HBHM (hiatus)

thirty-nine

| fever

Aselia sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, the sheets rumpled around her. Gray shadows hung over her eyes from little sleep, and the silence seemed to sing. That just may just be the voices, though.

A day had passed since her lunch with Vladimir, and it has been troubling her ever since. Her nightmares were filled with clawing green hands and teeth tearing her apart, hauntingly savage and baleful. Sleep was futile, forcing her to spend the rest of the night and most of the morning in her own head.

You should know what he's like. Who he is.

Actually the idea of Duke Rylan not being her father sounded closer to the truth. The stories never matched up right; many had often wondered how a kind duke managed to win the heart of the crafty, ruthless Lady Alya. It took more than kind persistence to even get that woman to smile, much less love.

Aselia feared something else—if Vladimir was her father, then what did that mean for her?

Maybe the king was simply insane. Years of rule and war could have decayed his mind, soiled it with delusions that never happened. But in the end it all came down to the matter of the portrait, and what it signified.

Between the erratic beatings of her heart, a lock turned. Karl slipped into the room with a tray of tea. Old jasmine leaves; ordinary ceramic, the surface scratched. "I brought you tea," he said, briefly glancing at the desk where her untouched breakfast lay. His eyes hardened.

Judging. Always judging.

Aselia moved her gaze to the window. Looking at him triggered a memory of yesterday, of her crying in front of him. Humiliation seeped into her blood. Karl was nothing but a pain. He was probably going to make fun of her for it.

Karl put the tray down. Then he looked at her, lines creasing his face. Was that frustration, or masked concern? "Jasmine is the only leaf I can find in the kitchen. But if you don't like jasmine, then I'll take it back."

"No," she croaked, shocked to hear her soft, trembling voice. "I'll—I'll drink it."

Slowly Aselia got off the bed, hesitant, unsure, then walked up to the desk, settling in the stool. Karl offered her the steaming cup and she took it, cupping her hands around it. She didn't feel the heat of the liquid at all.

Karl just stood at the side, his eyes elsewhere but his attention on her.

Aselia shut her eyes and sipped the tea, clearing her head as best as she could. Her entire body felt too heavy, crowded, even though she knew it was just in her head. She was alone, her soul and her voice only, but now she couldn't help but wonder if her shadow was still hers.

"Did you get any sleep?" he asked, and she shook her head. "Why not? No one will stop you."

Aselia poured herself another cup. Her hands trembled as she held the pot. "I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't," she repeated. She didn't say anything else, and Karl didn't ask for it. He just stared at her for a minute, then walked out of the room with her breakfast. Aselia barely heard him leave.

She drained the contents of the teapot and smashed the whole thing on the window. The ceramic broke; the window glass didn't. The edges of the broken pieces seemed to glint like treasure, glorious in the sunlight.

Kneeling, she picked up the largest piece, tested its sharpness with her fingers. She felt the temptation to hold its jagged edge to her skin: a deep gash across the wrist, or jabbed into her throat—finding and then severing the crucial vein wasn't that difficult.