Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“I will find the seams and leak—or lash”—he slashed at the air, playacting with an invisible sword—“my way out.”
Otto cleared his throat. Glancing at him, his seriousness struck me as an effort to counterbalance Simeon, as if by holding words back, he’d make up for some instability in the room. By comparison, Simeon’s talking felt, suddenly, childish.
I changed the subject. “Bread or swans, we all look forward to the wedding. And to meeting the king. I am sure you are eager to introduce him to his future daughter-in-law.”
Simeon stifled a yawn. “My father is touring the kingdom. He won’t be back until the wedding itself.”
“Oh.” I sat back, in surprise. “I hope there will be no ill will for having the ceremony so soon.” It was odd—very odd—that the king would not meet his son’s bride until the matrimonial feast. That there wouldn’t be a series of royal banquets and festivities leading up to the grand ceremony.
Each an opportunity for our ruler to bestow his blessing.
Simeon did not share my concerns. “You have to have will to have ill will.” He chuckled.
Otto, more forcefully, cleared his throat, but Simeon continued: “It’s my mother who oversees it all.
Iron fist, soft glove, that kind of thing.
” He held up a tight hand and then rapped it on the table, loudly, to make his point.
Some white dust sifted and fell from the beams above us onto the platters of bread.
“He has no stomach, and she has only appetite.”
Otto glanced up, eyes following the path of the falling dust, then tracing vines and apples on the ceiling.
If you looked closely enough, the edges of the stain were obvious.
Not just marked, but wet, dark. Something in Otto’s prowling eyes and Simeon’s insouciant dismissal of his father was not sitting well.
It was more than my own deception—what that stain belied—that made the room go off-kilter.
“You are the heir,” I said to Simeon, “and Elin will mother the future heirs. Surely, the king would want to see her … before … to show the kingdom the union has his benison…” I ended up losing courage.
But the conclusion of my thoughts wasn’t necessary to voice.
Otto had lowered his eyes and was watching Simeon with focused attention.
The prince took a measured breath, making a visible show of his patience.
I thought of the stiffness I had seen in Morwen’s shoulders.
I felt, inexplicably, fear. But Simeon soon smiled, a generous smile, all traces of his forbearance gone.
He turned to Elin. “Your stepmother is sweet. She wants to see you get the honors, the fanfare, you deserve.” He reached out and placed his hand over hers on the tablecloth, his long fingers arched, his hand calling to mind an oversized spider.
He directed his gaze back to me. “The king is making his way back. It is only that Elin and I cannot stand to wait. We are ever so impatient. Young love. You must have known it. I think, in fact, I recall my mother knows a bit about both of your long-ago, ill-fated engagements. Each were only a few weeks, were they not? My condolences, by the way. Twice over. But you understand the heart has a sense of urgency. Even just yesterday, I was itching to ride out here, to set eyes on my pretty flower.” His hand flattened on Elin’s. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Yes,” she assured. Yes—the conditioning of her book. Yes—the dreams of a girl. What else but yes?
Simeon’s smile, which had remained in place, relaxed.
He stretched his neck, chin extended toward the sky, revealing its whiter underparts, skin untouched by sun, the cords around his throat taut.
His head snapped forward once more. “And rest assured, Elin will get all the fanfare she wants. A lifetime of it.”
“Indeed,” I said. My own version of yes.
Decades of being habituated to accord. For I had said the word, smoothed all things forward in our perpetual march, despite having realized what was bothering me.
Since he had first mentioned it, I had been turning over Simeon’s elaborate metaphor of a cage.
Walls were designed to keep danger out. A cage was built to keep a threat contained.
I felt a prickle of concern—a sense of something going off course. I stood, needing, suddenly, to leave the room. To breathe air that wasn’t shared. “I will go see about something sweet.” I looked at Elin, her pink cheeks. “To eat,” I added. “Something sweet to eat.”
Sucket was most often consumed with a double-ended utensil.
On one side, there was a two-pronged fork, a devil’s spear, which was used to stab and ferry candied fruits to waiting mouths.
On the other, there was a flat spoon, used for scooping and slurping the leftover syrup.
The liquid was all sugar. Boiled and reduced and boiled once more.
More sugar added. More reduction. It was decadence—a concentration of the most expensive ingredient.
And Simeon had said he didn’t care for sweets.
Balancing a tray of forks and the sucket, the fruits bobbing in their cloying syrup, I pushed back into the hall. The prince was alone with the girls. All my daughters were turned toward him, like flowers to the sun. He was still eating.
“Put it just there.” He nodded to the space in front of him.
Looking down at the candied fruit—citrus rinds in curls and spirals—I wondered if Simeon himself was a sucket. Flesh and skin boiled in its own syrup.
“Your Highness.” I placed the tray where he had directed and began to pass out the forks around the table. Otto’s seat sat empty. “Will the counselor not be joining?”
Simeon picked up a sucket fork and held its prongs to the light. “Probably seeing to the horses.”
But, above us, the ceiling creaked, and some more dust sifted. Mathilde’s gaze lurched skyward at the sound of footsteps from above. Rosie, who had been twirling a lock of her hair, went dead still. Elin, not realizing, reached for her own fork.
I had seen Otto glance upward. Had seen him watch the dust filter through the cracks. I looked up now at the mural. The many apples. The faded red. I felt a little nauseous.
“I forgot…” I didn’t finish the sentence. I made for the door.
I couldn’t bring myself to hurry. The act would confirm my fears were valid.
And so I went to the entry hall and up our grand staircase slowly.
The steps creaked and moaned under my feet.
And, when I turned at the top of the stairs to go to the west-facing wing, my legs moved as if weighted by lead.
Dread had personified into slow motion. But all my delaying had little power to stave off the inevitable: When I got to the double doors that concealed our rubble, they lay open.
Like a long-boiled sucket, disappointment, reduced down into one puckered image: Otto, posture stiff, hands behind his back, in front of the pile of rubble. He turned to me, frowning. “Were you trying to keep this concealed?”
I was indignant. “You cannot just go prowling—”
“It is dangerous.”
“This is my home, and you’ve not been invited—”
He ignored me and stared into the rubble pensively. “The debris is heavy and could fall through on the heads of everyone who sits downstairs.”
I gathered myself. “I assure you, the matter is well in hand.”
He turned back to look at me. “Your roof has fallen in.”
“And will be repaired.”
“I am going to tell the prince to leave. You should advise your family to do the same.”
He turned and made for the double doors, and with him, I worried he was taking our entire future.
“They are to be married in a matter of days,” I called, and he slowed. “They barely know one another. Would you truly deny them a chance to spend a little time together?”
Otto’s jaw ticked. He didn’t respond and continued toward the doors.
“Stop!” I called, and he did.
He turned back to me. “This is grossly irresponsible.”
His words burned and then my own tumbled forth: “You have done everything in your power to prevent my happiness. To prevent a union between one of my daughters and Prince Simeon. At every turn, you have been a blockade.”
“My lady,” he said, grimly.
“Do you deny it?” I cried.
“I do not deny it.”
Not suitable. I was unable to speak for a moment.
“You are right that I did not want your daughters to match with the prince. And you are right that I did what I could to prevent it.”
To hear it stated, to see him tell me with such little emotion, forced the air from my chest. “What right have you to interfere?”
“It’s not a matter of right. It’s a matter of duty.”
Insulted, aggravated, I had to ask: “And what in your duty insists my daughters are not a suitable match?”
“Etheldreda.” He looked me over. “You mistake me. It was not the prince I was trying to protect. It was your daughters. And in that I have failed. You have my apologies.” He bowed, stiffly.
“I always seem to have your apologies yet I am left the one insulted.”
He looked pained. “I must remove everyone from the dining hall.” He half turned again, then stopped, and pulled from his pocket something so familiar I thought my heart might stop. There, in his gloved hand, was my mother’s cameo. “I knew you would want it back.”
I could hardly move. “I don’t understand.”
He thrust it forward, so I would take it.
“How did you know it was there?”
“It is my job.”
“Were you following me?”
“It is my job,” he said, again.
“To have me followed?” I could not make heads or tails of our conversation.
“To ensure the well-being of the kingdom. And its constituents.” He still held out the cameo.
The carving was undamaged, but my mother’s profile appeared emptier to me.
Unchanged, yet somehow, a bit hollow. For what silhouette could contain a woman’s multitudes?
I snatched the necklace from Otto’s hands.
“Will you tell?” I whispered.
He shook his head, disappointed with me. “You ask the wrong questions.”
I knew, deep down, that he was trying to tell me something. But I was distracted—by the rubble, by the departing prince, and by the surprising weight of a new fact: Otto’s dissatisfaction with me weighed as heavily as any message he could have imparted.