Chapter 62- Garden
I woke because the movement felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Not sudden.
Only different.
For most of the journey, the carriage had rocked beneath me with an uneven rhythm that eventually became familiar enough to sleep through.
Wheels struck shallow holes in the road.
Leather straps creaked. Hooves beat against damp earth with patient repetition.
Even in sleep, some part of me had continued adjusting to each turn, each rise, each small jolt that traveled through the cushions and settled unpleasantly into my back.
Now the ground beneath me no longer moved.
Something else did.
The sensation came slowly, reaching me through the thick fog of sleep before I understood what it meant.
My body shifted upward. One arm supported my back while another rested beneath my legs, lifting me with enough care that the movement barely disturbed the blanket wrapped around me.
The warmth surrounding me changed. It became firmer. Closer. Alive.
I did not open my eyes.
Not immediately.
Perhaps I was still dreaming.
The thought made sense because I had dreamed of this too many times while away.
I had dreamed of reaching the palace and finding Achille waiting beyond the doors.
I had dreamed of his arms around me, of his voice near my ear, of his hand resting against my stomach as though touch alone could reassure him that both of us remained alive.
Sometimes the dreams were gentle. Sometimes I woke crying because, within them, he never arrived before I disappeared.
So when I felt myself lifted from the carriage, I did not trust it.
Then the scent reached me.
Leather first.
Smoke.
Steel.
The faint scent of parchment and candle wax that seemed to cling to him after long nights in his office.
Beneath it rested something bitter and herbal, the medicine he complained about every time he drank it, though apparently complaining did not prevent him from continuing to smell faintly of it.
There was also a trace of rain somewhere in his clothes, not fresh rain, but the clean cold scent stone carried after a storm.
Familiarity entered me so sharply that it hurt.
My body recognized him before my mind allowed hope.
Every muscle that had remained tense through the journey loosened at once.
My hand, which had been curled against the blanket near my chest, shifted until my fingers found the edge of his coat.
I held it without thinking. Not tightly.
Just enough to feel the fabric beneath my palm and prove that he did not belong to another dream.
His steps faltered.
Only slightly.
If I had been fully awake, I might not have noticed. Achille rarely stumbled beneath weight, not even when carrying wounded soldiers or dragging uncooperative men toward consequences. But I felt the brief hesitation through his chest, the quiet breath he took as my fingers closed around his coat.
He knew I was awake.
Still, I kept my eyes closed.
For one selfish moment, I wanted to remain there without language.
Words changed things. They required acknowledgment.
Explanation. Questions about pain, sleep, food, poison, fear, and everything that had happened while we were separated.
I knew those conversations would come. They had to.
Our marriage had already suffered enough beneath the things we were afraid to say.
But not yet.
For one moment, I wanted only warmth. I rested my cheek more fully against his chest. His heart beat beneath my ear.
Slow.
Heavy.
Familiar.
I had forgotten how deeply that sound settled me.
At night, before illness changed everything, I often slept with my head against him.
Achille complained that I made his arm numb.
I reminded him he was the one who pulled me there.
He denied it with the confidence of a man arguing against evidence while continuing to hold me closer.
His heartbeat had become one of those small, ordinary things I failed to understand the value of until it was gone.
At the manor, nights were quiet.
Too quiet.
There were children moving through hidden passages, guards on distant floors, and enough strange noises inside the walls to convince me the building occasionally rearranged itself out of boredom.
But there was no familiar breath beside me.
No arm tightening around my waist whenever I shifted. No heartbeat beneath my cheek.
I had missed his heartbeat.
The realization embarrassed me with its simplicity.
Not his crown.
Not his protection.
Not even his voice, though I had missed that too.
His heartbeat.
The proof that the person I loved remained close enough to touch.
His voice came quietly, softened even with the authority it held. "Are you awake?"
I opened my eyes.
Slowly.
Morning light reached us through tall palace windows, pale gold spilling across familiar stone. His face hovered above mine, half-shadowed by the angle of the corridor and softened by exhaustion he had not managed to hide quickly enough. For one heartbeat, he only looked at me.
Then he smiled.
Not the sharp smile that warned nobles they had made an error. Not the controlled curve he offered foreign rulers when diplomacy required him to appear almost human.
"Yes," I murmured.
My voice sounded rough from sleep. His smile deepened.
"Do you want me to put you down?" I considered pretending to think. Normally, I might have teased him. Asked if the emperor feared being seen carrying his wife. Reminded him I could walk. Complained that everyone already treated pregnancy as though my legs had become ceremonial.
Instead, I shook my head.
"No."
The word came more quietly than I intended. His expression changed again. Not surprise exactly. Something warmer. Something that made his arms tighten fractionally around me. "Very well, my love."
He continued walking.
I closed my eyes again.
Not because I intended to sleep. I simply wanted to feel the palace return around me without the distraction of sight.
Sound came first.
Boots against polished stone as Guards shifted as we passed, armor making soft metallic sounds as they stepped aside. Servants moved farther down the corridor. Someone dropped something small, then hurried to retrieve it. Fabric whispered. Doors opened. Voices lowered.
The palace had always spoken quietly around Achille.
Fear did that.
People became careful when he entered a room. Their posture straightened. Their breathing changed. Even objects seemed to make less noise when he looked displeased. Before I knew him, I believed the silence belonged entirely to terror.
Now I understood it contained something else.
Attention.
Everyone noticed when he moved.
Whispers followed us.
Soft enough that the speakers likely believed neither of us could hear.
"The queen.."
"She is back."
"Thank the gods."
"Do not stare."
"He is carrying her?"
"Of course, he is carrying her."
"I said do not stare."
The voices disappeared as we passed.
I ignored them.
Or tried to.
My hand remained curled against his coat while the palace slowly reintroduced itself through sound and scent.
Beeswax from the polished floors. Wood smoke from distant hearths.
Bread from the kitchens, warm and faintly sweet.
Lavender from freshly washed linens. Cold stone touched by morning air.
Somewhere nearby, someone had brewed tea.
Home smelled exactly as I remembered.
I pressed my face more firmly against Achille's chest, hoping that if I shifted my weight carefully enough, I might finally find a position that did not hurt.
I did not.
Even in Achille's arms, where I had always felt safest, my body refused to let me forget how little room remained inside it.
His pace slowed almost immediately.
It was remarkable how quickly he noticed the smallest changes in me.
Another person might have missed the slight adjustment of my shoulders or the careful breath I drew through my nose.
Achille never did. Somewhere over the past two years, he had learned my silences almost as well as my words.
Perhaps better. Words could be softened, rearranged, or used to hide.
My body was far less skilled at deception.
"Are you alright, love?" Achille asked.
Concern softened his voice in a way nothing else ever could.
The emperor disappeared whenever he spoke to me like that.
The ruler who made entire courts lower their eyes, the tyrant who could deliver a death sentence without changing expression, the man whose silence frightened trained soldiers all of him seemed to step aside.
There was only my husband holding me too carefully and trying not to let fear enter his voice before he understood what was wrong.
I shifted again in his arms, attempting to ease the pressure in my back.
The movement earned me another dull ache that stretched across my spine before settling somewhere deep in my hips. My stomach tightened beneath my dress, firm enough that I instinctively held my breath until the sensation began to pass. It was not sharp. Not unbearable. Only strange.
Achille stopped walking altogether.
His arms tightened around me before he adjusted his hold, lifting me slightly higher against his chest. The movement was immediate and instinctive, almost desperate, as though changing the angle might somehow steal the discomfort away before it settled too deeply.
"Ophelia?" he asked.
His voice had grown quieter.
"I am alright," I told him.
The answer slipped out before I had the chance to consider whether it was true.
It was habit more than honesty. The sort of answer women learned to give after spending enough years convincing everyone around them that they were stronger than they truly felt.
I had said it while bleeding. While frightened.
While exhausted. While standing in rooms where admitting pain felt more dangerous than enduring it.
The words came so naturally now that sometimes I did not realize I had spoken them until someone looked disappointed.
Achille's jaw tightened.
I lifted my head enough to meet his gaze.
He studied me with that familiar expression the one he wore whenever he knew someone was lying but had not yet decided whether confronting them would reveal the truth or only make them retreat farther into it.
There was no anger in his face. Not truly.
Only worry, restrained so tightly it looked severe.
Only the quiet frustration of a man who wanted so badly to believe the woman he loved that he nearly convinced himself to accept the answer.
Nearly.
His eye moved slowly over my face, searching for whatever I had refused to say.
He watched the tension near my mouth, the way my breathing had not fully returned to normal.
For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The palace continued around us, servants moving somewhere beyond the corridor and guards pretending not to listen, but Achille seemed to have forgotten all of them.
Then he changed direction entirely.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
The question surprised me enough that a tired sigh escaped before I could stop it.
"A little," I admitted.
My voice sounded softer than I intended. I smiled faintly because his concern felt too heavy to leave unanswered. "A lot actually."
Something inside his expression loosened.
The worry remained exactly where it had been, but affection moved through it, warming the severity of his face.
Food was something he understood. Rest, medicine, blankets, locked doors, carefully measured meals these were problems with actions attached to them.
My pain might be difficult to control, but hunger could be answered.
"Good," Achille said. "I planned for us to eat in the garden."
For a heartbeat, I simply stared at him.
The ache in my back did not disappear, but it retreated beneath surprise.
"You planned something?" I asked.
He looked almost insulted.
"Obviously."
The confidence in his answer made my smile widen before I could stop it. "You planned dinner?"
"I am perfectly capable of planning dinner."
"You usually tell someone else to plan dinner."
"That still counts."
"It absolutely does not."
Achille's expression remained solemn, though the faint movement near his mouth betrayed him. "I determined the objective."
I raised one eyebrow. "And then?"
"I delegated the necessary responsibilities."
A laugh escaped me, quiet but genuine.
"Delegation," he says with complete confidence, "is intelligent planning performed by an emperor."
"You sound very proud of yourself."
"I am."
"I noticed."
"I should hope so."
For a little while, we simply continued like that, teasing one another over something wonderfully insignificant.
His footsteps resumed their steady rhythm through the corridor, and the conversation moved with them, easy and familiar.
I found myself relaxing despite the ache still lingering beneath my ribs and the pressure sitting low in my body.
There had been a time when I believed love announced itself through grand declarations. Promises made beneath storms. Sacrifices large enough to become legend. People crossing kingdoms, fighting wars, or standing before death for one another.
Now I knew better.
Sometimes love sounded like two people arguing over the definition of planning.
Sometimes it was laughter slipping through a quiet palace corridor while servants pretended not to hear.
Sometimes it was a man carrying his wife when she could still technically walk because he had missed the weight of her in his arms.
Sometimes it was forgetting your own discomfort for a few precious moments because someone else had made you smile. After another turn through the palace, Achille slowed before a familiar pair of doors.
He stopped with exaggerated solemnity, looking down at me as though preparing to announce a national tragedy.
"This," he said, "is the deeply unfortunate moment when I must put you down."
I frowned up at him. "Why?"
"I require both hands."
"For what?"
"The door."
I blinked.
"You are the emperor."
"I am."
"Surely emperors have people whose only responsibility is opening doors."
"They do."
"So why are you opening it yourself?"
"I dismissed them."
I stared at him. "Why?"
Achille looked at me as though I had asked why the sky existed.
"Because I wanted us alone."
The answer settled warmly inside my chest.
Of course he had.
He had spent days without me inside a palace that demanded pieces of him from every direction.
Ministers, servants, physicians, guards, investigations, nobles, rumors, and fear had surrounded him while the room where I was supposed to be remained empty.
Now that I had returned, he wanted a few moments that belonged to no one else.
I sighed with exaggerated disappointment.
"Well," I murmured, "that seems terribly inconvenient."
"It is."
"You should grow another pair of arms."
"If I could," Achille replied without missing a beat, "I would."
"Entirely for your benefit, I assume."
His eye softened. "Entirely for yours."
I smiled despite myself. "How considerate."
"I strive for excellence."
He lowered me slowly.
Far more slowly than necessary.
One arm remained around my back while the other supported my legs until my feet nearly touched the floor. Even then, he hesitated, as though gravity itself had become untrustworthy during my absence. When he finally allowed my weight to settle, the pressure traveled through my body all at once.
My hips ached.
My knees wavered.
A tightening gathered low beneath my stomach, deep enough that one hand reached instinctively for Achille's shoulder while the other slipped beneath the heavy curve of my abdomen.
Achille became perfectly still.
Not the stillness of patience.
The stillness of alarm.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"Nothing."
His eye narrowed immediately.
"Ophelia."
The way he said my name made it clear that nothing had already been rejected as an acceptable answer.
I drew a careful breath and waited for the pressure to loosen before attempting to straighten. "I am only finding my balance."
His gaze moved over me with open suspicion.
Slowly, the ache eased enough for me to stand more comfortably. It did not disappear. It merely retreated into the background where it had spent most of the last several days, waiting patiently for another chance to demand attention.
Achille never removed his hand from my waist.
His hold was not restrictive. It was not even particularly firm. His palm simply rested there, warm and steady against the fabric of my dress, while his thumb moved in slow, absent circles near my side.
With his free hand, he opened the doors.
Warm light spilled across us.
I stepped through.
Then stopped.
The sunroom had been transformed.
Not so completely that it felt unfamiliar.
Achille understood something most people never did: comfort was rarely found in new things.
It lived in the familiar, in places that remembered you, in routines that quietly whispered that you were safe enough to let your guard down.
He had not replaced the room I loved with something grander.
He had simply taken everything sharp about it and softened the edges.
The room remained exactly as I remembered it.
Morning sunlight poured through the tall windows wrapping around three sides, washing the pale stone floor in warm shades of gold.
Beyond the glass, the eastern gardens stretched quietly toward the river.
Fruit trees swayed beneath the gentle breeze, their leaves flashing silver-green whenever they turned toward the light, while climbing roses framed the windows in soft greenery and pale blossoms. The same narrow path wound through the garden as it always had, disappearing beneath flowering arches before reappearing near the orchard.
It still felt like the palace.
Only gentler.
Near the windows sat a round table positioned where the sunlight reached without becoming too warm.
Two chairs waited opposite one another. One looked perfectly ordinary.
The other had been padded so heavily that I knew immediately which belonged to me.
Cushions covered the seat and back, while a small footstool had been placed beneath it at exactly the height my aching legs would require.
Beside the table rested a small couch layered with folded blankets in varying weights, as though someone had anticipated that I might become uncomfortable halfway through a meal and need somewhere else to sit.
A basket overflowing with books rested beside one arm.
Several more cushions had been arranged beneath the windows overlooking the river, creating a quiet place where I could lie down and pretend I was reading while actually falling asleep in the sun.
Steam drifted lazily from my favorite tea.
The table itself had been covered with food, every dish selected with impossible care.
Nothing looked too rich or heavily seasoned.
Fresh fruit rested beside warm bread, soft cheeses, roasted vegetables, delicate pastries, and smaller portions arranged neatly enough that I doubted anyone but Achille had insisted upon them.
Nothing had been chosen because it looked impressive.
Everything had been selected because he believed I could eat it without discomfort.
Even the napkins had been folded into flowers.
Crooked flowers.
One leaned so dramatically to the side that it resembled a wilted cabbage more than a rose.
My gaze moved slowly from the unfortunate napkin to my husband.
He had already noticed.
A grin spread across his face before he cleared his throat with exaggerated dignity.
"Well," he said, gesturing toward the room as though he had personally built every chair, woven every blanket, and grown every piece of fruit, "I suppose I learned something from those absurd household books you keep abandoning in my office. "
"They were not absurd," I replied.
His expression turned grave. "They were deeply offensive."
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "You read them."
"I got curious while you were gone," he said with a shrug.
Before I could think of anything to say, he closed the distance between us.
His hand lifted slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face.
His knuckles grazed my cheek so gently that I nearly leaned into the touch before realizing I had moved.
His gaze traveled over my face, lingering over each detail as though the days apart had stolen pieces of me that he now needed to reclaim.
Only then did I notice the shadows beneath his eye.
They looked darker than I remembered. His face seemed thinner somehow, the angles sharper beneath his skin.
Exhaustion clung to him despite every attempt he had clearly made to hide it.
His shoulders remained straight, his clothing carefully arranged, his expression controlled, but none of it concealed what the sleepless nights had done.
Before I could ask, he kissed me.
The kiss was not gentle.
Not at first.
His hand settled carefully behind my neck while the other wrapped securely around my waist, avoiding adding to much pressure on stomach with practiced instinct.
His lips met mine with the quiet desperation of a man who had spent every hour apart imagining all the futures except the one where I returned to him.
I answered without hesitation.
My fingers curled into the front of his shirt, holding him close as the palace disappeared around us. There was no investigation. No poisoned flowers. No council waiting beyond the doors. No hidden manor. No imprisoned father. No empire pressing its weight against our shoulders.
There was only the warmth of his body. The familiar scent that had become inseparable from the idea of home. The roughness of the scar beneath my fingertips as my hand rose slowly to cradle the side of his face.
A quiet sound escaped him against my mouth.
Half relief.
Half heartbreak.
The kiss gradually slowed.
Not because either of us wanted it to end, but because he remembered. He always remembered. Even when fear made him desperate, some part of him remained aware of my breathing, my weakness, the child between us, and every place where holding me too tightly might hurt.
His lips softened against mine before resting there for one final moment.
When he pulled away, he did not move far.
Our foreheads remained together. His breath moved warmly across my face, uneven despite his attempt to control it. Mine was no steadier. Neither of us spoke because the silence felt fuller than anything words could have offered.
After a long moment, he opened his eye.
"You are beautiful," he said.
I stared at him.
Then sighed dramatically. "I look like a ball."
His mouth twitched. "No."
"I do."
"You look adorable."
"I resemble a pumpkin."
"A very beautiful pumpkin," he corrected.
"That is not helping."
His smile widened as his shoulders lifted in a poor imitation of innocence. "I happen to like pumpkins."
"Oh, please stop."
Heat rushed into my cheeks before I could prevent it. I turned away in surrender, though that only encouraged him.
He followed immediately.
His arms slipped carefully around my waist from behind, surrounding me without squeezing.
One hand rested lightly above my stomach while the other settled beneath it, supporting the weight I had been carrying for months.
The relief was immediate enough to embarrass me.
My back still ached, my hips still felt heavy, but his hands took enough of the pressure that I released a breath I had not realized I was holding.
Then he kissed my cheek.
Once.
The second kiss lingered longer.
"I missed you," Achille whispered.
Three simple words.
They settled somewhere deep inside my chest with enough force to make breathing difficult.
I turned carefully within his embrace until we stood facing one another again. The movement was slower than I wanted it to be, but his hands followed every shift, supporting without making the assistance obvious. When I finally looked at him properly, morning light reached his face from the side.
My smile faded.
Without movement to distract me, I saw everything the kiss had hidden.
The exhaustion was not subtle. Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eye.
His posture remained perfectly straight, yet a heaviness clung to him that had not been there before I left.
His hair had been tied back carelessly, as though appearance had become an obligation he remembered only when someone forced him to.
Even the hand resting against my waist trembled faintly before he consciously stilled it.
"When did you last sleep?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Yesterday."
"For how long?"
"A couple of hours."
I frowned. "How many hours is 'a couple'?"
He looked away.
His silence answered before he did.
My eyes narrowed. "You have not taken your medicine."
Another shrug.
That angered me more than denial would have.
"Achille."
He sighed.
It was the sigh of a man who already knew he had lost the argument but intended to make defeat inconvenient for everyone involved.
"I forgot," he admitted.
"You forgot."
"Yes."
"The medicine that prevents your from being in constant pain."
"I became occupied."
"With what?"
The question escaped before I considered the obvious answer.
Everything.
He had been occupied with everything.
Achille rubbed the back of his neck before answering. "With the physicians. The ministers. The flower records. The household reports." His expression hardened as he continued. "Half the palace apparently forgot how to function in your absence."
Then his voice lowered.
"And with finding whoever tried to murder my wife."
The room grew quieter.
His anger never became loud. It rarely needed to. Loud anger burned quickly. Achille's anger settled, sharpened, and waited. That made it far more dangerous.
I looked around the sunroom again.
Old guilt stirred before I could stop it.
"Does having me here make everything harder?" I asked.
Achille looked at me.
The question sounded wrong once it existed between us, but I continued before courage abandoned me. "If bringing me home means more danger or more work, or if you would be able to focus better while I remained at the manor..."
I hesitated.
The next words tasted like betrayal even before I spoke them.
"I could go back."
Silence followed.
Absolute silence.
His hands enclosed mine, warm and steady, his fingers tightening around them with enough certainty to stop every nervous movement.
"You are home," he said.
His voice left no room for negotiation.
"You are exactly where you belong."
"But..."
"No buts"
His thumbs moved slowly across my knuckles. "You do not exile yourself because I worry. You do not make yourself smaller because the palace is complicated. And you do not leave simply because loving you requires work."
His jaw tightened.
"The palace has barely functioned since you left."
I blinked.
He looked almost personally offended by the memory.
"Do you know how many people have interrupted council asking questions only you know how to answer?"
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips.
He ignored it.
"Kitchen inventories," he continued. "Charity accounts. Medical reports. Staff schedules. Guest accommodations. Linen orders. Flower deliveries. Three separate arguments about poultry."
"Poultry?"
"I do not want to discuss it."
My smile grew.
He exhaled sharply. "I apparently married the woman secretly running half my household while allowing me to believe I was generously giving her space."
"I did not keep it secret."
"You failed to provide a complete military report."
"It was household management."
"Which is apparently war with more fabric."
I laughed softly.
His expression did not fully soften.
"I can manage ministers," Achille said. "I can manage assassins. I can manage frightened nobles who believe poisonous flowers make them clever."
His hands tightened around mine.
"What I could not manage was not knowing whether you were safe."
The words settled heavily between us.
"Now you are home and my mind is at ease."
His thumb brushed once over my knuckles before he looked at me with a softer expression. His eyes locked on mine before another tightening spread low across my stomach.
Stronger than the last.
It stole my breath for only a heartbeat, but my fingers closed around Achille's before I could stop them. The pressure wrapped around my middle and pulled deeply through my lower back, enough to make every muscle in my body go still while I waited for it to release.
Achille's entire posture changed.
His eye locked onto my face.
"Ophellia?"
I drew one careful breath before loosening my grip. And looking toward the table. "We should eat before everything gets cold."
He did not move.
His gaze remained fixed on me, searching my face for whatever I was refusing to show him. The tightening eased slowly, leaving behind the familiar ache in my back and a strange heaviness low in my body.
I forced a small smile.
"I am starving."
Achille continued staring for several moments longer.
Then, reluctantly, he turned toward the table and pulled out the heavily padded chair.
"Very well," he said.
His voice agreed.
His eyes never did.
They followed every careful step I took toward the table.