Chapter Sixteen #3
I was on my side again, I hadn’t noticed he already was too. He had a lock of my hair and was twirling it between his fingers. And he felt, he felt—
If I had been standing, I would have staggered back.
“Do you truly wish to fight?” I asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no hatred in you, Hal. No anger like I’ve sensed in other men. This is about your father and his grip on you. It’s about defiance.”
“Yes, and I’ll keep defying him because someone must. Because no one else ever dares to. Mother just watches him with Alice.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Like this. Vacant. I can only guess at what she’s truly feeling.”
“She’s exhausted. Resentful, yes, but I think she’s grown tired of waiting for him to lose interest in Alice. Her hope used to rise and fall in her. It doesn’t anymore.”
His expression turned thoughtful. “Can you sense emotions from a great distance?”
“Not that far.”
“I’d wondered if I could…” He smiled to himself. “Send you things I remembered, or things I felt, all the way from Lionesse.”
“We’d have to be much closer for that.”
“This close? Or closer?”
Emotion—fear, affection, confusion—bled into my face. My cheeks were hot with it. “This is close enough.”
His mind opened for me, inviting me in. But I was too afraid to see what he longed to show me. I knew it would surprise me, like turning a corner and finding someone, suddenly, there.
We lay there for hours in the sun, and he weaved grass and wildflowers through my hair, and he laughed deeply with his whole chest. He’d been born under a sky of promise, and I knew he would not die in this war, because one day, he would be king.
The first letter arrived in late spring. I snapped the wax seal and raced down to the kitchens to read it, ducking beneath the table.
I marveled that he had carved out space in his day to think of me. To write to me. The men here are already soaked and weary, he began.
I imagine Prospero sending his heaps of gold from all the way where you are, and between us somewhere they are scattered, a mere handful by the time they reach the men.
Where does it all go? My father has named Prospero regent to rule in his stead, and now that he is here, he travels up and down the field of tents to inspire the men.
Then he removes his spotless armor, has it polished, and spends his nights moaning and writing letters to Alice.
He says she refuses to speak to him and has left court in light of my mother’s happy news. I hear she is showing now.
If it is a boy, everything will change for me.
Can you see what it is? Prospero says it is a boy but predicts he will be born far too early, under Leo. My father raged against him.
If I had to describe my mood for you, I’d say I am lonely and restless. Eager for a fight. What are you?
Your friend,
Hal
I ran my finger along that last bit. There was a blot of ink beside it, as if he’d hesitated. I stole into Prospero’s desk for paper and wrote my reply.
I help translate Prospero’s work on most days, and on others I ride out on my own or fly.
I’ve shown Prospero some of my own writings, such as a treatise on the limitations of transformation magic (my voice does not shift along with my body, for example).
He said I cannot publish under my own name, for no woman has before, and when I cried he held me for hours even though he had stacks and stacks of petitions to sign in the king’s stead.
I felt foolish to have even thought it possible.
I have added some of my findings to the manuscript of The Celestial Bodies instead—Prospero has so little understanding of the Moon.
I am determined to think of a good name in the meantime. Oswyn?
Always your loyal servant,
Bianca
I do not care for loyal servant, he replied.
As for your name—when I am king, Bianca will suffice.
I will write again when there is more time.
For now, I only wanted to assure you I would like to read your manuscript.
Otherwise, I am tired and ravenous and frustrated with Roland, who sent me an insufferable note.
It seems he is safe—he travels with the king’s mistress Marguerite’s household but says he cannot write again now that we are at war.
The span between his letters was already growing longer, so this is no surprise.
Yours,
Hal
Back and forth we traded letters as the sky spun into Leo, until I dipped my quill into ink and wrote, Most at court say there is no longer a baby. I used to sense his mind inside your mother. Now there is nothing. Does your father know?
I am sorry for you and the queen, and anxious to know how you are. Tell me as soon as you are able.
Another broken Roet seal. Prospero caught me sliding the letter between the pages of a book, his blue eyebrows knitting.
Father knows, Hal replied. He punched the man shaving him after Prospero’s note was read aloud to him.
I was to see a physician though I had no ailments, and he kissed me on both cheeks while he cried.
There are men pushing forward toward Lusincourt, but I am ordered to return to Redhall.
Father says he cannot bear the thought of my injury now.
As for me, I am longing to see you fly far overhead so I can wonder at what you see.
Yours, always,
Hal
The past spun away from me. I lay curled inside the wardrobe, but I knew day was breaking because of the softness of the light. I wanted to remain in my memories a moment longer. In the dark, I could still be there, my hand hovering over parchment, about to write him again.
What would he think, if he knew I was nestled in Roland’s coat? What would I tell him now?
Hal, I am grieving, and it will never end, and I despise myself, and I thought I would rather live in the past with you than create any kind of future. Now I do not know what I want. I am afraid of my own desires. I am so lonely in my vengeance. What are you?
But he would never reply. He was dead.
I hit my head again and again against the wood. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead.
Now someone had heard me and was knocking on the door. And with every passing moment, time left us behind.