So, I walk. I pace. From the guest rooms to the indoor glass gardens. Down grand staircases and past suits of armor. From dusk until dawn, my steps echo out into the darkness of the cold stone keep. They do not falter. They do not rush. They are steady. Unhurried.
Why would I hurry?
I have nowhere else to go.
They say convicts fear release more than remaining forever in their prisons; that the world which exists outside their barred windows and locked doors is far more terrifying than the prospect of never stepping out into it again. For there is a certain sort of comfort in seclusion. There is safety in total isolation. Incarcerated, there are no unpredictable variables to contend with, no unexpected wrenches thrown into best-laid plans.
No trucks exploding into balls of fire in a crowd of innocents.
No friends and lovers artfully arranging truths to suit their own ends.
No allies becoming enemies as soon as your back is turned.
No parents shutting their eyes from yours forever.
I have been locked away for three long months in this gilded cage. But my solitary confinement is self-imposed. I do not wish for release. I possess no desire to be paroled, need no one to commute my sentence. I am quite satisfied with this new way of living — though, if I’m being honest, I am not certain it’s accurate to call it that.
Living.
After all, most days, I feel only half alive; the phantom of a girl who used to exist. I cannot recall the last time I smiled or laughed or did much of anything exceptbreathe. Inhale, exhale. Once an automatic process now feels like a chore; as though, without constant monitoring, my lungs might simply decide to cease functioning.
Numb, I drift through the motions of my new duties with a detached sort of acceptance, for I know full well there is no other alternative. I have no choice but to carry on. There are too many people counting on me to do otherwise.
A queen must never falter.
Some days, the weight of newfound responsibility on my shoulders seems the only thing that keeps me tethered to this unrecognizable life of mine. Without it to hold me down, I might disappear entirely — evaporating into the ether, lost in the wind.
“Must you insist on scaring the page boys during their first week of work?”
The wry voice cuts into my reverie.
Damn.
She’s found me again. Third night in a row.
I don’t turn my head but I know if I did, I’d see a tall blonde in military fatigues standing several feet to my right, staring down with bemused disapproval. My personal guard — and personal pain-in-the-ass — First Lieutenant B. Galizia, ranking officer of the Queen’s Guard. I didn’t hear her sneak up on me, but that’s not much of a shock. She’s highly trained in all forms of subterfuge and self-defense.
Walking closer, she stands over me and peers directly into my face. “Are you going to lie there all night?”
“Maybe.”
Sticking out a hand, she waggles her fingers. “Come on. Up you go.”
I heave a sigh, but I don’t resist. There’s no use fighting Galizia when she inevitably tracks me down and corrals me back to my chambers like an errant child caught out after curfew. Her hand is warm and callused when it clasps mine and tugs me to my feet.
“How long are you going to keep this up?”
My brows lift. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty… cut the shit. You know exactly what I mean. You aren’t sleeping. You’re barely eating. You don’t even speak unless you’re forced to put in an appearance at an event outside the castle — and those are rare, these days.”
“That’s not true.”
“Itistrue. How long has it been since you got some fresh air? Took your horse for a ride? Went for a walk around the grounds?”
I’m stubbornly silent.
“If you can’t remember, it’s been too long.” Her head shakes. “You can’t stay cooped up forever. It’s not healthy. You skip one more event, that new PR lady you hired is going to go apoplectic.”