Exhausted from her stupor, Prudence slept soundly. She said nothing of her discovery to Pauline, and sealed her lips the next morning when Sarah woke her.
Her nausea had lessened, but her belly still ached, meaning she had to wear another loose-fitting gown. She was well enough to stay out of bed, but refused to leave her quarters.
Sarah toyed with her curls, fashioning them into the typical Giromian style—bouffant and buoyant. "Yes, but the ball preparations—"
Prudence glared at her in the mirror. "I care not for those." Her gut gurgled, but Sarah didn't seem to hear it.
"You will not take part?" Sarah's eyes widened. "Your mother will be so disappointed."
"Yes, well, she has a handle on things and does not need me." Prudence glanced into the lap of her turquoise and pink gown. "I am certain I will approve of whatever she does. She has exquisite taste."
Though she grimaced, Sarah hummed in approval.
"Besides," Prudence sucked her lips in to apply a subtle rouge to her cheeks, to conceal her sickening pallor, "I would much rather be surprised."
Once Sarah had scurried out, the wheels in Prudence's mind spun out of control, whirling so fast she feared she might be ill again. She set a hand on her abdomen, breathed in and out, then fished out her attempted letter for Céleste. She thought of adding her misadventures with Cornelius, and how he implied evolution for Europe.
"Oh, things will evolve, all right," Prudence said, scowling at her lower half.
She was with child. If—or more like when—her predicament became public news, she had no inkling what would happen. All in Giroma likely knew by now of her fake—but not so fake—affair with Antoine. Romain might have spread the rumor that she'd never actually given her virtue to the King of Totresia... but if her belly were to swell in size and her throwing up episodes were to multiply, it wouldn't take long for all to guess the truth, to be aware that she carried the heir—a bastard—to the Totresian throne.
What would the Giromian people do in such a case?
She scrunched up her letter, bracing to stuff it into her mouth, to eat the words, to dispose of yet another sign that she was a fraud. Writing to Céleste to warn her of Cornelius was perilous, and being pregnant with Antoine's infant was deadly.
With a whimper, she shot to her feet, further crumpling the note. She envisioned Romain ordering her imprisonment, Pauline sobbing herself into a depression, Cornelius cackling as he pointed fingers. Sarah would shake her head, the other ladies would sneer. The Westten court would cringe at her sinful actions, and loathe her for her link to Totresia, the enemy.
"Oh, dear." Her knees gave out, but luckily her plush fur carpet smoothed her fall. She swept the back of her hand over her dampened forehead. "What can I do?"
Sprawled out on the rug, she gasped for air, squeezing her eyelids shut. She had no one to confide in; no one she trusted. She'd already decided that sending another message to Céleste was out of the question. Communicating with anyone in Totresia would be harmful, and warning Antoine, suicidal. She imagined him rushing to Giroma, guns blazing, the entire army behind him, ready to pluck her from the castle and store her in his instead.
"I cannot return to Totresia. Not after what his family did, not after the torture." She sniffled, and heaved herself to her feet. Wobbly with guilt, she clasped her hands in prayer. "God, grant me the strength... oh!"
She peeked at her door, mapping out the castle in her mind. What she needed was a chapel. A place to talk to the Lord in silence, to seek His advice, to beg for His forgiveness. Priests were sworn to keep secrets, weren't they?
Once her shoes were secured, she set out in search of the castle's church. She'd viewed it during her tour, but in all her recent disorientation, she wasn't sure she'd remember where it was. She flurried around corners, hid behind statues, and avoided servants and ladies and noblemen, reluctant to waste time with polite chit-chat.
I am on a mission to save my life—and that of my baby.
The tiniest, cruelest part of her wondered if she should entertain the idea of killing the child. There were ways... she'd heard wild stories in Torrinni. It would solve some, if not all, of her problems.
"No," she screeched, then smacked a hand over her mouth as her voice echoed down the steps. "I could never do that to my body, to my child."
Maybe she wasn't pregnant; yet the more she thought of her symptoms, the harder they were to ignore. How had no one else assumed it? Why hadn't Pauline summoned a physician to check on her illness? He would have confirmed it... and Prudence had never been so grateful to not receive immediate care.
No one can figure it out... yet.
When she reached the ground floor, the hustle and bustle of the Westten court hit her so hard, she had to shimmy around the main stairs and sneak in the Little Reading Room to catch her breath. The stuffy space wasn't empty, and her abrupt entrance drew attention from a few folks sitting on the velvet couches or at the tables against the mahogany walls.
"Your Highness?" someone called out, but she didn't recognize the voice.
"Oh, uh," she slammed into the door and pushed it open with her behind, "wrong room! My, my, I am still unused to this place!"
She slid out into the Grand Corridor, heels tapping on the tiled floors as she ran. She was dizzy, and her stomach upset, but she didn't stop until she faced the floor-to-ceiling windows exposing the gardens. A snowy day awaited, bright and white and beautiful, and the view provided her with a sense of tranquility, a reprieve from her pounding temples.
She leaned into a pillar to the far right, hiding between it and the window, concealing herself from anyone brushing through the area.
Seconds into her calming breaths, a nearby door propped open. On instinct—and in a perfect Céleste imitation—she huddled against the wall, praying to be invisible.
"... he sent word your new bride is on the path to Giroma, Majesty." She didn't know that tone, but it was deep, masculine, confident.
Two figures walked into the space, their backs to her. The first, she had never seen before; the second was none other than her brother.
She pressed into the window-pane, fabricating a makeshift hide-out behind the marble pillar she'd been leaning on. As long as Romain and his nobleman didn't turn around, she'd be safe.
"I still wonder how he made it happen so quickly. Easiest transition of my life." A hint of doubt crawled into Romain's words. Prudence imagined his nose scrunching and his shoulders tensing, but from her position, she couldn't see if that was what occurred.
Why did they speak so freely, so out in the open? She felt naughty listening in, yet something told her she was about to discover pertinent information.
"You know him, unwilling to divulge his tricks." The mystery man sounded stiff, snotty, eerily similar to Cornelius. "When he reached Terter, he received the correspondence assuring him she would leave her home soon. Should show up in a few days. Four, at the most."
Prudence bit her tongue to muffle her gasp.
Cornelius went to Terter, and not to Totresia?
Her heart palpitated, her lungs tightened, her limbs trembled. Was this how Céleste felt when eavesdropping?
The men strode forward, still pointed away from her. With any luck, she'd find a means to sneak outside before they flipped around; for if they did, she was doomed.
"In doing this, he secures a proper succession for my family. When you ride back, thank him for me, will you?" Romain cleared his throat. "Tell him that the arrangement with my sister remains. I implied it before, but I mean it, now. Which means I need him at court as soon as possible. I can no longer deny him."
Prudence hiccuped, but crammed her hand hard against her mouth to mute the noise. Her guts threatened to lurch up her throat—out of disgust or fury, she couldn't tell.
Did he ever intend to keep the Duke in line? Or did he always plan to give me away to him?
A thundering migraine spread across her forehead, and her vision blurred.
The men inched a few feet forward, but made no move to whirl around, nor to proceed out of the Grand Corridor.
"It will honor him, Majesty." The gentleman's timbre was less than enthusiastic, leaving Prudence to wonder if he meant what he said. "He speaks of her often, you know. He quite admires her."
Prudence almost scoffed at the word choice. She had no doubt Cornelius' sentiments towards her were the opposite of what this man claimed; but why did he lie about them?
He did not need to convince Romain. Romain had made up his mind and wouldn't care about feelings; he wanted a strong alliance and a worthy match for his sister, not love and admiration.
"Does he?" Romain chuckled. "Spunky as she is, I could see why one would be intrigued. But they did not get along in Totresia."
The mystery man made a sound akin to a snort. "Yes, well, is the trope not enemies to lovers? He finds her beautiful, mischievous, entertaining. Handsome as he is, they will make fine royal children together, no?"
Prudence gagged.
Romain clapped the man's back. "Indeed. She is reluctant, but she will come to cherish him. It pleases me to plan their wedding festivities. After our birthday and my union, that is."
"Naturally," said the man, his voice distant. "I should hasten back, then."
"Safe travels, my friend," said Romain, his voice also fading, but going in an opposite direction.
Once their footsteps receded, Prudence released a sigh, letting her stomach stick out. Her lungs blew out all the air she'd held in, and her nerves relaxed. Her legs wobbled as she forced them to straighten to her full height.
She gathered her wits. No one could know she'd been spying on her own brother.
She shook off dust from her skirts and hurried to the right, tipping into a side hallway, praying she'd end up at the chapel. She had much more to confess than she'd planned; first, she'd admit her brother was an ignorant fool. That her betrothed was a foul devil. And that her situation was more dire than she'd anticipated.
One last question burned her tongue; who was this mystery bride headed to Giroma?
•••