’s lover.”

“How many poems?”

She tilted her head a little. A droplet of juice dripped down the corner of her mouth before she swiped it away. “Over three hundred pages worth.”

I touched my finger on one of the pages. Drawn somewhat messily in the corner was a depiction of a woman on the edge of the riverbank. Her head was in her hands. Opposite her was a lime green creature I’d never seen with pink wings. 

“He must’ve really loved her,” I said softly. 

“Maybe,” she said. “It’s easy to pretend to love someone. My parents have been doing it their entire lives. I’m sure my father could’ve written a thousand poems about my mother without loving her a day in his life.”

“Maybe.” I looked up at her. I could see myself writing poems about her. “Or maybe they were just in love.”

She turned the page. Handed me a fig to shut me up. It worked. 

I sat up with my legs in between hers. I ate with one hand beneath the fruit to keep her sheets clean.

“Maybe.” Her voice was gentle. Cautious. 

I watched her briefly. Watched as she placed the book in between her legs to fill the empty space I left behind. The way her eyes scanned over every word like they meant something deeper. Maybe they did.

She cradled the fig loosely in her fingers. Like she was incapable of dropping it. Like all the pretending she’d done to look perfect had paid off. 

“You’re staring,” she said, deadpan. 

“I am.” It wasn’t some sort of secret. “You look nice.”

She scrunched up her nose. Her eyes narrowed. 

“I’m not lying,” I promised. 

“I believe that you think that,” she said. Her eyes flickered back to the book. “I just think you’re an idiot for it.”

I tried not to smile. I did. 

She noticed. Smirked — small, almost nothing, but I saw it. The way the corner of her mouth twitched. The way her eyes softened. 

“You should get dressed,” she said suddenly. “I want to go swimming.”

I looked at her like she’d grown three heads. “Swimming?”

“There’s a pool on the far side of the palace.” She turned another page. “I want to go in before it gets too cold.”

“Why am I getting dressed to go swimming?”

She looked up at me. Cocked an eyebrow. “Would you like to walk around the palace half naked?”

“No,” I said. 

Her voice was stern. “Then get dressed.”

I stood from the bed, wiping the juice left over from the figs onto the hem of my pants. I threw the sheets over her ankles like it would warm her up. 

She smiled like she’d won something. 

I took off my shirt. Threw it at her. Grinned when it hit her in the face. 

I pretended not to notice her staring. The way her head didn’t move away from the book, but the corner of her eyes were directed towards me. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to focus on the poem. 

I glanced over at her. 

She made a show of flipping a page as if to trick me into thinking she was reading. Blush crept up her neck. 

“Something wrong?” I asked. 

She cleared her throat. Adjusted her hair so it fell over her face. “No.”

I smiled the moment she looked away. 

I rummaged through the fourth dresser drawer. My clothes were folded in neat piles despite the fact that I had only four outfits to rotate through. I took up only a third of the dresser, but Audrey insisted on me having my own.

I threw a brown tunic over my shoulders, the thick linen too warm for the weather. The idea of swimming gave me some solace, but I could still feel sweat already pooling beneath the fabric. 

“Turn,” I said, even though I knew she’d already been looking. 

She twisted her head towards me. The book closed over her hand as her eyes flickered over the tunic I was wearing. 

She hummed in acknowledgment. Swung her legs over the bed and tucked a thin slip of parchment beneath the page as a bookmark. She tied her hair up messily with a ribbon I could barely see under her wild curls. 

“Let’s go,” she said. She didn’t change. 

I followed her out the door. It shut behind me with a gentle click. Our hands intertwined like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

“Are you okay?” I asked. She was quiet all of a sudden. 

She nodded. Smiled a little — but it looked fake. “Yeah,” she said, her voice unconvincing. 

“Are you going to swim fully clothed?” I asked. Not as an accusation — a genuine question. 

“Yes.” The word came out sharp. 

I squeezed her hand. Once, twice, then waited for her to squeeze it back. 

She did. It was so light I could barely feel it. But it was something. 

“Okay,” I said softly. 

~

~

The room was dimly lit and smelled vaguely of salt. 

In the center of the room sat an octagonal pool. It was surrounded by marble columns as if it wasn’t already obvious what the centerpiece of the room was. Slivers of light spilled through the closed windows. 

Audrey took a step forward. The first stair was only up to her ankles. 

“Colder than I expected,” she said flatly. 

She used her hands to keep her nightgown from getting wet even though she’d already decided to swim in it. The fabric was clutched between her palms so tight it was wrinkling. 

Despite that, she looked at peace. Calm. Like a weight had lifted from her the moment she stepped into the water. Like she was letting herself be okay. 

She glanced up. Her eyes were narrow. “Are you coming?”

I slipped my tunic off with one hand. Audrey’s shoulders tensed at the sound of my clothes hitting the floor. 

I looked at her. I suddenly felt guilty. 

“You okay?” I asked.

She waved her hand dismissively. But I saw it — the way she refused to look at me. Like she was violating something.

“Aud,” I said softly.

Her head snapped up. She kept her eyes on my face.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was almost trembling. She repeated, “Are you coming?”

I blinked at her. Watched the way she tilted her head upwards. Then I sat on the edge of the pool and slid in. 

The water was warm — almost like a glorified hot spring. It smelled like salt, mixed with something sharper. 

It reminded me a little of Sephy and Mom. Of home.

The Phaleron Bay was similar to the Bay of Naples. The sand in Phaleron was a little more gravely — rougher, painful to step on sometimes. 

But the water was clear. Shallow enough for me to swim. Some of my earliest memories were of swimming in the bay with my mother.

When we moved to Durham after Mom had Sephy and Dad started working at the palace, the Bay of Naples was our compromise. It gave us something to do when the adults were talking.  

I’d watch her swim. It was enough for me to just smell the ocean. To feel the warmth of Italy coursing through my skin. 

And then Mom died. And I couldn’t be there anymore. Couldn’t exist in a place she’d once shared with me. 

I missed my mom. I missed the softness of existing in a world without responsibilities. 

I missed my sister. I missed the kindness of Durham. The myths I’d learned in her memory. The stories I told to keep her spirit alive. 

“Mason.”

Audrey’s voice cut through the silence like a dagger. The water was up to her knees now. Her nightgown floated against the surface. 

“Hey,” I said.

Her eyes had softened. She raised a worried brow. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” My voice sounded foreign. Like it wasn’t my own. “Sorry. Yeah.”

She took another step. The water curled around her waist like a blanket. 

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced at her. “Just— thinking about home.”

She lifted a brow. “Athens?”

“Sephy,” I corrected. 

She hummed in acknowledgment. Took the final step into the pool. 

I reached for her. Like it was just something I could do. Like it didn’t have consequences.

She took my hand. Let me pull her in deeper. 

She looked beautiful. She was beautiful. She always had been, but there was something about this moment that felt different.

She looked softer. More gentle. Like the princess I’d known had shifted into something kinder. Less afraid.

“I’ve been thinking about cutting my hair,” she said to fill the silence. She tied the ribbon around her wrist as her curls came loose.

I blinked at her. Squeezed her hand. Like I was asking for permission to speak.

She looked up at me. Took a step closer. 

“Bad idea?” she asked. She almost sounded nervous. 

“No,” I said truthfully. “Just— wondering why. I thought you liked it long.” 

She looked down. Traced imaginary shapes into the water.

“I need a change,” she said.

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. I knew what she meant. 

She didn’t like to see the person who’d been assaulted staring back at her. She couldn’t change her face. Her clothes. Her eyes. 

Cutting her hair was easier. Less inconsequential. 

I nodded. Just to tell her I understood. 

“How short?” I asked.

She pulled her hair over her shoulder. Wrapped her hand around her curls and slid it down just below her shoulder blade. 

I blinked at her. “Really?”

“I need a change,” she said again. Her voice was sharper now.

I tried not to smile. Failed.

“You’d look pretty,” I told her. Promised her.

Her resolve softened. She tipped her head back and let the water seep into her hair. 

“Thanks.” Her cheeks were red. 

I dipped my fingertips into the water. Flicked water onto her face.

She opened one eye. “Quit that.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

She narrowed her eyes.

I just smiled. Waited until her eyes closed again and cupped water in my hands.

She didn’t even look at me. “Mason, don’t you dare.”

I threw it at her. The liquid splashed against her neck. Droplets splattered across her cheeks.

She squealed — a noise so childlike that I couldn’t help but smile. She lifted her head. Glared at me. 

And then she jumped up. Slammed her hands over the top of my head to push me under. 

I barely had enough time to hold my breath. The last thing I saw before I went under was her smile.

Beneath the water, I could hear her laughing — breathless and unguarded. Something soft I’d never heard before. 

I opened my eyes. Let the saltwater burn them. Declared it worth it when I saw her smiling so hard her teeth were showing.

“I hate you,” she said as I came up.

“No you don’t.” 

She blinked at me. Parted her lips like she was going to say something.

She didn’t. I was sort of glad she didn’t. 

Because I was too enamored by her to conjure a response to anything she said. I just stared at her, eyes wide and still burning. Like she was everything.

Because she was.

I hadn’t lied when I said she was my favorite person. I needed her to feel good. To feel wanted.

Maybe it was codependency. Maybe it was something else.

I knew exactly what it was. I just didn’t want to put it into words. 

Because how could I?

What good would it do?

“You’re staring,” she said, deadpan. “And your eyes are red.”

I rubbed the saltwater from them. Blinked at her like looking away for too long would send her away.

“What?” she asked. She sounded annoyed.

“Nothing,” I said. “You’re just— you’re pretty.”

“Stop that.” Her voice was sharp, but her face was dark with blush. She wouldn’t make eye contact. “You always say that when there’s a moment of silence.”

“I say it when you tell me I’m staring.”

“Which is a lot.”

“I can’t find you pretty?” I asked. 

She raised a brow. Dunked her head beneath the water to avoid responding. 

And then she said, “Shut up.”

“There it is,” I said, smug.

She narrowed her eyes. Twisted one of her curls around her finger.

There was water dripping down her face. Strands of wet hair stuck to her forehead. 

I opened my mouth to speak. I suddenly felt shy. “Um— can I—”

She blinked at me. Titled her head a little, like she was trying to figure me out. 

I placed my hands on her shoulders and drew her a little closer.

She froze. Like I was going to kiss her. Or do something stupid.

I wiped the hair away from her forehead. I barely even touched her — I barely even felt myself touch her.

But she shuddered. Looked up at me like I’d done something surprising. 

“Thanks,” she said softly. 

“When are you gonna cut it?” I asked. “Your hair.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Her voice was gentle. “Tonight, maybe.”

“By yourself?”

“What, are you gonna cut it?”

I blinked at her. “I mean— if you want me to.”

She raised a brow. “You wouldn’t cut it right.”

“I did Sephy’s hair,” I said defensively.

She smiled a little. Put her hands on my shoulders, but didn’t move any closer. Just lingered — like she belonged there. 

“You can be in the room while I cut it,” she said. 

And that meant something to me. More than she thought it did. 

Because she was letting me be the one to see her. To see the person she was okay with being. To let me be in the room when she changed herself into something easier for her to look at.

I wasn’t sure if she meant it like that. Maybe she did — or maybe she didn’t. I didn’t want to know. 

“Thanks,” I said. My face burned.

She didn’t smile. But she almost did, and that was enough. 

She looked into the water. Drew circles with her finger. 

“You know,” she said softly, “There’s going to be an event tonight.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “There’s an event every night.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Would I be telling you this if it didn’t mean something to me?”

I paused. Then I said, “Go on.”

She smiled a little. It flickered away before I could relish in it. 

“It’s Norie’s twelfth birthday tomorrow,” she said. “My mother wants to celebrate tonight. She’s got meetings with neighboring kingdoms she can’t miss.”

“Meetings?” I asked.

“I don’t know. My family doesn’t trust me with information regarding the kingdom.”

I smiled. Raised a brow. “They don’t trust you?”

She waved a hand as if to hush me. “That’s irrelevant to this conversation.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She looked at me. “You’re going to come with me. My maids are going to clean you up. They don’t want the servants to look too out of place.”

“I always come with you,” I said flatly.

She narrowed her eyes into a glare. “This is important to me. Focus.”

“Sorry,” I said immediately.

Her expression softened. “I need you to stay with me, no matter what. Don’t you dare leave my side.”

Her voice was sharp. But, beneath it, there was something else — fear. Fear that history would repeat itself. 

“I won’t,” I said, and she smiled.

Warm. Kind.

Her smile was lovely. I would’ve walked across broken glass to see it. 

Chapter Text

The dining room was loud with celebration.

Mason was lingering behind me like a shadow. I could feel his arm against mine. 

His hair was tamed — still messy, but not disheveled. The maids had dressed him in a white tunic and black dress pants that were too big for him. Beneath the strings rested a small, rusted chain with a seashell charm in the center. I’d never seen him wear it before. 

He looked nice. I didn’t tell him that, despite the fact that he’d complimented me. 

Nothing about me felt right. My dress was too heavy, the corset too tight. The lace trim was scratching my chest. The overskirt panels stuck out too much. 

But he’d called me pretty, like he always did. Told me he liked the way I wore my hair. 

I had wanted to cut it tonight. I didn’t. It was Norie’s night — not mine. I didn’t want to ruin it.

But I’d thought about it. About the consequences. The relief it would bring me.

Mom was watching. Waiting. For me to mess up, to do something stupid. For Mason to get too close.

“Hey.” He nudged my shoulder with his arm. Waited to speak until I looked at him. “You look pissed.”

“I am pissed,” I said. I fidgeted with my corset and huffed when it did nothing to ease my discomfort. “I’m uncomfortable. This dress is too tight.”

“It looks nice.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not uncomfortable,” I spat back. 

He just smiled. That lopsided grin that made everything feel a little easier. 

“You look pretty,” he said softly. 

He didn’t even need to say it — he’d already said it. He said it just because. 

And that’s why it meant so much. Because he didn’t have to. He said it because he wanted to. 

“Shut up,” I said, but I didn’t want him to.

Mason just smiled in response. Brushed his knuckles against my wrist. Not holding or grabbing — just there.

I felt the warmth melting into my skin, sharp and bitter. But, at the same time, it was still tender — like it meant something. It did. Everything he did meant something.

He didn’t even have to try. Every barely-there touch, every quiet glance — they all held a heavy weight. The burden of significance. 

My thoughts were interrupted when Norie stepped into the room. The room went silent with her arrival.

She was in a blue dress nearly as big as her. The skirt went wider than her hips and dragged across the floor in a long, periwinkle train. 

She looked . . . Excited. Like this was something to be excited about. Like this wasn’t just another miserable night for the rest of us. 

Mason noticed the way my face dropped. I felt his index finger wrap around my thumb. 

“You okay?” he asked into my ear. 

I looked at him. Looked away quickly, because the idea of my eyes not being on Norie made me anxious.

“Yeah.” My voice was flat. “Just— worried.”

“About Norie?”

I nodded once. Stiffly, like I could barely do it without biting something back. 

He took a small step closer to me. He tucked his finger under the cuff of the gold bangle on my wrist. 

I felt his touch ripple through my entire arm. It was just one finger — but it felt like more than that. It meant more than that.

“We’ll keep our eyes on her,” he said.

We. We’ll keep our eyes on her.

Not just me. Not just him. We would — like we were one. Like we were a team. 

My jaw clenched. I tipped my head upward, like it would make her place on the dais a little easier. 

Norie spun in a proud, practiced circle — child-like, a little sloppy. But she was grinning, like all of her dreams had come true. Like she was elated to be up there.

It reminded me of myself. Of my first ball.

I’d been ten. Callie had helped me get ready — curled my hair, helped me tie up my purple dress. It was heliotrope, like I’d asked for it to be. 

I remembered it like it was yesterday. I’d never been so excited to sit on the throne that, even when Mom reprimanded me, I couldn’t stop smiling. The dimple in the corner of my lips was showing for the first time in a long time.

I had my first sip of wine. Hated it at first, but Callie had just smiled and said it was an acquired taste. I got to dance with noblewomen and men, even though I’d never been able to before. My curls were stuck to my forehead with sweat by the end of the night, and I’d never felt so happy.

But it never lasted. It never would — nothing ever did in the palace. 

They happened again. And again. And again.

And then, suddenly, the balls weren’t fun anymore. They were a chore. Another royal burden to carry. 

“Aud,” Mason whispered against my skin.

I felt like crying. I felt like pulling Norie out of the moment and shielding her from everything. I felt like throwing up.

He put his hand on my back. Pressed a goblet of water to my lips and held it there until I took a sip.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly.

“It’s not.” My voice cracked beneath the pressure of my words. 

He slid his hand up my back. Put a steady hand on my shoulder and leaned into me, despite the fact that people were watching.

I didn’t care. I needed him. I needed him pressed as close to me as possible.

He looked at me as if to ask for permission.

I melted into his touch a little.

His eyes softened. The corner of his mouth flickered. It wasn’t a smile — something warmer, maybe. 

“I’ve got you,” he said.

I felt his words reverberating through my body. 

And then Norie began to speak. Her voice was small yet still powerful. Mighty. 

“I, Eleanora of Naples,” she said with a smile, “Turn twelve years old today.”

Chalices were raised before she even finished her sentence. Cheers rang out through the crowd, like she had done something revolutionary.

Tomorrow, I wanted to say. She turns twelve tomorrow.

But I didn’t. Because it was her day. Because she looked so goddamn happy, and I wasn’t going to ruin it.

Mason raised the goblet of water. It wasn’t much to raise, but his smile made it worth it.

Norie noticed. She grinned — thrilled, a little smug when she saw his hand on my shoulder. And then she waved, huge and obvious.

He raised his glass higher. Smiled wider.

I bit back my anxiety. I cheered for her while her eyes were on me, just so she knew I was — deep down — happy for her. 

Mom stood from her place on the throne. Her eyes were narrow.

Mason took the smallest step back. He hid his hand behind my shoulder blade, but kept it there — steady and warm.

“This is not a celebration of courtship,” Mom said, looking straight at me. She addressed the crowd as she said, “This is a celebration of love. Of anniversaries. Of my daughter, Eleanora of Naples, and her journey in becoming closer to what a real woman is.”

The crowd got louder. I could see wine slipping down their hands from where their goblets were raised. 

The only people who didn’t look happy were me and Callie.

Callie’s face was blank. Her jaw was clenched so hard it almost looked painful. She was gripping the shaft of her chalice so tight that her knuckles were white. 

Her eyes were dull, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. The pale green dress the maids had dressed her in did nothing to make her look approachable. 

All the women — except for Mom — were dressed in lace and pastels. It had been requested by Norie, and the servants folded easily when it came to her big eyes and soft smile. 

The maids had picked out a baby pink dress for me to wear. The corset was so tight my breasts hurt beneath the cording. The lace was covering up most of my cleavage, but it was so itchy that I wouldn’t have minded it being gone too much.

There were flowers embroidered in the silk. The bottom hem of the skirt was, unsurprisingly, decorated in delicate lace. The short sleeves draped over my shoulders in stubborn, sheer ruffles.

It was pretty, of course — but it wasn’t me. I much preferred the reds and blues the kingdom had to offer. I usually steered clear of the colors that washed me out.

But they thought that Norie would like it. And, based on the way she’d looked at me when I entered the room, they were right. So I bit my tongue. Pretended to like the stupid dress for her sake. 

“Aud,” Mason said softly. I could feel his breath against my ear. 

“What?” I asked. My voice was sharp. A little louder than I’d meant for it to be.

He blinked at me. He almost looked hurt as he loosened his grip against my back.

Guilt pooled in my stomach. 

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I just— I wanted to know if you were okay.”

“I’m not,” I said, deadpan.

His lips pressed into a thin, worried line. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Stop talking.”

I didn’t want him to do that. I just needed silence. I needed strategy. Like I could change her fate if I just thought about it hard enough.

He stopped talking. Nodded in response and stared straight ahead. Not at Norie or Mom — at something distant. He was looking past them.

But he kept his hand on my back. He left the chalice of water in between us, just to give me the option of drinking it. 

And then the harp strung. The violins started to play, and my heart sank.

Norie jumped down from the dais. Her arms were wrapped around Callie before she could find a servant to hold her wine glass for her. 

Mason passed on his glass. An older servant, maybe in her fifties, took it with a small smile.

“Grazie,” he said casually. The word sounded almost practiced. 

He slowly turned towards me. His hands hovered over my hips, like he wasn’t really sure what to do with them.

I closed the space between us. Placed his hands above my hips. Put my hands on his shoulders and fisted the fabric of his tunic so tight it was wrinkling.

“Sorry,” I said flatly. But I meant it. “I don’t mind when you talk.”

“I know,” he said. He gave me a small, lopsided grin. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

He shrugged a little. Took a tiny step towards me. “You’re anxious. And you get angry when you can’t come up with a quick solution.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. He was spot-on. It was a little frightening how well he knew me.

“Am I wrong?” he asked. He didn’t sound smug — just confused. 

“No.”

He smiled a little. “I don’t hold it against you.”

I looked up at him. Took a moment to really look.

He looked nice. His eyes looked brighter when the torch light reflected off them. His smile was warmth against my skin.

“Audrey!”

Norie came barreling into me before I could even look over at her.

I made an umph noise as she wrapped her arms around me, tight and unrelenting. She buried her face into my stomach between giggles.

“Gesù, Norie!” I tried to pry her off me, but I didn’t make much of an effort to. “Mi ha fatto male!”

She grinned. “No it didn’t,” she said.

It didn’t. I smiled and rolled my eyes just to tell her she was right.

“Happy birthday,” I said. I tilted her chin up and kissed her forehead. 

Mason smiled a little. His eyes lingered on me before he said, “Happy birthday, Norie.”

She spun around. Wrapped him in a huge bear hug, too. 

He blinked down at her, then patted her back with hesitation. His eyes flickered towards me with confusion.

I shrugged. Plucked a chalice of wine from a wandering servant.

“Eleanora,” I commanded.

She whipped her head around. Her blonde curls were wild with humidity. 

I held a glass of cherry-like wine to her lips, sweetened with spices. “Try.”

She took a small, hesitant sip. And then squinted her eyes and pressed her lips into a tight, thin line.

Norie stuck her tongue out. Wiped the taste away with the flat of her thumb. 

“That’s disgusting,” she said. She sounded the same as I once had.

My mouth flickered upward into a small smile. “It’s an acquired taste,” I said, quoting Callie from nearly a decade ago.

Norie made a face like she’d already heard those words before. 

I watched her movements. The sparkling look in her eye. The way she stuck out her tongue without a care in the world.

There were men watching. People who would become her suitors when they couldn’t have me. People who would see her and think of something less than innocent.

She was a child. But they didn’t care. 

They would never care. 

Mason slipped his fingers beneath the base of the cup. He passed it to a nearby maid who took it with a soft smile.

“I heard Liam talking about you earlier,” he lied. “Do you see him over there?”

She nodded. She scrunched her brows together, like he was giving her a mission she had to pay close attention to.

“Do you want to go find him?” he asked.

Norie smiled — wide, excited. She nodded again, but this time it was rapid.

And then she bounced away. Jumped on Liam so forcefully that he stumbled back into one of the maids.

“Norie!” I heard him yell. But he was smiling. 

 Mason’s hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach out and couldn’t. He kept looking at me like I was something fragile. 

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I just— you looked— weird.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Weird?” I repeated back.

He backtracked immediately. His cheeks were red with embarrassment. “Okay, no— not weird. Just— you looked kind of distant. Like you weren’t really— there.”

“Yes I was.”

He tilted his head. Took a careful step towards me.

“You’re in your own head,” he said. 

I bit the inside edge of my cheek. Tried not to look too guilty. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He took another hesitant step towards me. He kept his arms at his sides, but the look in his eyes told me he was restraining himself. 

“Aud,” he said softly.

I folded immediately. “I just— she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get how dangerous they are.”

“They?” he asked.

I avoided eye contact. “Men.”

He took a step back. I wanted to cry.

And then he said, “We’ve got her.”

His voice was warm. He wasn’t smiling. 

I blinked up at him. And then I put his hands on my hips. Put my hands on his shoulders.

It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

He looked down at me. Parted his lips, like he was going to say something.

But he didn’t. That was okay.

Everything he wanted to say was in his eyes. They were glimmering like emeralds.

I would’ve let myself drown in them. 

~

~

I flopped down on my mattress. My stomach hit the covers first.

I rolled over. Put my arm over my eyes, like it wasn’t already past midnight. I could feel my hair tangling beneath the weight of my head.

Mason threaded his fingers through my dresser drawer. He pulled out the first nightgown he could find and handed it to me without looking.

I spun around. Tucked my hands beneath the corset.

His hands were there in an instant. Unfastening the buttons one by one. I could feel his thumb against my back.

He did it like it was normal. Like it was just something we did.

Maybe it was. I didn’t protest or move his hands — I didn’t even open my mouth to stop him. I turned around and just expected him to be there.

He was. He always was. 

“Have fun?” he asked. He was just making up small talk to hide his nerves. It didn’t work — I heard the tremor in his voice. 

“Yeah.” I kept my voice steady. Flat, almost emotionless. “I enjoyed watching Norie embarrass herself.”

He scoffed. I could feel him smiling against my skin. “She’s a kid.”

“She’s a princess,” I corrected. “She knows better.”

Mason’s fingers stilled for just a brief second. And then he carried on like nothing had happened. 

“She’s young,” he finally said. “I’m sure you weren’t perfect at her age.”

“My mother is easy on her,” I said. “She’s the only one who doesn’t remind her of my father.”

Mom never tried to hide her favoritism. She was easier on Norie — she didn’t look at her with as much distaste. 

She liked that Norie didn’t look anything like Dad. That meant she didn’t have to think about him all that much when she was around.

“I was perfect for a twelve year old,” I said. I sounded bitter. I was bitter. “I had to be. We all had to be.”

I felt the flat of his thumb above the small of my back. I took my first unrestrained breath of the night when the last button came undone.

“That feel good?” he asked. 

He didn’t mean for it to sound like that — I could hear it in his voice. But it did.

I spun around to look at him. Crossed my arms over my chest to keep my corset from slipping. I gripped the nightgown a little tighter in my hands.

Mason gave me a small, confused smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said flatly. Blush crept up my neck. “Just— turn.”

He did. He didn’t even say anything — just turned around and covered his eyes with his hands. 

I let the corset fall. The dress pooled around my ankles as I slipped the nightgown over my shoulders. 

I stepped out from the skirt. My skin still felt itchy with lace, even though it was in a heap on the floor now. The loose silk felt almost refreshing.

“Okay,” I said.

He turned around. Smiled a little.

His hair was tousled and messy, like he’d just woken up from a dream. His lips were still stained from the sip of wine he’d sampled. 

He looked pretty. He looked like someone I could fall in love with.

Mason crawled into bed before me — like he always did. Like he had to show me it was safe. He did.

I sat beside him. Started removing the pins from my hair in the darkness.

He watched me for a moment. And then his hand came up into my hair.

He threaded his fingers through the curls. Plucked out the pins one by one until my hair fell loose around my back.

He held them out like a trophy. Smiled like he’d done something revolutionary.

“Thanks,” I said. My voice was weak as the pins fell into my dresser with a soft clack.

I laid my neck against his bicep. I could feel it, warm and muscular against my throat.

He turned over. Curled his body into mine. Tucked his leg in between my calves, like it belonged there.

His arm rested over my stomach. I felt his palm steady against my belly, like an anchor. His breath was warm against the center of my back.

He didn’t even acknowledge the fact that our bodies were intertwined the way lovers slept together. He just tossed his limbs over mine, like they were where they were supposed to be.

I felt sleep overtaking my body. My breathing slowed into something calmer. The anxiety melted away — swept away by the wind seeping through the crack in my window.

I thought Mason was already asleep. I thought I could hear him snoring, but it might have just been my imagination.

And then he kissed my shoulderblade. Not grazing his lips over it — I heard the sound of them against my skin. He did it on purpose.

Maybe it was because he thought I was already asleep. Maybe he knew I wasn’t and did it just because. Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it.

I knew that wasn’t true. It meant something to him as much as it meant something to me.

This was different from a hand or forehead kiss. It was more intimate. 

My mother had kissed my forehead. My sisters, too. Suitors had kissed my hands as if it would place them on a podium in my good graces.

Nobody had ever kissed my shoulder. Never a place where people weren’t allowed to touch.

But I let him. I felt myself sinking into it. I felt myself sinking into him.

And then I realized — I loved him.

It wasn’t some grand revelation like I’d expected it to be. It was realization. It was a slow, deep warmth that had settled in my bones one day. 

It wasn’t what I’d expected upon meeting him. But it just— made sense. 

I spent all my time with him. I found his gaze in every crowded room I walked into. I let myself be vulnerable with him because I trusted him.

Maybe a part of me had always been in love with him. The part of me that was too scared to love. That’s why it had taken me so long — I was afraid to face it.

But now, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Like I didn’t have to rack my brain anymore searching for a solution to a problem I couldn’t figure out.

I loved him. I was in love with him.

And there wasn’t anything I could do about it. So I let it stay. I let it fester, until it just became a part of me.

It was just a fact of life. My name was Audrey. I was a princess. And I was in love with Mason. 

And I was okay with it.

Chapter Text

There was a knock on the door before the sun even rose.

The sky was still pink. Dim light poured in like an accusation.

Audrey was still asleep. Her breathing was steady beside me. Her body was warm with exhaustion.

“Aud,” I said softly. I placed my hand on her shoulder and shook gently. 

She stirred slightly. Opened one eye, but she was squinting. “What?”

“There’s someone at the door.”

She pressed her cheek into the pillow. Pulled the covers up to her ear. 

“It’s probably Callie,” she said. Her voice was muffled beneath the blanket. “Tell her to go away.”

I smiled a little. I kicked the covers away and forced myself out of bed.

I opened the door. Opened my mouth to send Callie away, but my voice trailed off halfway through.

All I got through was half her name. And then I stopped talking. 

Because it wasn’t Callie at the door. It was a guard. 

He was dressed in chunky armor and chainmail. A red cloak was draped over his shoulders. His expression was blank — almost solemn.

“I presume you’re Mason of Durham,” he said. His voice was low. Gravely. “Liam said we were most likely to find you here.”

“Um— yeah. That’s me.” I glanced back at Audrey. 

She was still laying down, but I could feel her eyes — watching. Waiting to see what would happen. 

“You received a letter from home,” he said. He almost sounded sad. Like I didn’t deserve one.

I blinked at him. Like I hadn’t quite heard him right.

“Pardon?” I asked.

He just handed it to me. His eyes were dull. 

The envelope was thin. I could see the outline of a folded piece of paper inside.

I flipped it over. Checked to see if the back of it was addressed to me. 

Sir Mason of Athens/Durham, it read.

“You should sit down,” he said flatly. When I looked up, he continued, “Unexpected letters from home never mean anything good.”

My eyes were wide as I stared at him. “You haven’t read it?”

“It wasn’t addressed to me,” he said.

I had a feeling that wasn’t allowed. That personal mail wasn’t so personal when it came to the servants.

But he just stared back at me. His gaze was heavy.

I looked down. Tore the flap open to find a letter folded into four perfect squares. Like someone had forced it to look professional.

I felt like throwing up.

The letter started immediately. When I opened it, I found no introduction.

I pray this letter reaches you safely. If it had not been important, I would not have written.

My eyes flickered over the next line once. Twice. Three times. By the fourth, it was blurry. It barely looked like anything but a smudge.

But I knew what it said. The words echoed in my head like a chant.

Your sister, Persephone, was lost two days ago.

Tears welled in my eyes before I could force them down. I felt nausea building in my stomach.

I turned around. Left the guard standing in the doorway. Slammed the bathroom door behind me as I hunched over the wooden toilet seat.

I heaved. Puked until I couldn’t feel anything anymore. Until my stomach was empty and all that came up was acid.

The letter was clutched in between my fingers. My knuckles were turning white with the pressure. 

I forced myself to keep reading. 

She had gone down to the bay with the other children in the late afternoon. It was not thought to be dangerous. She was never far from the shore.

The bay, I kept repeating in my head. The Phaleron Bay. 

When it was noticed that she was missing, she was searched for at once. She was found an hour later, face down in the sand next to a pile of rocks. She was miles from where she’d started.

By the time we found her, it was too late. The medics tried everything they could, but they were unable to bring her back.

I am exceptionally sorry.

She spoke of you often. She was never bitter about your absence — merely confused. She asked frequently if you were to arrive home soon.

As per your request, she has been buried beside your mother, Giselle of Athens. Their graves can be found beneath the floor of the Chapter House.

May God forgive us for failing her. And may God forgive us for failing you as well.

I didn’t check to see who’d written it. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care.

She had died. They’d let her die.

I had failed Mom. I’d promised to protect her, and I’d failed.

Guilt slammed into my body like a sword. I gagged again, but nothing came out. There was nothing left to come out.

The door opened with a quiet creak. I could barely hear it over the sound of my own breathing. 

Audrey was at my side. She didn’t say anything — just lingered. Like a warm, sticky shadow.

She bent down beside me. Pressed a small jar of mint water to my lips and held it firm until I took a sip.

Begrudgingly, I did. Swished it around my mouth, in between my teeth. And then I spit it out, and listened to the sound of the liquid splash against the wood.

She put her hands in my hair. Threaded through my bed head like this was just another part of our routine.

“Mase,” she said softly. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but there was something anxious in them keeping her awake. 

I couldn’t speak. I tried, but it just wasn’t working.

The words leaving my mouth weren’t coherent sentences. They were just words.

It was the same thing — Sephy. Gone. Drowned. Gone. Over and over, until it was the only thing I could hear.

Sephy was gone. She’d drowned in the bay. She was just— gone.

No body. No final words or accountability.

Just a letter. Just sentences on a piece of paper that pretended to be an explanation. 

I didn’t look at Audrey’s face. I couldn’t. I was too scared of what she’d see.

She looked down at the letter. Read the first few lines. Her body stilled in my peripheral vision, rigid and shocked.

“Oh, Mason,” she whispered.

And I broke.

It was like a dam collapsing. My guard lowered, and I felt the tears fall. And then a sob ripped out of me, raw and unexpected.

Audrey wrapped her arms around me. Not pushing, not hugging — just a gentle warmth against my body. Like she wasn’t sure what to do with me. Like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. 

She whispered broken comfort into my ear. I caught bits and pieces of it, but it felt as if I was underwater and she was above the surface.

Guilt coiled around my body like a blanket — tight, deliberate. I could barely feel her arms against my skin. 

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. 

She didn’t apologize for my loss — didn’t say anything she didn’t have to. She just held me. Kept her hands in my hair, steady and warm.

“She’s gone,” was the only thing I could make myself say. Over and over, I just said, “She’s gone.”

“I’ve got you.” Her voice was trembling. She repeated it like a mantra. A prayer I was supposed to follow. “I’ve got you, Mason. I’m here.”

I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to puke, but there was nothing to throw up anymore. I wanted to disappear.

My throat hurt from choking back sobs. My eyes burned from the on slaw of tears that just wouldn’t stop. 

Audrey suddenly stood, her knees cracking from sitting hunched over for so long. Her footsteps were soft against the tile.

I could hear her speaking through the open crack in the door. Her voice was emotionless, like she was simply talking about the weather.

“Leave us,” she said flatly. 

The guard’s armor rustled. There was a sound that was probably the hilt of his sword hitting the marble as he addressed her.

“As you wish,” he said. 

I could almost see the look on his face — solemn. Blank. I doubted the job ever got much easier for him, no matter how long he’d been working in the palace.

Audrey cleared her throat, like she was biting something back. “Report back to my mother. Tell her that I will be unavailable the rest of the day.”

“I doubt she will allow that, Princess,” he said.

“Then tell Callie,” she shot back. “She has a way with persuasion.”

His chainmail helmet rustled as he nodded. There was a noise that resembled the sound of someone digging through their pockets.

And then the guard pressed something into Audrey’s hands. I heard the crinkling against her palm.

“For Sir Mason,” the guard said. His voice was soft. 

“Thank you.” She sounded genuine.

He nodded once again. And then he shut the door behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

She appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. Her eyes were soft yet somehow sharp. 

“Stand,” she commanded.

I did. I had to grip the sink behind me to stay upright.

She wrapped her arm around my waist. I could feel her palm against the edge of my stomach.

She walked me towards the bed. Sat me down, like I was a child.

I let her.

“Lay down,” she said. Her voice was flat.

I laid against the pillow like she told me to. Put my cheek against the silk. Felt the tears staining my face seeping into the fabric.

And then she tucked herself into the crevice of my body. Buried her face into my neck like she belonged there.

Her hand rested against my cheek. She used her thumb to wipe the wetness away from beneath my eyes.

I hesitated. Put my palm against her side, but I didn’t put any pressure on it. I barely felt her nightgown as my hand hovered over her.

“You can,” she whispered. Quiet permission.

So I did. 

I wrapped my arms around her. Gripped her hair so tight I was worried it might hurt. I tucked my right arm beneath her neck.

She just hummed. I felt her lips against my neck, but I couldn’t tell if it was purposeful or not. Her thumb rubbed my cheek in a steady up and down motion.

She held me as I cried. Whispered broken comfort in Italian that I couldn’t quite grasp.

“Ti voglio bene,” she said against my neck. Her voice trembled as she spoke.

I felt the weight of her words heavy against my chest. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it felt like it meant something.

I didn’t ask. I just let the sound of her voice hang in the air, warm and gentle.

And I cried. For all the moments I had with Sephy. For the moments I’d never get to experience. 

~

~

I woke to the sound of gentle voices and the feeling of Audrey’s hands in my hair.

It was brighter now — the sun had risen with the day’s progress. There was a gentle breeze pouring in through the crack in the window. 

It felt wrong. It shouldn’t have been so beautiful outside when something so ugly had happened inside. 

In my sleep, I’d rolled over and rested my body atop Audrey’s. My head was in her lap, my cheek pressed against her inner thigh.

I recognized the other voice — Liam. He was standing beside her bed, his eyes soft and concerned.

“Is he okay?” Liam asked. His voice was low. Worried.

“Obviously not.” It sounded like Audrey had been crying. There was a book at her side closed over her hand. 

“Shit.” He ran a veiny hand through his red hair. It flopped over his face in flat, unstyled waves. “What are you gonna do?”

“Be there,” she said flatly. “He needs someone to just— exist with him.”

It wasn’t true — I didn’t need someone. I just needed Audrey. 

I opened one eye. Tapped my finger against her leg. 

Liam noticed first. His expression softened.

“Hey, man,” he said. His gaze flickered towards Audrey, like he wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I’m— shit, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I just said he’s not,” she spat instantly.

“Well, I didn’t ask you.” Liam didn’t sound angry — just annoyed. “I’m asking Mason.”

I didn’t look at him. I focused my eyes against Audrey’s skin, dark and tanned from all the sun.

“I don’t know,” I said. My voice barely reached him.

It was a lie — of course I wasn’t okay. I didn’t think I’d ever be okay again.

But I couldn’t say that out loud. Not to Liam, who’d been cursed from the moment he was born. Not to another man, who was conditioned to view grief as disguised weakness.

Audrey wrapped one of her legs around my torso. I felt the warmth beneath the thin blanket. Her fingers threaded through my hair, nails scratching gently against my scalp. 

“Do me a favor and bring us a pitcher of water,” she said. I’d almost forgotten that she was technically allowed to boss him around. “And vegetable broth. Ask the chefs for a warm loaf of bread.”

Liam’s expression soured. “Bossy,” he murmured under his breath.

“It’s not for me, rosso.” Her voice switched from English to Italian so quickly I almost didn’t register if the word was an insult. “Now shoo.”

He rolled his eyes. But he muttered a bitter, “As you wish,” as he headed out the door.

She took a slow, deep breath. Like she was holding back tears.

“Hey,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” I said, deadpan.

She hummed in acknowledgment. Pressed her hand to her lips and placed it against the side of my face. 

“Liam is bringing you food.” Her thumb flattened against the skin beneath my ear.

“Not hungry,” I muttered.

“I know.” She wrapped her other calf around me. Her thighs clenched slightly against my head. “But you need to eat something. The food is easy to digest. Callie ate it when she was in her first trimester — her morning sickness was awful.”

“Is Liam telling them I’m pregnant?” I asked.

She snickered above me. Tried to hide it with the sound of her book shutting beside her, but I caught it.

“I hope not. They’d consider that witchcraft.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

She twisted a finger around the curls by the nape of my neck. She exhaled a deep, trembling breath.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Don’t ask me that.” Her response was immediate — almost guilty. “I should be asking that to you. I’m fine.”

I pressed my cheek deeper in between her thighs. Pressed a kiss into her skin.

There was nothing sexual about it — just hard, raw intimacy. Something that I felt deep in the pit of my stomach. Something soft and unguarded, like a secret the two of us shared. 

Her hands stilled in my hair. Barely a second — but I caught it. Like she wasn’t really sure what to do with what was brewing between us.

A moment later, Liam walked in juggling a pitcher of water in one hand and a small tray in the other. There was a bowl of something murky that spilled over the edge of the wood. Beside it rested a white, ceramic cup. It smelled vaguely of yeast and chicken broth.

“Your highness,” Liam mocked. 

She didn’t smile. Just gestured for him to put the tray on her bedside table. 

He obliged. His expression softened when he looked at me. 

“Thank you,” she said flatly. 

Audrey sat up. Poured water into the cup. The water splashed against the pottery. 

“Get up,” she commanded. Not rude, not cruel — just words to fill the silence.

I pushed myself upright. Crossed my legs in between hers. My knees were tucked beneath the curve of her thighs.

She put the cup to my lips. Her eyes weren’t quite soft — something else. Warm, maybe. 

“Bere,” she said. “Drink.”

I did. The water was cold as it slid down my throat.

“Good.” She placed the silver tray in my lap. “Eat.”

“I can’t,” I told her honestly. Guilt was still slamming against my chest, unrelenting. “I don’t— I don’t think I can keep anything down.”

“Try,” she said softly. “Please try.”

I picked up the spoon in between my fingers. The handle trembled so violently it nearly clattered against the board.

Audrey didn’t say anything else. She pressed her hand to mine. Steadied the rattling of gilded metal against my bones.

“I’ve got you,” she said, dipping the spoon into the broth. 

She pressed it to my lips. Forced the curved bowl into my mouth. 

Warmth slid into my throat. It burned my tongue as it went down. I forced the nausea away.

“Good,” she whispered. 

I wasn’t sure when Liam had left the room. I hadn’t even heard his footsteps over the sound of Audrey’s voice. 

She pressed her hand against my cheek — warm, steady. The flat of her thumb grazed the outline of my jaw.

I melted into her. Forced myself to eat as her gaze seared my skin.

~

~

The air was cold against my bare skin. 

Stars were scattered across the sky. Moonlight spilled into the room.

I had an arm draped over my eyes, like it would block something out. Grief, maybe — or the guilt that pounded against my chest. 

On Audrey’s dresser rested a small, crinkled package. It was barely larger than the palm of my hand, but it felt like it meant something more.

I hadn’t noticed it before. Looking at it now, it was obvious — a brown parcel resting in the corner of her white dresser. From where it was propped up, I could just barely read the address in the top left edge.

Sir Mason of Athens/Durham

I blinked at it. Like the words would change.

My own name echoed in my head. Another wave of nausea rushed over me.

“Don’t open that.”

Audrey’s voice was sudden, sharp in the quiet room. Her eyes were narrow, like the package had done something to her personally.

I looked up at me. Adjusted my tunic to cover the sliver of my stomach from where my shirt had ridden up.

Audrey pretended not to see it. But I knew she did.

“What is it?” I asked her. My voice was raspy. Barely above my whisper. 

She didn’t look at me. But she spoke anyway, “The guard gave it to me. It’s addressed to you, Athens.”

I tried to smile, but I couldn’t force it. Not this time.

I rolled over onto my side. Watched the way the pages turned in her book.

“Why can’t I open it?” I asked.

Her hand stilled. The paper paused in between her fingertips.

“I don’t know what it is,” Audrey said. “I’m— assuming it’s something of Sephy’s.”

I sat up. “Probably.”

She raised a brow. Her eyes were soft. “Do you think you’re— ready?”

I grazed my index finger over the package. Something round and vaguely pink could be seen through the thin parchment. 

“It’s— it’s not going to get any easier.” I pinched the paper. It creased beneath the weight of my hand. 

She slowly put the book down on the ground. She didn’t bother to put in a bookmark or fold the corner — she just let it fall. 

She watched. She didn’t move towards me, didn’t stand from the rocking chair she was sitting on.

She just watched. Gave me space. Let me do it myself.

I carefully ripped the package open. The flap of the envelope brushed against my fingertips.

Inside was a small, pink seashell. It was barely bigger than my thumb — but it meant something to me.

There was a crack in the edge. A piece of short, curly hair was hanging from the crevice.

It was Sephy’s.

Of course she’d gone down to the bay for this shell. It was so bright that it barely looked like it belonged in the Phaleron. 

I could envision it now. She’d noticed it in the waist-high water. Rushed into danger for something beautiful to hide in her room. She’d put it in her pocket for safekeeping — and then she got swept away. 

I pressed my thumb into the soft spire of the shell. It was rough against my skin, but not quite sharp enough to cut. 

It was pretty. She would have considered it a prized possession. 

I put my lips to the shell. Not kissing — just enough to taste the salt in between the crevices. 

And I cried. My breath hitched, and I just— cried. Like I didn’t know how to do anything else.

Maybe I didn’t. It felt like I didn’t.

Audrey sat beside me. I could feel her weight against me, her arm warm as it brushed mine. 

“It’s pretty,” she whispered. 

She placed the flat of her thumb into my wrist. Rested her head against my shoulder.

She said nothing else. She didn’t need to.

I didn’t want her to. 

Chapter Text

I pretended to be sick for an entire week.

I hadn’t done much besides lay with Mason. I’d run my hands through his hair and pretend everything was going to be okay.

Nothing was okay. He wasn’t okay.

Callie couldn’t lie to Mom for me anymore. She was getting suspicious — she knew I didn’t like vegetable broth or laying in bed for too long.

I hadn’t devised a plan. Grief didn’t follow a plan — which made it significantly more difficult for me to know what to do with myself.

I didn’t know what he needed. What he wanted. 

But I figured getting out of my room was probably a good start. 

“Mase.” My voice was sharp. I kept it flat — like the stability of it would make his grief easier. His curls were soft in between my hands.

He opened one eye. Tightened his grip in my hair.

“Hey,” he said, low and gravely. It looked like he wanted to smile, but he didn’t. “You okay?”

I hated when he asked that. I felt guilty when he asked that.

Because he was so obviously not okay. And he was asking me if something was wrong. 

But I still said, “Yes,” because anger wouldn’t make anything easier. Anger had never made anything easier.

He wrapped his arm around my stomach. His hand rested just above the small of my back.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even care.

“We should go to the garden,” I said. Just to fill the silence. Just to give us something to do. 

I felt his lips against my neck. Not kissing — just there. Resting.

“Now?” he asked.

“Why not?”

“You’re warm. I’m comfortable.”

“Mason,” I said, deadpan.

“Audrey,” he said back, his voice soft and slow.

“Mason.”

He huffed out a breath. Begrudgingly unraveled his limbs from mine. He tossed the covers away with an unreadable expression on his face.

“It doesn’t have to be for long,” I said. “Just until the sun rises.”

“Okay,” he said softly. No argument, no other words — just quiet acceptance.

He took off his shirt without asking. His arms were dusted in scars I’d never noticed before.

What surprised me was that I didn’t mind. I didn’t flinch when his shirt hit the floor. 

There was just silence. Hot, heavy silence — brewing between us.

“You’re not going to pretend you’re not watching?” he asked. He sounded smug, but his face didn’t show any hint of amusement.

I hummed in acknowledgment. Reached up and pressed a finger against his elbow. “I’m looking at your scars. How’d you get this one?”

He didn’t look to see which one I was referring to. It was like he already knew. “Cut myself on a scalpel. I was nine.”

I didn’t ask any further. Instead, I just pointed to a new one. Long and deep against his shoulderblade, forever tainted pink.

“What about this one?” I asked gently.

He tugged a green tunic over his head. Adjusted it over his stomach, like showing more skin than absolutely necessary was violating me somehow.

“I think I scratched myself on a coral reef,” he said. He handed me a dark brown robe. “In Athens. I can’t— remember it that well.”

I nodded. Wiped imaginary dirt away from the dress, like I was making it my own again.

Mason turned around. I didn’t even have to ask him — he just did. Like it was just what he was supposed to do.

The robe was made of soft, somewhat see-through linen. From my shoulders down to my thighs, the layers kept it from being too revealing.

But the sleeves and skirt fell in thin, gentle folds. There was a slit up to my knee on the left side of the dress. 

Golden accents decorated the straps and bodice. Nothing too fancy — just enough that, by first glance, anyone could tell that I held power within the palace walls. The adornments were molded in ivy-like patterns.

“Turn,” I said. The words didn’t even register in my mouth until I’d already said them.

He did. His eyes flickered over me for a brief second, and then it was gone.

And then, suddenly, he said, “You never cut it.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“Your hair.” His finger twitched, and then he pinched one of my curls. “You never cut it.”

I pressed my lips into a tight line. Brought my hair into a messy clump and braided it until the knots weren’t visible anymore.

“Shit happens.” My voice was flat.

I knew what I meant when I said it. He knew what I meant when I said it. 

It was my sister’s birthday. His sister had died. That was the shit that happened.

And for a moment, neither of us said anything. Because there was nothing to say. No response other than diversion or an apology.

He spoke before I could apologize. “You should.”

“You think so?” I asked.

He nodded softly. “I told you— it’d look pretty.”

I half smiled. Raised a gentle brow. “Are you in the right state of mind for flattery?”

Something flickered in his expression. “For you, yeah.”

I blinked at him. My hands trembled gently at my sides.

And then I intertwined my fingers through his. Squeezed just enough for him to know I was there. 

~

~

The garden warmth was heavy against my skin. 

It wasn’t as hot as it used to be — but it wasn’t cold either. It was like a light breeze had overtaken the entire palace. Swept it into early fall.

Mason’s back was pressed against the trunk of an olive tree. His head lolled to the side, his cheek resting against my shoulder.

There was a book sprawled across my lap. I had my ankle crossed over his lower leg. Grass tickled the tips of my bare feet. 

The title read, Il Milione. I remembered it by heart, because I’d begged for books just like it.

Dad had wanted to keep us sheltered — no stories, no poetry. No distant tales or different beliefs to learn about.

But Mom had been exhausted after he died. Not with grief — with the stress of having to manage a kingdom by herself. She’d sworn an oath to never remarry, so there was nothing anyone could do.

When I’d asked for something new to read, she’d waved her hand in my direction and mumbled something along the lines of, Go ask the guards. And who were the guards to deny a princess of anything?

The onslaught of new books — including Il Milione — was a quiet rebellion on my part. It carried beautiful and horrific stories about parts of the world I’d never visit. And it was worth the begging.

“Are you expecting me to understand this?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked up at him. His face was much closer to mine than I’d expected it to be — I could feel his breath against my forehead. The warmth of his skin radiating into mine.

“You were reading?”

He raised one shoulder into a shrug. “Trying to,” he clarified. “I can’t read a single word on that page.”

I tried not to smile and failed. I tipped my head away from him and pretended to inspect an olive beside me. 

“I probably should’ve taught you ages ago,” I said flatly. “You just— came into my life at a strange time.”

He raised a brow. “What does that mean?”

“You arrived the same week my mother started arranging banquets,” I clarified. “But I liked you enough to stay cordial.”

“You liked me enough?” he asked.

I looked at him. Felt my breath hitch.

He was smiling. Not big, not wide — just there, like it belonged. 

I’d missed it. I’d missed his stupid, endearing smile that had once felt strange. I hadn’t ever missed anything more.

“I did.” My voice was trembling. “You sat with me in my bedroom. When I ran away.”

“I followed you down the hallway.”

I hummed at him. “You did. I thought it was strange.”

“You seemed unamused,” he said, deadpan.

“I wasn’t,” I told him honestly. My eyes flickered back to the book, like it would make my words less raw. I turned a gentle page as I said, “You were weird. But you offered to stand with me and look scary.”

“You called me dumb.”

I smiled. This time, I let him see it. “I did.”

And then the moment shattered.

Because the door suddenly slid open. Footsteps padded into the garden.

Mason straightened up, like he was scared. Like he wasn’t expecting who walked in. 

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Mom’s voice was quiet and condescending. 

I looked up. Blinked, like it would make her go away.

She was wearing a crimson cotta, like she’d just woken from a dream. The sleeves were long and fur-trimmed, and the chest was deep-necked. I couldn’t believe she’d left her room dressed so scandalously.

Her hair was gently curled down her back. Her lips were glossed, but I wasn’t sure why.

“Yes,” I said, deadpan. 

Her smile was tight. Practiced. “I see you have a servant with you.”

“Don’t I always?” I asked. I glanced back at the book. Pretended to flip a page, like I was reading subconsciously.

Her eyes narrowed. The condescension wavered for a brief moment. 

“Hello, Mason,” she said suddenly.

Mason looked up. He put his hands in his lap, like he was refraining from grabbing onto me for comfort. 

“Your Highness,” he said. 

To anyone else, he would have sounded confident. Normal, maybe. But I knew he was intimidated. 

Mom crossed her arms over her chest. “Your sister told me I might find you here.” 

“Callie?” I asked. My voice trembled halfway through her name.

She didn’t notice. If she did, she didn’t say anything. 

“Nora,” she corrected. “She said I might find both you and your little servant.”

Mason’s jaw clenched. He looked down at the book and pretended to read. 

“She’d be right,” I said flatly. 

Her eyes flickered between us. Her lips were pressed into a tight, thin line.

And then her expression shifted. Something softer, maybe. 

“You’re expected at the ball tonight. The suitors are getting suspicious of you.”

“Are you expecting me to care?” I asked.

Mason put a hand over his mouth, pretending to focus harder on the words. But I knew he was trying not to smile.

“No,” Mom said. She didn’t sound at all surprised. “But we’ve been doing these too long. I’ve decided to take measures into my own hands.”

I looked up at her. The book closed over my palm. “What do you mean?”

She let out a small, content sigh. “I’ve been exchanging letters with a nearby kingdom.”

Dread washed over me. I felt the color drain from my face. The nausea rushing through my stomach. 

She continued, “Milan’s heir to the throne is twenty-seven. He’s looking for a young bride to bear him children.”

“Mom.” I could barely hear my voice over the pounding of my heart.

“I’ve agreed to have him meet you. Tonight.”

I gripped the back of Mason’s tunic like an anchor. 

He was completely still beside me. Like he wasn’t sure what to say. What to do. 

“Mom, no,” I tried to say.

“Audrey, this has been going on for too long. It’s been almost two months of this.”

I wanted to cry. My legs were trembling as I stood.

“This is bullshit.” I couldn’t make myself sound strong. “This is— I don’t want to marry him!”

“You haven’t even met him,” she spat back.

“That’s exactly why!” My voice broke. I didn’t want to cry in front of her, but I couldn’t help it. “Mom, please don’t make me do this.”

“Sweetie, it has to be done.” She tried to put her hand on my cheek, the way she did when I was a child. 

I slapped her hand away. 

Her eyes shifted into something darker. “It’s out of my control.”

“It’s completely in your control!”

“Your life purpose is to marry. To bear a child more powerful than you.” She said it like it was just something everyone did. Like it wasn’t completely insane. “I did it. Your sister failed, so it’s your job to do better than she did.”

“She didn’t fail,” I shot back. Anger surged through my veins. “Her baby died.”

Something flickered across Mom’s face — sadness, maybe. Pity. 

And then she said, “That is failure. I will not let you fail like she did. I will not let this kingdom be embarrassed any further.”

“This is bullshit!” I screamed.

And then she surged forward. Her hand came up and cracked against the side of my face. 

Blood exploded in my mouth. I felt it, thick and heavy. Like a crimson river rushing through my throat. 

Mason was at my side in an instant. He put a gentle hand on my back, like he was urging me to focus on it.

I spat blood at Mom’s feet. It splattered across her white slippers.

She simply blinked at the sight in front of her. Like she hadn’t meant to do what she did. 

Her hands were still twitching. She was clutching her robe so tight that it was wrinkling beneath her grip.

“Audrey,” she said. Softer now, but her teeth were clenched.

“Leave.” My voice was muffled with ichor and rage. 

I knew I must’ve looked like a mess. There was blood dripping down my chin. I could feel something warm trickling from my nose — and I knew exactly what it was.

Tears were streaming down my face. I felt guilty, crying in front of Mason — who was I to cry when his sister had just died?

But then, he whispered, “I’ve got you,” into my ear.

Not loud enough for Mom to hear. It was like a secret he was sharing between us. Quiet loyalty. 

He said it like he meant it. He did.

I wrapped my hand around his side. Squeezed the fabric of his tunic to keep myself upright.

My brain was swimming. Dizziness was flooding my vision. It felt like I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Tonight,” Mom said. Her voice was flat, like she hadn’t just hit me. 

I looked up at her. Let the blood pool in my mouth.

And then I spit it at her.

It splattered across her neck, staining her perfect, porcelain skin. Ichor seeped into her already-red dress.

She blinked at me. And then her eyes darkened. She raised her hand halfway, like she was going to slap it across my face.

But Mason tightened his grip on me. Took a step back. 

“You’re a bitch,” I told her. And I meant it.

She shook her head at me, like she was dismissing my words. Like she’d heard it all before.

“And you are spoiled,” she said. Her voice was dripping with anger. “You think the world owes you an apology — but this is your world. There’s no apology to be given.”

I let the blood trickle down my chin. Let it trickle into my mouth from my nose. The metal tasted sharp and bitter.

Her eyes softened for a brief second. Like she was seeing what she’d done for the first time.

Good, I thought. Let her see what she’s done. Let the guilt consume her.

“I will not end up like you,” I spat. 

The words were further directed towards me. It was a promise I’d made myself. If there was anything I could do, I would not become my mother.

She stared at me, her face blank. And then she wiped the blood from her neck using the sleeve of her robe and walked away.

For a second, neither Mason or I moved. 

And then he exhaled a shaking breath. His eyes flickered over my face. 

“Aud,” he said softly. 

I bent down and picked up my book. Tucked it beneath the crevice of my arm and said, “We should go to the infirmary.”

He nodded. He put his arm around my waist and walked me like I could do it myself.

I let him. Because I wasn’t really sure if I’d be able to keep myself upright.

~

~

Mason sat me down against the right side of the infirmary bed. 

“Here.” He held out a ceramic cup to my mouth. “Spit.”

I spit blood into the bowl. Tilted my head upwards and gripped the bridge of my nose.

He used a piece of linen to wipe my chin. He didn’t seem to mind the ichor and spit — he just focused on cleaning me up.

“Still hurts?” he asked.

I spit into the cup again. It came out streaked in red. 

“No,” I lied. The side of my jaw felt like it was on fire. My voice was still thick and rough. Begrudgingly, I said, “A little.”

He narrowed his eyes. Smiled halfway, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to or not.

He poured water from a pitcher into a wooden bowl. It splashed down the sides. He dipped a clean corner of the linen strip into the liquid.

And then he did something that surprised me.

He kneeled in between my legs. Looked up at me as if in prayer. 

Mason brought up his thumb. The flat of it brushed against my bottom lip.

“Can I?” he asked.

I nodded breathlessly. I could feel my heart drumming in my chest.

He touched the cloth to my skin. Dragged it across my mouth, wiping the ichor away. 

One of his hands was pressed against my thigh. I could feel his index finger on my inner knee. 

There was something in his eyes as he looked up at me. In the way his brows furrowed in concentration, like I was the most important thing he’d ever dealt with. 

He pinched the edge of my lip and looked up at me, like he was asking for permission. His expression was something unreadable.

I just blinked at him. Nodded once, even though I wasn’t sure what he was asking.

I didn’t need to know. I trusted him.

He folded my lip over. Touched the split I’d gotten when my teeth slashed a cut inside my mouth. 

He wiped the blood away. Turned the linen over, dipped the cloth in the water, and cleaned the ichor streaking down my upper lip. 

My legs clenched around him. I intertwined my ankles around his back.

His hand stilled for just a second. And then he looked up at me and asked, “You okay?”

I couldn’t think of anything left to say. The only words left swirling in my brain were, I love you. 

I wanted to say it. I wanted to scream it at him. To kiss him so hard he tasted my own blood. 

“Yeah,” I said instead. My voice was trembling. “Just— a little bit—”

“I get it.” He sounded steady. Stable, almost. “It’s okay.”

“Okay.” I felt like crying.

He tightened his grip against my thigh. His thumb brushed against my skin in a slow, up and down motion. 

“It’s okay,” he said again. 

It wasn’t okay. Nothing about this was okay. 

But I swallowed the last of the blood in my throat. Said nothing.

I couldn’t talk without crying. Without breaking down. Screaming. Tearing my skin from my body.

So I just looked into his eyes. Pretended the green in them would make it a little easier.

It almost worked. 

Chapter Text

The two of us were silent as Audrey got ready for the ball. 

She was going if only to frighten him. She had made it very clear that she didn’t care much for the suitor from Milan.

But her eyes were . . . Blank. Like she was distracted by her own mind. Flooded by anger and frustration.

She was wearing teal, pale and soft. Gold embroidered, like most of her other things. The corset was tight — it almost looked like she was struggling to breathe. 

Her hair was down. She had a sword to her curls, like they’d personally offended her. 

“Aud,” I said.

She blinked, like I’d woken her from a dream. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger.

“I have to,” she said. Her voice cracked.

There was still a mark on her jaw. It was dark — angry. 

It had mostly faded by now, but I could see it if I was close enough to her face. I frequently was.

“I’m not trying to talk you out of it,” I said immediately. “I just— I want to help.”

She blinked at me. Raised a brow, like she didn’t have any faith in me. “Help how exactly?”

I touched the seashell on my neck. Ran my fingers against the spire. 

It was still as pink as the day Sephy had died. I could still feel the salt in between the crevices. The strand of hair that hadn’t quite fallen away. 

Audrey had drilled a careful hole through the top. Threaded twine through the gap as a makeshift chain. Tied it in a knot at the nape of my neck.

I didn’t think she’d notice the way my fingers trailed over it. 

She did. Her eyes flickered over my face, searching for something. 

“Come here,” she said, deadpan.

I stepped towards her. Took a seat on the edge of her bed, directly behind her frame.

I watched as she brought the knife to her shoulder blades. The way she squeezed her eyes shut in the mirror, like she was trying to make herself believe what she was doing. 

And then the dagger slashed cleanly through her hair. 

The curls that had once been all the way down her back were now halfway down her bicep. It was a little choppy, slightly uneven — but it was her.

Something in Audrey’s eyes shifted. Excitement, maybe. Something softer.

She dropped the sword at her feet. Her hands raked through her hair, like she was touching it for the first time in her life.

The hint of a smile rested on her bruised lips. She coiled a finger through her waves. 

For a moment, I just stared at her. 

And then I started talking before I could stop myself. “You’re— wow.” My fingers stilled against the homemade necklace. “You’re so—”

And then the words died in my throat. I wasn’t sure why, because I knew what I wanted to say.

Beautiful. She looked unbelievably beautiful. 

She blinked at me. Her expression shifted, like she wasn’t exactly sure what to say.

And then she smiled. Barely — but it was there. I saw it before she tipped her head forward to hide it.

“Go on,” she said, deadpan.

“You know what I’m trying to say.” My face burned.

“Do I?”

I forced out the words. “You look— pretty.”

She raised a brow. “Was that so hard?”

It was.

Because she wasn’t the Audrey she’d been moments before. She was— lighter. Already it looked like a weight had lifted from her shoulders. 

“You look pretty.” My voice still wavered as I spoke. 

She fixed her curls in the mirror. Tucked them behind her ears, like she wasn’t exactly sure what to do with them. 

And then she looked at me. “You’re nervous,” she said flatly.

I blinked. “What?”

“Your voice is trembling. You’re nervous about something.” She looked up. Her eyes were narrow. “Spill.”

She was right. I was nervous.

I couldn’t stand the idea of it. Of Audrey meeting the man she’d probably marry. It made a wave of nausea rush over me. 

Marriage would ruin her. It would ruin us. It would ruin me. 

She would lose herself to marriage. Everyone seemed to think her life purpose was to marry someone more powerful than she. To have a child with someone not for love but necessity.

And I would lose her. No man would want me around her as much as I always was. We would be torn apart in a house in which she didn’t have as much of a say. 

I couldn’t lose her — not after everyone else I’d lost. Not after everything else.

Mom was gone. Then Dad. Then Sephy. 

I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost her. 

I tried to speak. “I just—”

She looked at me. Her eyes softened the smallest bit.

The words died in my throat. Because I didn’t know how to say, I’m terrified of losing you without sounding completely insane.

So I just responded with, “Nothing.”

She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. 

She raised a brow. “Mason,” she said, deadpan. Like she was urging information out of me.

“You’re pretty. I’m distracted by you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Mason.”

“I’m fine,” I promised. It was empty, but it was a promise nonetheless. “I’m— thinking.”

“About?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “The guy from Milan. Do you think he’s going to be an asshole?”

She barked out a laugh. Ran her fingers through her freshly-cut hair.

Then she said, “Probably. Aren’t all men to some degree?”

I blinked at her.

She turned around. Scanned my face for something I couldn’t detect. “Not you.”

“Bit of an afterthought,” I mumbled.

She rolled her eyes. I could see her smiling from where I was standing. 

“I’m mostly talking about the suitors.” She dipped her finger in oil and swiped it across her lips. They came back glossy. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he made some sort of comment about me right away.”

“Comment?” I asked.

“Something involving my body,” she said flatly. But her voice was trembling. 

I grazed my fingers over the shell. I felt the sand cracking beneath my skin. 

She spun around to look at me. Her eyes were full of something I couldn’t place.

“Listen,” she said firmly.

“Listening.”

She squinted at me. Then she said, “Stand near the exits with Liam. This event is more— private. My mother’s going to expect me to handle this myself.”

I blinked at her. “Handle it yourself?”

“To speak with him without someone hovering near me.”

“I don’t hover.”

“You do,” she said, deadpan. “Which I like.”

My face flushed.

She continued, “But not today. It’ll be an hour at most, and then I’ll pretend I feel sick.”

“And that’s my cue to come get you,” I said softly. It wasn’t a question — I already knew the answer. 

She nodded once. Patted my cheek. “Good.”

I felt her hand lingering against my jaw even as she pulled away.

~

~

I watched from afar as the suitor from Milan took Audrey across the dance floor.

His hair was black and clean. His clothes were shiny and polished. His eyes were so blue it was almost jarring.

And his hand was on her waist. The other was pressed against the small of her back. 

He hadn’t asked if he could touch her. I could tell just based on the look on her face. 

She looked nervous. Which wasn’t at all how she’d looked when she walked into the dining room.

Her eyes were— victorious. Like she’d won something she didn’t even know she could win. 

Now, there was something darker about her. Something nobody else was noticing but me. 

Around them, the dining hall was humming. There was laughter too loud. A chair screeching across the floor. Quiet complaints from noblewomen wearing thick, heavy perfume. 

And Audrey just stood straight ahead. Through him, almost — like she couldn’t stand to look at him. Her hands were barely hovering over his shoulders.

He whispered something in her ear. He was smiling as he said it, though it didn’t look particularly kind.

She didn’t look at him as he spoke. But her posture straightened the smallest bit. Like he’d startled her. 

I just watched her from across the room. Helplessly, because she’d told me to stay off to the side. To wait until she’d pretended to feel sick. 

She was right when she said I hovered — I did. I just didn’t realize it before, because I was never not near her.

But now, I longed for her. She was merely across the room, and it felt like I was yearning just to stand near her. I didn’t even want to talk — I just wanted to be there.

There was something tense in the air. Something I couldn’t shake.

Maybe it was the way the moonlight streaked across the room — long, sharp lines that cut through the shadows. Or the smiles that were too white and wide in the dark room. The absence of voices when the music played too loud.

Forks clattered against plates. Across the room, a wine glass smashed against the floor, spraying wine into the marble. 

But he and Audrey just kept dancing. Like the commotion in the dining hall was worlds away from them. 

She didn’t look back at me once. But I knew she’d caught my eye when she first walked into the dining hall. I knew she knew where I was standing. 

And then they suddenly stopped. 

Her body went rigid in his. The suitor’s grip tightened against her hips.

That’s when I realized it smelled like smoke. Not from the kitchen — a different kind of smell. Like the lit edge of a reed pipe.

Audrey pushed him away. I could see the panic in her eyes even through the crowd. 

There was commotion by the opposite end of the dining hall. Voices hushed and low, overlapping eachother like they were trying to solve a problem that couldn’t be understood. 

And then someone screamed.

Not just startled — terrified. Blood curdling. 

People started to scatter. Running in different directions, pounding against doors that wouldn’t open.

I couldn’t see what was happening from where I was standing. The people rushing past me were blocking my view from what had once been the centerpiece of the room. 

A woman in the crowd was trampled. I watched helplessly as someone tried to help her, just to be shoved off to the side. 

I looked desperately towards the throne.

There was no one there. The Queen was gone — most likely brought to safety, but gone nonetheless. 

I surged forward. Forced myself through a crowd of people just as terrified as I was.

The only thing on my mind was: Audrey. 

Her name trembled as it left my mouth. “Audrey!”

All I heard was the devastating noise of death beside me. The sound of a sword stabbing through someone’s stomach, then the sound of the blade retreating, wet and red. 

I felt a hand grab my arm. I shoved them off without looking.

“Mason.” Liam’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife. “What are you doing?”

I paused for just a second. Just long enough for a skull to crack open in the corner of the room, blood pouring.

“Where’s Audrey?” I asked, far too quickly. I couldn’t hide the panic in my voice. 

He pressed his lips together, thinking. Like every second wasn’t valuable.

“She’s safe,” he said. His hands were trembling halfway to my arm.

“Where is she?” I asked again.

He grabbed the sleeve of my tunic, like he’d be able to pull me away. “Callie’s got her.”

That barely eased my nerves. 

He didn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t care. 

“Mason,” he urged, pulling my arm. “We need to go.”

“Liam—”

“Now!” I’d never heard him sound so terrified.

So I obliged. 

I let him pull me away. Forced my brain to stop swimming in terror. 

The hallway was longer than I remembered it being. I didn’t think there’d been this many doors the first time I walked down these corridors.

“What happened?” I asked. I felt breathless. I was breathless.

“I don’t know.” He was talking too fast. I could barely hear him over the chaos. 

Beside us, groups of twos and three whirred past. Some were covered in blood or wine. Some were clean. Some dropped dead as we ran, the sound of it squelching nearby.

I felt sick. I felt sick with fear and worry and something else I couldn’t place.

Liam pulled me into a side closet. There was a candle, barely lit. It didn’t illuminate the room in the slightest.

But there was something safe about it. Like nothing could hurt me. Like no one would find us, even though the room wasn’t particularly hidden.

Liam panted beside me. Even in the darkness, his cheeks looked green.

“Where—” I could barely speak. “—where’s Audrey?

“I already told you she’s fine,” he snapped, panting. He didn’t sound angry — just scared. 

“Liam,” I begged.

He put a hand over his eyes. Ran his fingers through his hair before he looked back at me.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I— I know that Callie grabbed her. They probably went to get Norie, but—”

And then he stopped. He sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands. 

He eventually continued, “She’s going to want to fight. I know her.”

“Fight?” I asked. My hands were trembling.

“Against them.”

My vision went white. I could barely hear him over the screaming in my head.

Find her, it said. Keep her safe.

“I need to find her,” I said. I reached for the doorknob.

Liam grabbed my arm so hard I thought it would bruise. “Wait.”

“Liam.”

“Mason, just wait,” he pleaded. “You don’t— we don’t know what’s happening.”

I clenched my fists. “I know that I—”

And then I stopped. 

The words rested on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t say them.

I know that I love her. 

I didn’t know when that had happened. When I’d stopped thinking about her as my friend. When I started fantasizing about something more.

Maybe it was when I realized she was my best friend. Maybe it was when I’d said those words aloud, halfway meaning something else.

The word echoed in my brain like a mantra.

Love. Love. Love.

It wouldn’t stop. It drummed against my chest, loud and relentless. 

Liam waited for me to finish. When I didn’t, he said, “It’s not safe.”

“I can’t just stay here,” I said, voice breaking. “Not while— not while she’s—”

Liam seemed to get the jist of what I was saying. His expression softened.

“I’ll come with you,” he finally said.

I shook my head immediately. Guilt pooled in my stomach. “No.”

“I’m not letting you get murdered because you’re an idiot,” he shot back.

I pursed my lips together. Bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.

And then I swallowed. “Fine.”

He opened the door carefully. It creaked on its hinges like a scream. 

I walked out first. The hallways were quiet with blood.

Liam followed close behind. Like a shadow. Like a shield.

The weapons room felt distant. It couldn’t have been longer than a five minute walk, but it felt like hours. Like I was walking in slow motion. 

Across the palace, a woman screamed. The sound of bodies clattered against the floor. A sword collided with armor with that familiar, distant crack. 

“Where’s Callie?” I asked him, keeping my voice quiet. I didn’t need to — there was no one left to fear. No one but the sprawl of limbs and ichor trickling down the marble. 

Liam bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t— know exactly. She’s with the Queen, I think. Both her and Norie.”

“How did Audrey manage to slip away?” I pressed. My voice was trembling.

“Mason.” He said my name with something deeper than exhaustion. Defeat, maybe. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

The door to the weapons room was cracked halfway open. I could hear voices inside.

Something hushed. Something angry I couldn’t hear exactly. Something scared, maybe — I couldn’t tell. 

“You can go,” I said. I turned towards him, like it would make my words mean more. 

He blinked at me. Hesitation was clear in his eyes.

“I didn’t get murdered,” I urged. 

Liam pressed his lips into a thin line. His eyes held something heavy.

But then he gave me a single nod and ducked into a nearby room. 

I opened the door slowly. 

There were knights gearing up inside. Chainmail rustled. The sound of armor clanged against skin. 

 I looked across the room for the familiar streak of gold and teal. From where I was standing, I could barely see anything but grey.

And then I froze. 

Because across the room, someone met my eye. And I knew those eyes.

I would’ve recognized them anywhere. The way they narrowed when she was focused. The irises the color of tree bark and something sharper.

She was still wearing her teal dress, but the corset was hidden by a steel chest plate. Blood was splattered across the breast, old and copper colored.

She was wearing a helmet. Her freshly cut hair poked out from beneath the metal. 

I tried to say her name. Nothing came out.

Audrey. 

Chapter Text

The armor was heavy against my skin. The chest plate rattled against my stomach.

I could barely see the weapons lining the walls through the small gap in the helmet. I couldn’t see much at all. Maybe it was better that way.

There was something warm pooling in my belly. Not fear, exactly — something sharper. A quiet buzzing in the silence of the room.

Maybe it was anticipation.

I had been told long, long stories of my father’s anger. Like I’d need the stories to understand him.

He was never gentle or kind. But he had his moments — like when he’d take me out to the garden. Teach me how to hold a bow. To discern the difference between poison ivy and simple vines that grew on the palace walls. 

Regardless, he’d stained my hands with blood. Promised it was all I’d ever know, as long as I lived. 

I was raised in his shadow — his horrible, violent shadow. I was taught to protect. To fight. To defend. 

And I’d been trained for this. Bloodshed was all I had. If I couldn’t be a good princess, I could at least be a good fighter. A soldier.

And then, from behind me, I heard, “Audrey.”

The voice cut through the silence like a knife. My name trembled in their mouth.

My body went rigid. My shoulders tensed, like I’d been suddenly grabbed.

Mason was standing there. His eyes were wide and green and terrified — a mixture between worry and something louder. I couldn’t place it. 

He looked pale — sick almost. His fingers were twitching in my direction, like he was refraining from reaching out. 

For a second, I wanted to run at him full force. Wrap my arms around him gratefully, as if I hadn’t been expecting him to make it back alive.

And then my fingers tightened around the hilt of my sword. And I remembered what I needed to do.

He took a step towards me. “Audrey,” he said again. Like he couldn’t believe I was real.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. 

Guilt pooled in my stomach, pressing against the skin. I felt it now, halfway up my throat. 

Mason shook his head. His eyes were pleading. 

The rest of the knights flooded out of the room. The heavy armor clanged against their chests, loud and not at all inconspicuous. 

“Don’t,” he pleaded as they left.

Thick silence pressed into the room. I could almost feel it, seeping down the hallways. Emerging from beneath the grout in the floor. It was suffocating.

I lifted the helmet from my face like it would help me breathe more easily. Pressed my lips into a tight, thin line. 

Mason’s eyes softened. Like he was seeing something in me for the first time.

But then he whispered, “You can’t. Please— don’t fight.”

“I have to.” My voice sounded strained, even with the absence of a helmet holding me down. The words came out tight. Too quiet. 

“What if something happens?” he asked.

I swallowed down the ache in my chest. “It won’t.”

“But what if?”

He’d never sounded so scared in his life. He sounded— broken. Like my actions had split something open inside of him. 

And then he started to cry. Not sobbing — just quiet, gut-wrenching whimpers. Something softer.

“I can’t—” His breathing was shallow. He looked wrecked. “Aud, I can’t lose you. Not— not after—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. I knew what he meant. 

I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. It was cold and metallic as it exploded in my mouth. 

“Mason,” I whispered, swallowing down a mouthful of ichor. 

He placed his hands on either side of my jaw. I could feel his index fingers resting by the skin beneath my ear. 

He blinked tears away, like I hadn’t already seen them fall. His lips were parted with the promise of words, but he didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure he could. 

The helmet slipped to the floor, forgotten. I clutched my dress in between the palms of my hands. 

The hem of it was stained in dirt and blood. Metal and pomegranate wine wafted into the air, mixing into something sickly sweet. 

“They defiled my home.” My voice came out tight. Strained. “I can’t let them get away with that.”

“You don’t even know what’s going on.”

I used both my hands to shove him back. “I know that my kingdom was destroyed,” I spat. “I know that people— my people were murdered.”

He stumbled back. Something in his eyes darkened.

“You have guards for a reason,” he said. His voice was quiet — not gentle. There was some sort of sharpness to it. “You have knights trained for war.”

“Mason.” My words were trembling. I barely made it halfway through his name before it shattered. 

He shook his head. “Don’t do this.”

I felt like crying. I felt like disobeying what I thought felt right in my chest. 

There was hard, heavy silence between us. I could feel it, melting into my bones. Settling in my bloodstream.

“Audrey,” he whispered, like he couldn’t say anything else. 

“You don’t get it,” I said. Not angry — just tired. “I can’t be a good princess. I don’t know how to be a good princess.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. He didn’t.

I continued, “But I know how to be a soldier. I know how to fight.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to.”

“What else do I have?” I asked him. “I don’t have my mother’s respect — I never will. At the very least, I can honor my father from the grave by defending our kingdom.”

“There are other ways,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Are there?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you want to honor Sephy by finding the men who were supposed to be looking after her?”

His eyes darkened, jaw clenching. He visibly swallowed, like he was taking a breath before I said something that hurt him. 

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said, deadpan. His hands were shaking at his sides. 

“You don’t get it.” I desperately wanted to stop talking, but I couldn’t. “I have nothing to offer if not anger. If there’s one thing I can be good at, it’s this.”

He pursed his lips. And then his eyes softened the tiniest bit, like he was running out of things to say. 

“Please,” he said, voice gentle. 

I bent down to pick up the helmet from the floor. The weapons closet creaked open as I tore my bow from beneath the plethora of swords and spears. I let my shoulder brush him as I pushed the door open. 

I tightened my grip on the worn oak wood. Readjusted the sack of arrows on my shoulders like it was an anchor. 

The hallways were dark. Stained with red, dripping down the walls. Trickling across the marble. It smelled like death.

But it wasn’t like rotting flesh or haunted crypts — just quiet. That’s what death really smelled like. Like freshly turned soil. Infirmary corridors that never stopped echoing. The air before a lightning strike.

It clung to the hallway like a second skin, thick and impossible to shake. Like thick, metallic something still lingering. 

I put the helmet over my head, like it would soften the sickness pooling in my stomach. I forced myself to stare straight ahead, pushing my shoulders back. 

Mason’s footsteps followed behind me. They were soft and sticky against the wet marble.

“Mason,” I said, but I didn’t turn around. 

“Wait,” he pleaded.

I closed my eyes like it would make everything a little easier. I didn’t stop walking. “You need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

I spun around. Wasted valuable time to glare at him, like he was someone I didn’t love. 

“Yes you are!” I shot back, my voice a little too loud. 

He pressed his lips together. Something flickered in his eyes. 

“I can’t lose you,” he said softly. 

I narrowed my eyes. “Have you no faith in me?” I asked, deadpan.

He shook his head. “That’s not what I—”

His voice trailed off. Something bitter shifted in his expression.

He continued, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m capable of defending myself.” I bit the inside of my cheek like the dull pain would make everything easier. “You should know that, better than anyone.”

“I do know that,” he said. “I’m just— I’m worried. It’s so easy for things to go wrong.”

“I’m going to fight from afar.”

That seemed to ease his resolve a little. But his eyes didn’t flicker into anything warmer.

“What if someone sees you?”

“They won’t.”

He closed his eyes, like my arguing was exhausting him. “You do realize that people are probably after you, right?”

I tightened my grip against the bow. Adjusted my helmet.

I knew. Of course I knew.

I knew it would’ve been easier just to hide. To find my mother and cling to her skin. 

But, even now, I couldn’t. Something had hardened in the soft pit of my heart that I’d once thought with. 

It might have been the idea of my father — of his desperation for justice. For war, before it ruined him. 

I felt as if I had to finish what he started. He had once fought alongside the knights. He was once the most skilled swordsman in the entire kingdom — maybe the entirety of Italy in itself. 

My greatest joy had been the dawn of my fifteenth birthday, when he’d gifted me my first dagger. He hid the gift from Mom, because he knew she’d never approve. But he gave it to me anyway.

In his words, I’d become too good of an archer. Better than him, though I figured it was a white lie. 

I was a soldier. I was made to be a soldier. A weapon.

So I said, “I do.”

Mason’s fingers clenched at his sides. Like he was resisting something. 

He didn’t look angry, per say — but there was something about him. Something he’d never looked at me with before. 

And then he grabbed my arm, his fingers wrapping halfway around my bicep. His grip was rough against my skin.

“Ow!” I spat, even though he wasn’t hurting me.

He still loosened his grip, just enough for me to pull away.

I didn’t. 

He hastily pulled me into a linen closet, hidden away from all the blood. Death. The quiet.

Inside, the door slammed behind us. A half melted candle shattered to the floor into three pine-scented chunks. The shelf clattered against the wall.

The room was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it weren’t for the heavy armor separating us. 

He ripped off my helmet, like it would make me listen to him better. His pupils were dilated in the dark room.

“Is someone coming?” I asked.

He shook his head. He sounded breathless as he said, “No.”

I narrowed my eyes as the helmet clattered to the ground. The steel loudly clanged against the floorboards.

“Then what?” I asked him.

Something in his expression darkened.

When I looked into his eyes, it felt as if I was looking into the ocean. Not the beach, or a soft breaking wave — a storm that breaks the ship. He was the violent, crashing waves of the deep sea.

“Mason,” I said, deadpan. Like it would force the words out of him. 

And then he pressed his lips to mine.

It lasted a fraction of a second — and then he pulled away. Time stilled in the darkness of the closet.

I blinked at him. I let the bow fall to my feet, wood crashing against the floorboards.

My words came out soft. “What?”

He didn’t look at me. He looked anywhere but me.

He looked . . . Guilty. Like he was regretting it.

I let the silence wash over us. Prayed in my head that he wasn’t wishing it hadn’t happened.

“I’m— I’m sorry.” He didn’t make eye contact. “Just— be safe.”

His words echoed in my head. A wave of confusion and anger washed over me. 

“Is that why you just—?” I couldn’t finish the question. “Because you don’t think I’ll make it back?”

His eyes widened in the darkness. “No,” he said immediately. 

Finally, he looked at me. There was a sense of longing in his eyes, but I didn’t think he even noticed it occurred. 

“I mean— sort of.” His hands were trembling. “But mostly I— wanted to.”

I stared at him. Considered the stupidity of my actions. 

And then I grabbed his face in between my hands. Crashed my lips against his with conviction, like it was just something I needed to do.

He didn’t wait — he drew my mouth open instantly. Tucked his hand beneath my armor and pressed his palm steadily against my ribcage. 

I clutched the back of his tunic in between my palms. Craned my neck to kiss him more easily, only to be pushed back because he was already bending down to reach me. 

“Your armor’s in the way,” he murmured against my mouth, in between kisses. He tried to press himself closer anyways. 

I dragged my hands into his hair. Fisted the curls in between my palms like a lifeline. 

The kiss was long. Unmoving. Yet full somehow — like it was its own entity in itself.

 “Mason,” I tried to say. Not for any reason — I was just grasping for something to hold on to. 

He captured my lips over and over, like it was an elixir. Like for every shared breath he swallowed, he regained life. 

Then he pulled away again.

I’d counted the seconds in my head. Twelve — his mouth was on mine for twelve seconds.

It felt like a lifetime. It felt like a revelation.

For a moment, neither of us moved. We stood completely still, his hands still against my ribs. Mine were still in his hair. 

He let out a shaky breath. Opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but he didn’t. 

Then he whispered my name.

He breathed my name like it was something sacred. Holy. Like it was a prayer he was reciting.

I couldn’t manage words. I made a pathetic noise that sounded sort of like a croak, and then made no effort to say anything else.

“Was that okay?” he asked. His entire body was trembling, like his bones were vibrating beneath his skin.

I nodded vigorously. 

He gave me a half, lopsided smile. 

His cheeks were red and flushed, his lips swollen. His hair was messy — disheveled. His shirt was off center, but he made no move to fix it. 

He picked up the helmet from the floor. Held my bow with shaking hands.

“You still want to fight?” he asked.

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying no. Instead, I gave him a single nod. Opened my mouth to say yes, but, once again, nothing came out.

He kissed my forehead. Placed the helm over my head and winced when the steel clattered against my jaw.

“Be safe,” he whispered in the darkness. 

I took my bow from in between his fingertips. I would’ve kissed him again if it hadn’t been for the clunky armor that separated us.

I left him standing in the linen closet. I almost looked back, but I didn’t.

Beneath the helmet, I touched my lips. Let the memory of his kiss wash over me.

~

~

The balcony above the great hall wasn’t as inconspicuous as I’d hoped it to be. 

I didn’t go in there much — it was mostly just useless, empty space Mom used when she fell behind on weeding through suitors and servants. Somewhere she could store junk.

Besides empty quiet and marble pillars, there were two tables that held at least twenty chairs on either side. Dad had once hosted parties there, with nobles who had earned his respect.

The table was set, even though nobody had sat there for years. Chandeliers dangled from the sky-painted ceiling. The purple, centerpiece flowers were half dead and wilting. 

Inside, mercenaries lined every inch of the room. They were wearing all black and shoulder plates, their faces hidden by carefully decorated helmets. 

They were speaking rapidly in a language I didn’t recognize. Latin, maybe — some sort of foreign Slavic language. 

Their swords were long and steady in their gloved hands. The blades were just barely curled at the tip. They were drenched in blood. 

I hid behind chaos and corners. Kept my bow positioned in between the marble fence, like it would steady me. 

Maybe it did. I couldn’t tell beneath the anticipation buzzing in my chest.

I lined up the first shot. Pulled the arrow back — like I was just hitting another X crosses into the center of the tree. Like it wasn’t a living, breathing human.

I released the arrow. Watched it soar through the sky like a lightning strike.

And then—

Crack.

Blood pooled around one of the mercenaries’ heads. 

The arrow struck him directly in the nape of his neck. He crashed to the floor with a pathetic flop, his sword clattering.

His helmet was lopsided as he laid on his stomach, his face pressed into the wet, crimson marble. His body spasmed, like it was making a last desperate attempt to stay alive. 

And then he just— stopped. 

It was a clean hit. A perfect hit. Dad would have been proud of it.

I didn’t wait to see his allies’ reactions. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stomach it. 

From behind the corner my back was pressed against, I heard voices crackling. First panic — then blind, unbridled rage. Rage unable to be contained. 

I used an arrow to poke a hole through my dress. The hem split barely below my kneecaps. I curled my finger into the gap and tore the bottom half of my skirt nearly clean off.

For mobility — the train had been dragging against the floor. It was hard to run. To fight. Now that it was tainted with blood, it left a faint trail behind me wherever I hid. 

And then I turned the corner again. Locked my eyes on my next target — a man who’d taken his helmet off to assess the damage I’d inflicted upon the now-dead mercenary. 

He was muttering something under his breath. A prayer, maybe. Maybe a deep, spreading anger. 

I pulled the string back. Released the arrow. 

I didn’t wait to watch him fall, too.

But I heard it — the unmistakable squelch of an arrowhead sinking into skin. The final croak of life before it faded away. 

I didn’t waste any more time. I pulled another spear from the linen sack wrapped around my shoulder.

Aimed. Closed my left eye and pulled my right arm back. 

But then something shattered. 

Not literally — the moment in which I’d felt so powerful. I felt it crumble at my feet, seeping into the bloodied marble.

Because, in the darkness of the room, someone caught my eye. 

Even with both of our helmets on, I felt the flicker of surprise ripple through both of us. The way my hand clenched around my bow, his around the strange looking sword. 

And then he pointed. Shouted something foreign I couldn’t understand.

But, beneath it all, I recognized a single word — Princess. 

I fired the arrow anyway. It soared through the air like a flash of sudden light. 

It grazed the chest plate of a man dressed in barely any armor. The tip bounced off the steel and clattered against a perfectly round plate. It didn’t even shatter. It didn’t even crack. 

I felt weaker now. Small. Like something inside of me had splintered. 

I heard the pounding of footsteps against marble. The stomping up the stairs, two at a time like I would get very far if I ran. 

I tucked my bow behind a picture frame halfway off the wall. The gold border was splattered with blood.

When they found me, I didn’t run.

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide, and surely no way to defend myself without losing the last living thing I had of my father.

If they found me, they’d break my bow. I would rather the mercenaries break my bones. Break anything but the oak wood that held the only roots to Dad in the grave. 

Four of them raced down the balcony towards me. They surrounded me on all sides, swords wielded.

One of them shoved me back. My helmet clattered to the ground so hard it cracked at the side. 

A man double my age brought his sword to my neck. It prickled against the skin, blood dripping.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Put my hands up in surrender. 

They tied thick rope around my wrists. Hoisted me up by my hair.

I obliged. 

I let them walk me down the hall. Through the corridors I called home.

And then one of them — brown hair poking out from beneath his helm, lips pressed thin — slammed the hilt of his dagger against the back of my head. 

The world went black around me. 

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long time, I laid in my own bed.

Liam laid beside me. Neither of us slept. 

How could we? After everything that had happened?

The marble was stained with blood, lingering like something warm and sticky. No matter how hard the servants scrubbed at the floors, the scent of metal and death remained. 

Audrey was gone. She hadn’t come back last night.

The Queen had sent guards looking for her. Her voice had sounded tight and practiced, but there was something softer in her eyes. Worry. 

When they returned, they had nothing but the scraps of her dress and a cracked helmet. When they held the headplate under candlelight, they could see a prickle of blood where her forehead had been. The hem of the dress was caked in ichor and dirt. 

Everyone had been questioned. Where they were when she’d disappeared. Who they were with. 

Liam had covered for me. He had lied — said we were together. Hiding in a closet near the servants quarters. Not a full lie, but not the truth either.

He didn’t look at me the same though. It was like he knew — he knew — that something had shifted between us. I couldn’t discern if that was a good or bad thing. 

I tried to keep myself busy. Spent most of my time as a stand-in in the infirmary. 

So many had died — but so many more had been injured. People hanging on to their lives with the dull hum of wine and a prayer. 

People had burns that left their skin red and leathery. Cuts so deep the chance of having an infection was higher than the chance of not having an infection. Bruises for various different reasons — trampling by the crowd, manhandled by mercenaries, some just from slipping on blood.

It was simple. It was easy for me to digest.

But there was a soft, unrelenting hum in my brain, buzzing Audrey’s name. The weight of her absence left something heavy hovering over my skin, ready to crash. 

It echoed in my head, over and over again. A slow, deep suffering that burrowed in the depths of my gut. Twisting, turning — molding into something ugly.

Longing.

That’s what it was. I longed for her. I was longing just to see her face again. 

To feel her mouth on mine, the taste of her tongue. She had tasted vaguely of figs.

I wondered if that was the only chance I’d ever get to kiss her. If one messy, desperate kiss in a dark linen closet was the only time I’d be able to feel her. If she knew it meant more than just a last-ditch resolve for her to stay.