Chapter 16- What Tomorrow Carries
For a long moment after she says it, I cannot breathe properly.
The carriage continues moving as though nothing has changed, the wheels turning steadily beneath us, the horses pulling us farther down the road while the world outside passes in pale streaks of winter light and muted color.
But inside, everything feels still. Too still.
The air between us is full of something I do not know how to touch without hurting myself on it.
I keep staring at Veronica.
At the woman sitting across from me with her back straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though she has not just spoken of putting a blade to her own throat with the same calm that other people use to discuss weather or supper.
The worst part is not the cruelty of the thought.
It is how easily I believe she would do it.
Not because she wants to die.
Not because she is reckless.
Because she has already made peace with sacrifice in ways I do not think I ever truly will.
I swallow hard, forcing air back into my lungs, and look down at my hands because I do not know what else to do with the weight of what she has given me.
The carriage rocks gently. The fabric of my dress shifts against my knees. Somewhere outside, a rider calls something low and brief, and the sound disappears almost as soon as it appears.
I let out a slow breath.
"That's a terrible thing to say so calmly."
Veronica's mouth curves faintly, but there is no humor in it at first.
"It's easier that way."
"That doesn't make it less terrible."
"No," she agrees.
I lift my head again and study her face.
There is no tremor in her expression, no sign that she regrets having said any of it aloud.
I can see the shape of her love more clearly than I did before, and it frightens me a little how sharp it is, how willing it is to bleed quietly in the dark if it means the man she loves gets to stand in the light.
I think of Elias laughing, smiling, irritating every room he walks into simply because he can. I think of the ease between them, the way she seems less deadly around him without ever becoming less dangerous. I try to imagine him without her.
I can't.
Maybe she sees that on my face, because her expression softens not enough to be called gentle, but enough to matter.
"But," she says after a beat, as if deciding she has allowed enough tragedy into the space already, "that problem is considerably less likely now."
I blink. "Because I'm pregnant?"
"Yes."
She leans back slightly, one shoulder settling against the carriage wall. "In a few months, once it becomes clear you are carrying properly and there is no question of succession, Elias will be removed from his duties."
I stare at her. "Removed?"
"Relieved," she corrects dryly. "Temporarily. Formally. Unceremoniously. Whichever version makes you feel better. The point is, he will no longer be required to hover over crowns and councils like an irritated ghost, hoping the king doesn't die."
Despite everything, a laugh slips out of me.
The sound surprises us both.
"That," she says, pointing lazily at me, "is better. Keep doing that. The dramatic silence was becoming tedious."
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "You're impossible."
"Yes," she says. "But I'm also right."
I look out the window for a moment, watching the blurred line of trees pass by, then back at her. "So he'll be free?"
Her expression shifts again. Not into softness, exactly. But something close to satisfaction touches it. "Yes," she says. "Free to live however he wants. Which is unfortunate for me, for the man intends to become unbearable."
I laugh quietly again.
"unberable?" I ask.
Her eyes narrow with deep, personal offense. "hes Planning the wedding even though I've begged him to stop."
That startles a real laugh from me this time, full and bright enough that it pulls her mouth into a reluctant smile.
"But that's supposed to be your job," I say.
"I know," Veronica replies. "But try telling him that, according to him, he's tired of me avoiding marrying him because of his position."
I can picture it instantly, Elias somewhere in the middle of the palace, the manor, or the city, deeply involved in things he has absolutely no business being involved in, charming florists, alarming priests, bullying seamstresses, and calling it helpful.
"He's decided it should be large," Veronica continues with the grim tone of a woman describing a military disaster. "Obnoxiously large. Unnecessarily sentimental. Full of flowers. Music. More flowers. An amount of guests that suggests he has mistaken a wedding for a royal coronation."
I press a hand to my mouth to hold back another laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."
"It sounds like a man who has been waiting years for something and has no idea how to behave now that it's close enough to touch."
"He's already choosing fabrics," she mutters. "And musicians. He asked me if I preferred white roses or ivory."
I stare at her. "What did you say?"
"That I prefer to be left alone."
"And that," Veronica adds after a moment, her tone sharpening with wicked amusement, "is not even the worst part."
I blink. "There's worse?"
"Oh, much worse for you, not me ." She folds her arms. "That deal he made with Achilles?" I groan immediately, before she even finishes.
She looks pleased. "Yes. Exactly that one."
"What is he going to ask for?"
"He wants to name the child after himself."
The groan I let out this time is louder, longer, and more irritated.
"Of course he does."
"He says it's only fair."
"Fair to who?"
"Him."
I drop my head back against the cushioned seat and close my eyes briefly. "That man hears the word favor and immediately turns into a menace."
"He was already a menace," Veronica says. "This simply gave him paperwork."
Outside, the road bends. The carriage shifts with it, and a wash of sunlight briefly spills through the window, warming Veronica's face before fading again.
"Speaking of disasters," she says, "your husband's birthday is tomorrow."
My smile falters.
Then disappears entirely.
The shift is so immediate that she notices and lifts one brow.
"What is that face?"
I stare at her.
"My face?"
"Yes. That one. The one that suggests you've either remembered a murder or committed one."
"I..." I hesitate. "I'm a little afraid to give him his gift."
That startles a laugh out of her. "Afraid?"
"It's not funny."
"It is a little funny."
Because the problem isn't the gift itself.
It's him.
Veronica studies me for half a second, then says, with complete confidence, "You could give that man a pet rock and he would cherish it if it came from you."
I snort despite myself.
"I'm serious," she says. "He would probably have it polished, mounted, and guarded."
That image is ridiculous enough to break the last of my nerves, and I laugh, shaking my head.
"For what it's worth, I am less surprised by the sword than by the fact that you plan to give him anything at all."
That makes me blink. "Why?"
Her expression turns openly amused now. "Because Achilles has spent years practically forbidding anyone from mentioning his birthday."
I stare at her.
"He what?"
"Yes."
"That makes no sense."
"Why not?" she says.
My brow furrows. "Elias told me..."
Veronica laughs, stopping me mid-sentence.
"Oh, you fell for his trick," she says, wiping at the corner of one eye as though the thought gives her genuine joy. "My dear, you just got played like a fiddle."
I feel my mouth fall open. "What?"
"His birthday is..." She searches for the word, then shrugs. "A sore spot."
The amusement softens, not disappearing entirely, but thinning around the edges.
"He usually avoids people all day," she says. "It's more or less understood as an off day for the court. No one bothers him unless they enjoy being verbally eviscerated."
I sit very still with that.
Because suddenly everything feels more complicated.
The gift.
The sword.
Tomorrow.
"...why?" I ask at last.
Veronica looks out the window for a moment before answering.
"Birthdays are less about being born and more about counting what's missing."