Her shaking fingers made it hard to get the tunic straight and fastened. The guard stood beside her the entire time. She thought about sending him away, but there was comfort in having him near. Perhaps because he was warm and breathing when she was surrounded by death.
When she was done, she leaned forward, not caring about the way her body protested the movement, and pressed a kiss to her brother’s forehead. Then she turned and did the same with her father as the soldier stood silently behind her—watching.
Then Carys pulled her cloak tight around her, swallowed down the knot of sorrow and anger, and turned her back on death.
She headed to her rooms, each step more painful than the last. Twice she had to stop and put her hand against the wall. Each time it was harder to convince her body to keep moving. And it would just keep getting worse as the welts swelled and the bruises from the strap deepened.
She had to get to her rooms.
Andreus would be there. Waiting with willow bark tea and salves and cool cloths to reduce the swelling and ease the flames in her back. She would be stiff tomorrow. But it would be better with Andreus’s care.
Carys made it to the doorway of her rooms before her legs gave way. She grabbed the doorframe for support as the young guard opened the door and stepped out of the way so she could walk in. A fire crackled in the hearth of the sitting room. Carys expected to see her brother in one of the high-backed blue velvet-lined chairs or at the windows that looked out onto the mountains beyond the plateau.
The room was empty. Carys looked toward the bedroom door at the far end of the room as it opened and felt her heart leap, but it wasn’t her brother who appeared. Juliette, Carys’s dark-haired maid, hurried forward.
“Your Highness, I am sorry for your loss. I have tea ready for you and a meal if you think you can eat.”
“Tea would be fine.” The mere idea of food made Carys’s stomach rebel. Eating was the last thing she needed. “Has Prince Andreus been here?”
“No, Princess.” Juliette moved to a table near the fireplace to pour tea. “No one has been by.”
Not her mother, who knew her punishment. Not her twin, whom she had just stood up for.
Maybe Andreus didn’t know she had returned.
“Juliette,” she said, wincing as she grabbed hold of the back of a chair. “Ask the guard stationed outside to go to Prince Andreus’s rooms and inform him of my arrival here.”
“Yes, Highness.” Juliette hurried toward the door. Only moments later, the maid returned. “Can I help you change into something more comfortable, Your Highness? Something softer perhaps?”
She’d heard about the strapping. Everyone must have by now. Castle gossip spread like fire in a straw hut. But even though changing into a robe that was soft and loose sounded like heaven, Carys said, “I will be fine. And you can go for the night.”
Only family would see her scars. Ever.
“But . . .”
“Go.”
Juliette twisted her hands in front of her, bobbed a curtsy, and promised to return in the morning. When the door opened again, Carys wanted to weep at the appearance of the guard who appeared.
“I’m sorry, Highness. Prince Andreus did not answer.”
Disappointment flooded her. “He must not have returned to his rooms as of yet.”
The guard looked down at the light brown carpet. “I believe he was there, Your Highness. But he wasn’t alone. I heard two voices before I knocked. Perhaps that’s why he chose not to answer.”
“Two voices? Was one my mother?” she asked. That would explain his absence.
The guard shifted and his freckled face heated with color. “The other voice was female, Your Highness, but I am fairly certain it was not the Queen inside.”
“I see.” She just wished she didn’t. “You can go now.”
“Yes, Princess,” he said with a bow. When he was gone, Carys turned and walked to the door with slow, deliberate steps. Then, summoning the last of her strength, she left her rooms and walked the length of the hallway to her brother’s rooms. The guard was right about the voices inside. She leaned her ear against the door and heard sniffling and the sound of her brother’s voice soothing the woman inside. Then she heard him speak the woman’s name.
Imogen.
The seeress who failed to see the King and Crown Prince’s deaths. The woman who Andreus watched with fascination even as he vowed to care nothing for her. And now he was with her instead of being with Carys.
The pulsing pain in her back grew stronger with each step back to her own rooms.
It hurt.
Everything hurt.
Her back.
Her heart.
Her soul.
She needed to be strong. Her father would demand it.
But he was dead.
A tear fell. More burned her throat and slipped out of her control as she closed her own door behind her. She took a few more steps as the pressure and ache and swell of sorrow broke through.
Sliding to the floor, Carys let the tears come. Tears for her loss. Tears for the kingdom and the ever-expanding pain and the fear of tomorrow. Tears because she was alone.
Isolated.
Broken.
Tired.
She’d been fighting so long. For what? She stared at the door, willing it to open. Waiting for her brother to remember she needed him.
Her stomach twisted. Tears squeezed out, making the fire on her back burn hotter. And deep within where no strap could reach, there was an emptiness far worse than any beating she could receive. Cuts and bruises and welts she could steel herself against until they healed, but the emptiness . . . it grew wider. Deeper. Hopeless. And alone.
It took three tries to pull herself off the floor. With heavy, staggering steps she walked to her bedroom.
Her father’s rumbling laughter rang in her memories.
Micah’s rare smile flickered and faded.
Candlelight glowed in here. Juliette probably meant for it to be soothing. Instead, the shadows called to her as she opened the small cabinet next to her bed and reached for a red glass bottle her mother first brought to her five years ago.
“This will help with the pain,” Mother said, putting the bottle to Carys’s lips herself. It did. It leeched away the pain. It helped her calm the anger bubbling inside each time she took a sip of the bitter brew. Ten days after that first sip, the welts and bruises had faded, the discomfort from them had gone, but the need for the drink had grown.
“Nothing good comes without a price,” her mother said when Carys’s hands shook and her insides cramped after a dozen hours had passed since her last dose. “Just a little every day is a small price for something so useful. Trust me.”
Trust.
A little every day eventually became a bit more to keep the tremors and the stomach ailments and the sweating at bay. Twice she’d taken far more. In anger. In despair. She’d wanted to feel nothing and made things worse. Since then she’d been careful to take only enough to keep the signs of her body’s craving at bay. After all, Andreus needed her.
She needed him now. She’d trusted he would be here for her so they could grieve together and so he could help her as she had just helped him. And he had chosen to be with someone else.
It hurt to move.
It hurt to breathe.