Chapter Twenty-Eight Blodwyn #2
“You want to speak to me of treason?” I throw back. “You’re wearing Papa’s crown!”
“Out of respect,” Aunt Margaret replies carefully. “No more than that. I am of royal blood, after all. Surely you aren’t suggesting that I’m capable of anything more treacherous?”
Quiet hums. I can tell from the hushed conversations, and the expression on Aunt Margaret’s face, that I should take it all back. Smooth this over. But I just stand there, seething.
“The duchess is no traitor.” Sir Weston finally breaks the thick silence. He raises his glass in Aunt Margaret’s direction. “Not unless beauty is a crime against the crown.”
Several around him laugh, instantly deflating the anxiety in the chamber.
“Weston, you silly thing.” Aunt Margaret swats playfully at him. “You see, Blodwyn? It’s just a bit of fun. No need to overreact.”
Overreact? The others aren’t reacting enough.
But Aunt Margaret pins me with her gaze and I recall what she said at my dress fitting—that some people need to be reminded of their place.
That’s what she’s doing with me now. With everyone else.
She’s drawing a line between us. And the court, judging from their applause, is on her side of it. Never mine.
Because they do not want you, that voice goads me. You don’t belong.
I cannot bear another second among these horrible people. I turn on my heel and march away, leaving this wretched court behind.
—
The palace gardens blur with my own tears as I stalk down the gravel paths, fighting my heavy skirts.
I hate this dress. I never even wanted to wear it.
Never wanted half the things Aunt Margaret pushed upon me: Returning to the palace.
Rejecting Verity’s friendship. Even calling these horrible trials in the first place.
Does Aunt Margaret actually care about me?
Or does she, like so many other people in my life, only tolerate me because of my position?
I reach the end of a path and pull up short, my breaths steaming in the cold night air. A rusted iron gate waits in front of me. I instantly recognize the pomegranate design in its center: Mother’s garden.
A dull ache throbs in my chest. When was the last time I visited the place?
Hinges squeal as I push the gate open. Mother and I spent as much time as we could here.
Especially in the summer, when the air was heady with the scent of a hundred varied blooms. Now, though, there’s nothing left of the garden but bare branches knotted together, all the flowers withered away from neglect.
The clouds part and moonlight shines on one of the bushes in the back, illuminating a single rose. It’s one of the winter-blooming varieties that Mother adored, petals a deep crimson against the grayed plants.
They bloom in the snow, Mother had said. Just like you.
I reach for the rose, desperate for even this small piece of her. But my fingertip grazes a thorn. I hiss, pulling away. A drop of blood beads on my finger. The wind picks up, rattling the branches.
Blodwyn. Pay the price.
I whirl around, just able to spot a shape in the distance. I breathe in and catch the scent of peony, like the oils Mother used to wear.
“Mother,” I whisper. “Mother, is that…”
“Blodwyn?”
I nearly leap out of my skin. Ayleth is standing at the gate, moonlight sparkling on the embellishments of her gown. I glance back in the direction I thought I saw Mother, but the garden is empty. Of course it is. Maybe everyone is right and I’m losing my mind.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Ayleth.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she says. “But I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
Part of me wants to order her to leave. But exhaustion outweighs my anger. I sink down onto a stone bench, all the fight draining out of me at once.
“Why would she do that?” I blurt out.
Ayleth doesn’t need to ask who I mean.
“It was”—she pauses, considering her words—“an interesting choice of costume.”
That’s putting it mildly.
“I don’t understand. At her estate, Aunt Margaret was kind and gracious, not obsessed with power and position. Now she’s as bad as—” I stop short, but Ayleth guesses what I was about to say.
“As I am?” she asks. Embarrassment warms my face, but I don’t take it back. “I know you believe the worst of me.”
Just a week ago, I wholeheartedly agreed. Now…
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I mutter.
Quiet settles between us. An owl hoots in the distance.
“For what it’s worth,” Ayleth begins carefully, “I don’t think your aunt intended to hurt you with her actions.”
I snort a laugh. “Are you defending her?”
“Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are,” she says wryly. “And I wouldn’t say defending. But…you’re right. Court can bring out the worst in people.”
I slide her a sideways glance. “Are you speaking about yourself?”
“Perhaps,” she admits stiffly. “At times.”
“Like when?” I ask.
She hesitates. Wind stirs the dry leaves on the ground.
“I certainly haven’t made the best decisions where you’re concerned,” she says at last. “I assumed that you preferred your life with your aunt. But you were right. I should have invited you home. Or at least have given you the opportunity to tell me what you wanted.”
I blink, surprised by her honesty. Maybe Verity wasn’t entirely wrong about Ayleth. Perhaps she does regret the past. And I’m not sure if it’s due to Ayleth’s openness or simply the weight of this awful night, but a confession of my own bubbles up from the pit of my stomach.
“You were right, as well,” I say. “At the pall-mall game. What you said about me visiting Papa. Or me not visiting him.”
Her lips slacken. “Oh, Blodwyn. I—”
I hold up my hand. “It was true. I haven’t returned to his chambers at all. I told myself it was because it was too difficult to see him that way. Or that I didn’t have time with the trials.”
“That’s understandable,” Ayleth says, not unkindly.
I shake my head. “It’s not. That’s why I was so angry with Aunt Margaret. Not just because of her costume, but because it reminded me of how much I’ve ignored Papa. On purpose.”
“Blodwyn, I’m sure—”
“You’re not listening,” I interrupt. “When I thought it was Papa who stepped into the hall tonight, I didn’t feel love or relief. I was afraid. I didn’t want him to be there. It makes me horrible, I know, but sometimes…sometimes I think I don’t want him to wake up at all. That I even hate him.”
The admission tastes bitter. But I feel lighter after it leaves my lips. I don’t think I realized how heavy it was to carry around.
“Why?” Ayleth asks gently.
“For the way he treated Mother.” But that isn’t as true as what comes next. “For having me at all.”
Cursed, that voice whispers.
A crow calls overhead and Ayleth glances in that direction.
“I don’t think you’re horrible,” she says. “In fact, I know how you feel.”
“How could you?”
Ayleth hesitates before answering. “My own mother was…demanding, to say the least. Especially when it came to me.”
“Your mother?” I ask. “I thought you lived at a Sanctum.”
“I still had a mother,” she says with a small laugh.
“One who was…Well, our relationship was strained. She wanted me to become someone I wasn’t.
Punished me when I couldn’t live up to her expectations.
There were many times when I wished she’d never had me.
Or when I thought there was something wrong with me.
Something that kept her from loving me the way that I was. ”
Ayleth presses her thumb into a place on her left hand, staring out into the distance as if gazing back through time. In this moment, she reminds me more than ever of the young woman I befriended in my menagerie.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, surprised at how much I mean it.
She swallows. “I appreciate that. But as difficult as things were for me, I learned a valuable lesson: that I needed to stop seeking my mother’s approval. Be the person I wanted to be. Chase my own dreams. You must do the same.”
I’m not sure anyone has mentioned my own dreams—ever. I’m ashamed to realize that I have no idea what they are.
“I just want to go back,” I say at last. “Before any of this started.”
Ayleth places her hand over mine and I don’t pull away.
“Back isn’t always better,” she says. “In fact, sometimes it’s far worse.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Only you can answer that,” she replies. “But whatever you choose, it must be for yourself. Not for anyone else.”
I consider that. A large part of me wants to run as far from this place, and the trials, as possible, damn what Aunt Margaret thinks.
But my attention lands on the single red rose in the bushes.
The wind picks up and I swear that I can smell Mother’s perfume again.
Hear her laughter beneath the brittle clacking of the branches.
I’m not sure if she’s really here tonight, but I know what she would have me do.
And I cannot have come this far just to disappoint her.
“I have to go back,” I say. “Have to try.”
Ayleth squeezes my hand and smiles. “I was hoping you would say that.”
And for the first time, I think she means it.