Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
AURELIA
Normally, when Walter drives me back to my dormitory, I’m still floating on a cloud of post-orgasm euphoria.
But today my stomach is in knots as I watch the capital flash by my window.
Snippets and conversations from the day play in a jumbled mess in my mind.
The queen had pulled me aside after cake, and we talked for a long while.
She dropped some heavy hints that she might know about what’s going on between me and her son.
Then I learned the king is ill, likely dying.
And Friedrich said he adores me. He might as well have said I love you for all the emotional turbulence it stirred up.
We laid in his bed together longer than normal today; I guess I’ve gotten used to being naked with him and grown to crave the feel of skin against skin when we’re spent and just holding each other while our hearts return to normal rhythm. It’s so comfortable. Secure.
Too secure.
When Walter drops me at the curb outside Granbury House, I dash up the stairs to my room and hastily change into a pair of fleece-lined leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.
I throw my hair in a messy bun and wrap a thick headband around my ears.
My running shoes are in a cubby by the back door, and I slip them on without even taking the time to untie them.
The January air bites at my lungs as I hit the pavement without even a warm-up.
Running has always been my safe space. The even beat of my shoes on the ground somehow shakes my thoughts into an orderly pattern.
I can only focus on a few issues at a time because the rest of my brain is keeping me breathing and moving.
And the faster I go, the harder I push myself, the less I can focus on whatever problem is eating at me.
Running is how I dealt with Dad leaving.
I ran when mom worked late, so I didn’t have to feel alone at home.
I ran when my church and my family betrayed me.
Even now, I run when the deeply embedded religious teachings start getting too loud in my head all these years later.
When I first started feeling things for Friedrich, and especially when I realized he felt something too, I laced up my tennies and punished my body to control my mind.
And now, when Beatrix’s cryptic observations before the ball have finally clicked into place, now that I have a name for the emotions Friedrich has stirred up in me, and he has voiced the same, the only solution is to exhaust my body.
To run until my legs are screaming, and my lungs are about to collapse.
I discipline my body and bring it into subjection.
I don’t realize I’ve been crying, but a cold wind blows through, and the wet tracks on my face sting with the chill.
I hate crying. I haven’t cried in years, besides that mess at Whitewood.
It doesn’t do any good anyway. Crying didn’t bring Dad back to us.
Crying didn’t satisfy the guilt and shame when my staunchly religious upbringing convinced me I was a wretched sinner.
Crying didn’t make the pastor or my mother believe me when I told them what Jaston did to me.
And crying is definitely not going to change the fact that I’m falling for Friedrich, and I’m pretty sure he’s falling for me too, even though this was only supposed to be fun, easy, no strings attached, non-sex, sex.
Crying won’t change the fact that we’re rapidly approaching the time when we’ll have to end this attachment so he can marry someone else.
I let my feet take me wherever they wish, not paying attention to anything around me, even as the sun starts to set.
This city is my home, and I trust my legs to take me on the route I need to go, even when I’ve driven those legs to the brink of collapse.
Which is how I find myself in Kipton Park without any recollection of how I got here.
Security didn’t even stop me. The ease and familiarity I have with the guards at KP and at Vertmure only serve to heighten the growing fear that I’ve stepped too far into this world I can never be a part of, that I never wanted to be a part of, despite my aunt’s best efforts.
As I continue pushing myself across the grounds, still not sure why I’m running through the property of the very man who is the source of all my inner turmoil, I come to a small chapel nestled amongst evergreen shrubbery and surrounded by a low stone wall that’s probably older than anything in America several times over.
The church is beautiful in its simplicity, and maybe that’s what draws me to it.
I used to find such comfort inside a church.
It was a sanctuary from all the pain going on outside the walls.
I could be broken in there because I used to believe God loved my broken pieces.
To my surprise, the weathered wooden door is unlocked, and I push it open just enough to slip through. The hinges give a great squeak as I push it closed again. Instant regret floods me as a head of ruffled brown hair pops up from the floor in front of the altar.
“What are you doing down there?” I ask before I think better of it. I should have just turned right back around. I don’t know if I have the emotional strength to face him right now.
“Aurelia,” Friedrich’s voice is gruff and gravelly, barely a whisper, and I can’t tell if the way he says my name sounds like relief or disappointment.
He’s lying flat on the floor right in line with the crucifix on the wall, arms outstretched in a V toward his savior, head bowed once again to the stone beneath him, long legs straight behind him, taking up most of the center aisle. I should go; he’s obviously having a very personal moment.
Instead, I step quietly along the side of the church, the stained-glass windows casting a kaleidoscope of color in the setting sun.
The pew creaks as I settle into the first row, so close to Friedrich I can smell his cologne trying to break through the sweat soaking his clothes. He’s been running too.
“This is Father’s favorite church,” Friedrich says, face still pressed to the floor.
“It’s lovely,” I agree.
The wooden beams above our heads look like the inside of an old fishing boat.
The detailing on the stone arches rising to meet them is so ornate, and I marvel at the craftsmanship of artisans from centuries past. I realize the stained-glass windows are depictions of the stations of the cross, each window showing Jesus’s journey from conviction to crucifixion. A bit macabre, but beautiful.
The church is silent except for the sound of our breathing, his slow and deep and rhythmic, mine still short and erratic as my body recovers. The air feels thick and heavy; warmer than it should be given the chill outside.
“Come lay by me,” Friedrich mumbles from the floor. “It’s oddly liberating.”
“Friedrich, I—”
“Aurelia, please.”
He turns his head to me, and I can see confusion and pain in his fathomless blue eyes.
I shouldn’t. My brain is screaming to stay put, or better yet, leave.
But everything else inside me is drawn to the heir to the throne, prostrate on the stone floor, waves of emotion wafting off of his prone body.
I lower myself next to him, squeezing my body between his and the row of pews to my right. I stretch out my arms just like his, and he takes my left hand. He grips me like a man lost at sea, clinging to me so we don’t float apart in the currents battering us.
My chest aches.
“Friedrich,” I say again, doing a terrible job at keeping the trembling from my voice.
His response is a muffled mphf against the cold stones.
“I don’t… I think…” I heave a sigh, my words getting lost in the mess that is my brain. “Friedrich, I can’t,” I finally manage.
He goes stiff next to me. His breathing is so shallow I can barely feel the rise and fall.
“It’s too much,” I breathe.
“Don’t.” He pushes himself up to sit, swinging his legs around to face the front of the church and catching my eyes as I remain on the floor. “Don’t pull away from me, Aurelia.”
I want to kiss away all the hurt lining his face, but that won’t help either of us. His jaw ticks, and for once, he drops his gaze first.
“I have to, Friedrich. We can’t keep up like this.”
“Like what?” His voice is getting louder.
I sit up, too. I have to be on even ground with him if I’m going to have the courage to say what has to be said. “Like there’s a chance that this could be more than just a fling.”
“Don’t you want that chance?”
I throw my hands up. How can he be so obtuse? “Of course, I want that to be possible, but we both know it never will be. You have to get married, soon, and to someone within your precious nobility.”
“Do you think I’m happy about that? Do you think I want to marry one of those vipers who only cares about the elevation in her status?” He’s shouting now. Really shouting. Not the fun kind when his team makes a great play or he’s razzing his friends at the bar.
“No,” I croak. I slide over to him, hip to hip, and place a hand on his cheek, turning him to face me again. His blue eyes are rimmed with red as I stroke his beard with my thumb. “And, god, I don’t want that for you either.”
“Please, don’t do this, Aurelia.” A single tear slips down his cheek, and my soul shatters on the rocky floor.
“You’ve already let your heart lead you too far down this path that you know we can’t follow.”
He’s silent for a moment, his breathing coming hard, eyes searching mine. Finally, he whispers, “I could abdicate.”
I jump back, dropping my hand from his face and pushing away from him.
“Friedrich, no! You can’t. I won’t let you.
” I stand and start to pace in front of the altar, dragging my hands through my hair, messing up the bun that’s already about to fall out.
“See, this is why we have to stop. You’re talking nonsense now. ”