Alexandre cleared his throat. “This isn’t about me, Father. If you continue to treat her like this, Princess Nora will never become our ally. We need to use gentle persuasion.”
King Pierre drew his sword with his uninjured left hand. Nora had thought that the blade was ornamental, but it gleamed sharply in the candlelight. He pressed the tip into his son’s cravat, a few inches below his neck, and a small red stain began to bloom like a rose on the white lace. A tear fell down Alexandre’s cheek, making a trail in the white powder.
Shrieks filled the dungeon, and if Nora could have moved her arms, she would have covered her ears. The courtiers cried loudly and bumped into each other like a bunch of little chicks without a hen. Screaming every time someone touched them.
“Not Prince Alexandre!” one duchess yelled before pushing two men out of her way. She ran to the stairs. Or waddled. Her enormous dress was not meant for running.
The rest of the sobbing and hysterical courtiers followed her, leaving only the woman who had passed out still on the ground, herself, Alexandre, and the king.
The prince didn’t move.
Didn’t cry out.
He seemed frozen by shock.
King Pierre dropped his sword. It clattered and the sound echoed.
“Put some pressure on the wound!” Nora yelled.
Alexandre blinked but made no other movement. It was as if he’d never been stabbed before. He probably hadn’t.
“Put your hand on the wound and press down as hard as you can,” she said. Forgetting her chains, she tried to help him, only to be pulled back with their biting grip. Her sores were open and bleeding again. Her mouth was still full of blood. The room was tinged in red. A wave of nausea overcame her.
“What have you done?” King Pierre screeched. “What have you done?”
Nora wasn’t sure if the king was referring to her or to Alexandre. All she knew was that she was chained in a cell with two hysterical buffoons, and she hadn’t eaten anything since the day before. The day of her wedding.
“Alexandre, if you can’t help yourself,” she chided, “go find someone who can!”
He shook his head and finally touched his hand to the growing stain on the front of his white shirt. The red blood had not yet reached the gray silk of his waistcoat. Glancing down at his hand, now slick with his blood, he yelled a high-pitched shriek and ran from the cell. Leaving her alone with his father and his sword.
“This is all your fault!” King Pierre yelled, gesturing wildly with his one good hand.
“I didn’t stab your son. You did.”
He glanced at her, a wild, glazed-over look in his eyes. His nostrils flared and his red-painted lips growled at her. Unrestrained anger was dangerous.
Norawasthe idiot.
She ought to have placated him.
Maybe she still could.
She swallowed the blood in her mouth instead of spitting it. She didn’t want to provoke him further. “Why don’t you go and help your son? It is only a small scratch after all. A simple mistake that could happen to anyone.”
“I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .” King Pierre said, grabbing his face and shaking his head until the ridiculous curly wig fell to the floor.
The top of his head was as shiny and smooth as the marble floor. Short gray hairs framed the sides of it. No wonder he wore wigs. His hair was dreadful, but not as much as his face. Where his hands had grabbed his cheeks, the cosmetics smeared, and the crimson of his lips made a large, grotesque smile that reached his ears. A small gasp of surprise escaped her bloody lips.
“How dare you look at me!”
Nora was pinioned in place by five different chains. It wasn’t like she could move around or have looked anywhere else. Still, she bowed her head. She had to do whatever she could not to incense him further.
King Pierre dove for the wig and shoved it onto his head. Then he picked up his sword and turned a full circle before driving it through her stomach.
She choked.
The pain was too intense for noise.