A princess on the run, Briar Aldrich has no choice but to take on the role of scullery maid when Lord Sterling Huntington stumbles upon her in the woods and doesn't recognize her. But how safe is she actually in his home? And how safe is her heart?
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Princess Briar Aldrich stood gazing at the grand, wooden doors in front of her. Her hands were shaking violently. She tried everything she knew of to still them but to no avail. She wrung them together, stuck them under her arms, even balled them into fists. Nothing stilled their trembling or had an effect on the nerves that caused it. She tried to calm herself, tried to focus on the way the sunlight struck the carvings of great wooded beasts on the golden oak doors and made them seem almost alive. But then one of those doors opened and a servant scurried by, apron covered in stale bile, and Briar sighed, closing her eyes. The smell followed the girl down the hall, trailing after her like a forgotten kitten. It reeked of disease, the foul stench of death. A moment later, she heard the old hinges of the wooden doors creak again and she opened her eyes to see Sir Alfred Hughes making his way toward her, a grim expression on his face that she did not very much care for.
"Princess-" he began as he reached her but she interrupted him. She did not have time for the pleasantries nor the conversational discourse. Not tonight.
"Alfred, how is he?"
He looked away from her then, the wrinkled corners of his old frown betraying the desperation of the circumstances that he was always endeavoring to shield her from.
"He is worsening," he told her, an expression of genuine sorrow on his devitalized, old face. "It does not look good, I'm afraid."
She felt the cold familiarity of dread snaking through her veins, coiling tightly around her anxious heart.
"How long does he have?"
"The doctors aren't sure. Could be days or even weeks but, Briar, your uncle- the King, he is strong. I know that he will hold on for as long as he possibly can."
Alfred pulled her in for an embrace. She felt a hot tear roll down her cheek and felt somewhat of a child again, in the arms of a man whom she knew as closely as she perceived of her own soul. Sir Alfred Hughes had invariably been a paternal figure for her. After her mother had perished in the delivery of a child who lived only a few moments longer than she and her father had never returned from the war to defend their southern borders, Alfred had taken upon himself the task of raising her. And he had fulfilled that post, along with her uncle. She had matured in these very halls, dashing through those very same oak doors on so many luminous afternoons to disturb her uncle's study, imploring him to read her a story. So these arms felt considerably like home to her. But even now, as she found herself held enclosed within them once more, she felt them slipping away from her. Her heart twisted in her hollowed out chest with the knowledge that she may never feel them encircling her again.
As he pulled away, she unfurled her spine, standing up straight, and wiped away the tears. She promised herself that she would not cry at what was to come. She was the Princess of Isalovia, born and bred for hardship, trained to withstand all manner of dreadful circumstances. He smiled weakly and touched her face in the tenderest, most gentle way. His hand lingered there a moment and she could tell what he was doing. It was the same thing that she had been doing for weeks. He was memorizing. The soft caramel color of her hair, the flecks of hazel in her steely emerald eyes, the way her rosebud lips set in a pucker and her dainty nose flared when she was determined. He was memorizing her resolve, her tenacity, the way she had never strayed from a fight. He was remembering her childhood, the girl that now stood before him as a woman. Then he withdrew.
