Chapter 75- Fear
I found the chambers empty.
That should not have concerned me.
Ophelia was rarely where I expected her to be. Eight years of marriage had not made her easier to locate. It had only taught me which places to search first.
The nursery was no longer useful for that purpose.
Lysandra and Elowen had not slept there in years.
Their old cradles had been moved into storage, though Ophelia refused to let anyone dismantle them.
The room had become a smaller family parlor filled with abandoned toys, half-finished books, and whatever objects our daughters decided were too precious to keep in their own chambers but not precious enough to remember afterward.
Ophelia might have been in her office.
The greenhouse.
The kitchens.
The eastern courtyard, arguing with the steward over winter supplies.
She might have been hiding in one of the window seats with a novel while half the palace searched for a document she had tucked beneath the cushion.
Still, something about the silence felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
I had learned the difference between danger and absence.
Danger tightened the palace around itself. Guards moved differently. Servants lowered their voices. Doors closed too carefully. Absence was quieter. It left spaces where familiar sounds should have been.
Ophelia had missed dinner.
She had sent word that she was tired, which was not unusual enough to alarm anyone else.
She had been tired for weeks. More withdrawn too, though not enough that I could identify when it began.
She still attended council. Still supervised the household.
Still sat between our daughters at breakfast while Lysandra discussed statecraft with the seriousness of a forty-year-old minister and Elowen attempted to convince everyone that stealing fruit from her sister's plate did not qualify as theft if she smiled afterward.
Ophelia laughed when expected.
Answered when spoken to.
Kissed me before leaving rooms.
Nothing was obviously wrong.
That was why it had taken me too long to understand that something was.
I closed the chamber door behind me.
The lamps had not been lit.
Evening light entered through the windows in weak gray strips, touching the edge of the bed and the carpet before fading into shadow. Her robe lay folded across the bench near the wardrobe. One slipper had been abandoned beside it. The other rested near the bathroom door.
That door stood slightly open.
Steam moved through the narrow space.
Slowly.
Soft white curls drifted into the chamber and disappeared into the cooler air.
"Ophelia?"
No answer.
I crossed the room.
The silence sharpened.
Not enough for panic.
Enough for my hand to move toward the dagger at my side before reason reminded me that she was likely bathing and would not appreciate me entering armed as though assassins had invaded the tub.
I pushed the door open.
Warmth struck my face.
The bathroom was filled with steam, thick enough to cloud the mirrors and soften the edges of the marble walls. Candles burned near the bath, their flames appearing distant beneath the haze. The scent of lavender hung heavily in the air.
Ophelia sat in the water.
Her head rested against the back of the tub. Her dark hair had been gathered loosely above her neck, though damp strands clung to her temples and shoulders. Her eyes remained closed.
For one moment, I thought she was asleep.
Then I saw the tears.
They moved silently from the corners of her eyes, tracing narrow paths along her cheeks before disappearing near her ears. She did not wipe them away. Did not make a sound. Her face remained still, almost peaceful if one ignored the grief leaving it.
I stopped.
There were few things I hated more than seeing my wife cry.
Seeing her cry alone was one of them.
"Ophelia."
She did not respond.
I moved closer.
The floor was damp beneath my boots. One of the candles flickered when I passed it, making the shadows shift across her face.
I knelt beside the tub.
"Ophelia."
Nothing.
My concern deepened.
I placed one hand against her shoulder.
She startled violently.
Her eyes opened. Water moved around her as she jerked forward, one hand rising instinctively toward her chest. For half a breath, fear crossed her face before recognition replaced it.
"Achille."
Her voice sounded rough.
She wiped her cheeks quickly, as though removing the tears might make me forget I had seen them.
"I did not hear you come in."
"I called your name."
"I was distracted."
She smiled.
Too quickly.
The smile barely formed before she looked away.
"Did you need something?"
I stared at her.
The question was absurd enough that I almost believed I had misunderstood it.
"Did I need something?"
"Yes."
She reached toward the folded robe near the tub. "You were looking for me."
"Yes."
Her fingers closed around the fabric.
"What is wrong?"
"Nothing."
She stood.
Water streamed down her body and struck the surface around her legs. She stepped out before I could offer a hand, nearly slipping on the wet marble before catching herself against the edge of the tub.
I rose immediately.
She avoided looking at me.
The robe went around her shoulders with hurried movements. One sleeve twisted. She forced her arm through it, tied the belt too tightly, then walked toward the chamber.
I followed.
"Ophelia."
"I am fine."
"You were crying."
"I was tired."
"Those are not the same thing."
"They can be."
She entered the bedchamber and headed toward the wardrobe.
I reached for her wrist.
Not hard.
Enough to stop her.
She turned sharply.
"What is wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Do not lie to me."
Her face changed.
The strain she had been holding fractured so quickly that I barely had time to recognize it.
"I said nothing is wrong."
The words snapped through the room.
Sharp.
Impatient.
Loud enough that we both became still afterward. I released her wrist. Not because she frightened me. Because Ophelia had never spoken to me that way.
Not once.
She had been angry with me. Furious, on several occasions. She had locked herself inside bathrooms, refused to look at me for hours, and calmly explained why my behavior made her consider murder.
But she did not lose control.
Ophelia could be bleeding, exhausted, or terrified and still apologize to the furniture she struck while walking past it.
In eight years of marriage, she had never snapped at me over a question. Her expression changed the moment she saw mine. Guilt replaced irritation.
She closed her eyes.
"I am sorry."
I said nothing. She pressed her fingers against her forehead. "I should not have spoken to you like that."
"I do not care about that."
"I am tired."
"You said that already."
"Because it is true."
"It is not all that is true."
Her shoulders lowered.
For several seconds, she stood with her back half-turned toward me, robe tied too tightly around her waist, damp hair clinging to the side of her neck. The steam followed us from the bathroom, thinning slowly around the doorway.
When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
"I have a great deal on my mind."
"Then give me some of it to carry."
She looked at me. I moved toward the bed and sat near the edge. Then I reached for her hand and pulled gently until she stood between my knees.
"We do not carry things alone."
Her mouth trembled.
I placed my hands at her waist.
"That is why there are two of us."
The words sounded simple.
They were supposed to.
Eight years earlier, I might have tried solving the problem before I understood it. I would have asked questions too quickly, offered threats, demanded names. I would have mistaken action for comfort because action was easier than sitting beside pain I could not kill.
I knew better now.
Sometimes Ophelia needed answers.
Sometimes she needed silence.
Sometimes she needed to be held long enough to discover which one she wanted.
Her gaze lowered toward my hands.
Then she stepped away.
For one moment, I thought she intended to leave. Instead, she crossed toward the small chest beside the bed and opened the top drawer. I watched as she searched beneath folded handkerchiefs and several pieces of jewelry before pulling out a folded sheet of paper.
She returned and held it toward me.
I accepted it.
"What is this?"
She did not answer.
I unfolded it.
The writing was small.
Too small.
My damaged eye had already begun aching from the dimness in the room, and the damp air from the bath made the ink appear even less distinct. I held the paper farther away.
Ophelia noticed.
Of course she did.
She turned toward the drawer again.
"No."
She ignored me.
"Ophelia."
She retrieved a pair of glasses and handed them over.
I looked at them.
Then at her.
The glasses had become a recurring insult to my dignity.
It did not matter how many pairs I hid. Another appeared beside the bed. If I broke one, two replaced it. If I moved them into a locked drawer, they returned to my desk before nightfall.
I still did not know how she discovered I owned them.
Every time I asked, she smiled and said she had her ways.
Those ways apparently included sorcery.
I placed them on.
Ophelia sat on the far side of the bed.
M The distance between us felt deliberate. I looked at the paper again.
Medical records.
Her name.
A physician's signature.
Dates.
Measurements.
My eyes moved over the page twice before I understood what I was seeing. Then I looked at her. "What is this?" She pulled her knees toward her chest and wrapped both arms around them.
I looked down again.
The information remained the same.
"Are you ill?"
"No."
"Then what am I looking at?"
Ophelia stared toward the floor.
A long silence passed.
Then she said it.
"I am pregnant."
every thought inside me went still.
I looked at the paper.
Then at her.
Then back at the paper as though the words might rearrange themselves if given another opportunity.
"How?"
Her eyes lifted.