The mere act of dragging my ass out of bed each morning after yet another sleepless night is enough to sap all my strength. And the outside world is even more emotionally taxing. Each time I step so much as a high-heeled toe outside the palace gates, a frozen smile fixed to my lips as the camera lenses click with unflinching regularity, I feel a little more of myself disappear.
Smile, wave, nod.
Show no weakness.
Be the queen your subjects need.
By the time I crawl back beneath the covers each night, I am a hollowed out shell — scoured clean of anything resembling composure, too weak to hold my memories at bay. Even sleep offers no reprieve, for my dreams are haunted by the horrors of my past. They lurk in the dark corners of my subconscious, striking out with razor-sharp talons as soon as my eyes drift closed.
There is no one to soothe my nightmares when I wake to the sound of my own ragged screams. Not anymore.
That person is long gone.
He took my solace with him.
There’s a sudden tightness in my chest that makes my breath catch. I press my shoulders harder against the cool stone floor, hoping it will ground me in the present. Hoping it will drive the vision of cerulean blue eyes to the very depths of my psyche.
“Your Majesty…” The pageboy shuffles a few steps closer. “Should I escort you back to your chambers? Or perhaps call for your personal guard?”
My eyes spring open. The last thing I need is Galizia or Riggs scolding me about my nocturnal wandering again. Pulling a deep breath into my lungs, I force myself to sit up and focus on the young servant. He must be new to the castle staff; I’ve never seen him before and his uniform is so firmly starched, it could probably stand up on its own. When our eyes meet, he looks like he’s about to pee his pants.
“No,” I murmur softly. “Don’t call anyone.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he bleats, reddening. “I apologize if—”
“There’s no need to apologize. Just go. Leave me be.”Is that truly my voice, so emotionless? So empty?“And, if anyone asks… you never saw me here. Understood?”
“Y-Yes, Your Majesty. I promise. I-I-I won’t tell anyone.”
He lingers, frozen like a deer in headlights. I lift my brows and jerk my chin in the direction of the doorway.
“Go.”
With a start, he gives a shallow bow and practically bolts from the hall. I listen to the patter of his shiny uniform shoes against the stone floors until they fade out of earshot. When silence once again settles over me like a blanket, I lay backward to resume my study of the castle ceiling.
This is the third night in a row I’ve found myself here, gazing upward at the mural. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Not answers. Perhaps just a momentary distraction from the colorless monotony of my life.
Last week, it was the library — I spent every night walking the rows, skimming my fingers along the spines of books older than most democracies. The week before, it was the armory. Before that, the stables. The hall of royal portraits. The dusty records room.
No rhyme or reason dictates my destination. Any forgotten corner of the castle that no one bothers to visit in the dead of night will suffice. So long as it’s somewhere I won’t be disturbed with those same pesky questions.
Did you eat anything, Your Majesty?
When did you last rest, Your Majesty?
Can I call anyone to help, Your Majesty?
Your Majesty?
Your Majesty?
Your Majesty?
Since the truck attack on Vasgaard Square three months ago, these nightly explorations have become commonplace. Instead of sleeping, I pace around the empty halls while my ever-present contingent of guards and castle staff look on with increasing confusion and concern. No one knows what to say to make me snap out of this zombie-like state I’ve descended into, shellshocked from grief and pain and betrayal. No one knows how to help me.
I’m not sure anyonecanhelp me.
I sent away the only person who ever stood a chance.