Upon A Time

Chapter Eight Part One

Charlotte dried her hands once more. Her skin, usually fair and supple, had begun to harden and crack under the stress of so many repeated washings. She used some of her mother’s special balm to soothe it, and inhaled deeply of the scent of roses the balm contained. The smell of a sick room, that which her bedroom had become, was hardly a pleasant thing, and she longed to throw open the shutters on the window and let the afternoon breeze inside.

She feared now, worried she ought not. Her guest’s presence in her home would be difficult enough to explain to any nosy neighbors passing by should they see him through the window. Still, it was stuffy, and couldn’t be healthy to keep him cooped up in such conditions, either.

She decided that hopefully the curtains would provide enough cover for a brief time if she just let a little bit of fresh air in.

The summer day was fine, but she had little time to enjoy it. She looked at the clock and saw it was already time to wake the poor man—rather, the Prince—for his next dose of medication.

She was terrified to try, lest he jump in fright and disturb the splint on his arm. She was relieved when she saw there would be no need; the breeze coming in the window was enough to rouse him without her assistance.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, stirring slowly. He opened his one bloodshot eye and looked over at her. “Flowers.”

“The window, sir,” she replied, “there is a box of flowers just outside it. I thought the fresh air would do you good.”

“Would be to your benefit as well.” He was speaking for the first time in truly coherent sentences, and Charlotte did not risk pointing it out, for fear she’d break the spell over the moment and he’d stop. “It cannot be good for one so young to be burdened by such gruesome duties, as you are burdened by me.”

“You are no burden, sir.” She hoped at least if she couldn’t call him Your Highness that calling him sir would show a proper measure of respect.

“Julien,” he said, restating the name he’d given her before. “Just Julien.”

“But you are not just a man,” she objected softly.

“Correct, I am a man greatly in your debt. Also to the older man, the physician.”

“He is my father and he is, I fear, not truly a physician, but the closest our village has to one.”

“And the other? There is another who comes and goes.” He considered for a moment. “Your brother?”

“No, oh no.” She laughed a little, and then lowered her voice again, remembering she should not draw attention of any who may be passing by and who would wonder with whom she was laughing. “That’s Thomas, a friend since childhood. Apprentice to the local blacksmith. You owe him your life above all, sir, for if he had not seen you in the water, you’d surely have drowned.”

“I nearly did, more than once,” Julien recalled, closing his eye and instinctively reaching up to touch the scarring skin of the left side of his face. “I fought to live. I am not even certain why.”

“No, don’t!” Charlotte jumped and grabbed his hand, a little more forcefully than she’d intended. “Apologies, but you must not disturb the stitches. They are just beginning to heal, and the wounds are deep.”

“My leg.”

Charlotte bit her lip. She wondered if, due to the pain sometimes remaining after amputations, he may believe it was still there. “Yes?”

“It appears to be missing.”

At least he already knows, she thought. “Below the knee, yes. I am so very sorry.”