CHAPTER 15- THE THING THAT FRIGHTENS EASILY
By the time I bring her to the dining hall, I already understand two things about my new wife.
The first is simple.
She is terrified of me.
The second is more interesting.
She is trying very hard not to show it.
That part is almost admirable.
Fear is something I know well. I have seen it in thousands of faces: soldiers kneeling in the dirt with swords at their throats, nobles realizing too late that a careless word has placed their entire bloodline on the edge of extinction, traitors staring at me with that same desperate calculation in their eyes as they try to determine whether apology or silence will save them.
Fear has patterns.
It tightens the shoulders.
It sharpens the eyes.
It slows every movement just slightly, as though the body understands that sudden motion might provoke something terrible.
She carries that same rhythm.
Except she tries to hide it beneath manners.
Which almost makes it worse.
The moment we step into the dining hall, she pauses just inside the doorway. It is subtle, so subtle most people would miss it, but I see it immediately. Her feet stop for half a heartbeat, her gaze moves quickly across the room, measuring distances, exits, servants, shadows.
Then she walks forward again.
Carefully.
As if stepping onto unfamiliar ground.
I do not acknowledge it.
Instead, I move to the head of the table and sit.
The servants appear almost immediately. They know better than to linger around me longer than necessary, especially when I am in a mood that could swing either direction.
Platters are placed down quickly, roasted pheasant glazed dark and glossy with herbs, warm loaves of bread that still carry the scent of fresh baking, bowls of vegetables shining with butter, soft cheese, fruit, and wine.
Too much food.
More than necessary.
I stopped bothering to correct the kitchen years ago. When the court believes a king might be displeased, they overcompensate in every possible direction.
Better too much than too little.
The servants disappear just as quickly as they arrived.
The doors close.
The silence that follows is thick.
Just the king and his new wife.
The word wife still feels strange.
Less like a relationship and more like paperwork that somehow grew legs.
I pour wine.
Then I reach for the stack of reports waiting beside my plate.
Or rather
I reach for the illusion of them.
Because I do not read a single word.
Not one.
The parchment is simply something to hold.
Something to look at so she does not feel my attention too directly.
Because if I look at her right now, she will freeze.
Or bolt.
I have seen the behavior before.
Not in Queens.
In animals.
Stray dogs behave like this when they have been kicked too many times.
Move too quickly and they scatter.
Reach out too suddenly, and they bite.
Look at them too directly, and they flatten themselves to the ground like they are trying to disappear into it.
So I pretend to read.
From the corner of my eye, I watch.
She remains standing for longer than necessary.
She is trying to decide if she is allowed to sit.
The realization annoys me.
Not at her.
At whoever taught her to hesitate in rooms that belong to her.
Eventually, she lowers herself into the chair across from me.
Carefully.
The way someone might sit in front of a judge.
Her posture is too straight. Her hands fold together in her lap like she is waiting for instructions.
Her gaze drifts to the table.
And I see it.
Hunger.
Not subtle.
Not hidden well enough.
It hits her the moment the scent of food reaches her.
Her shoulders tighten.
Her eyes linger on the bread.
On the roasted meat.
On the fruit.
But she does not move.
Of course, she doesn't.
If she has been raised in a court like the one I suspect, she has spent her entire life waiting for permission.
My jaw tightens slightly.
Someone else did that.
Not me.
Her stomach betrays her a moment later.
A quiet sound.
But loud enough in the silence.
I hear it clearly.
She freezes.
I keep reading.
Or pretending to.
Because if she realizes I heard it, pride will starve her faster than fear.
Eventually, she reaches for the bread.
Slowly.
As if expecting my hand to slam down across the table.
I do nothing.
Instead, I tilt the parchment slightly so I can watch her from the edge of my vision.
She tears off a small piece and eats it quickly.
Then she waits.
Watching me.
Testing the boundaries of the room.
When nothing happens, she reaches for something else.
Hunger wins.
Gradually, the careful thief turns into someone simply eating a meal.
Not fast.
But steadily.
She is trying to be polite about it.
That part almost makes me laugh.
There is nothing polite about starvation.
I drag the charcoal across the parchment's margin.
Not writing.
Just lines.
If anyone else saw these reports tomorrow, they would assume I had lost my mind.
I flip the page anyway.
Drink wine.
Look up again briefly.
She is still eating.
Good.
Better she learns quickly.
Eventually, she slows.
Her hands return neatly to her lap.
The princess posture returns.
As if she suddenly remembered she was being watched.
That is when I speak.
"Full?"
She answers too quickly.
"Yes."
The word comes out sharp with nervousness.
I study her for a moment.
And I nod.
"Good."
I set the useless papers aside.
Then I say the next thing that occurs to me.
"We're going to bed. We have another long day tomorrow."
The reaction is immediate.
The color drains from her face so fast it is almost impressive.
Her eyes widen just slightly.
Panic.
Raw and sudden.
She swallows hard.
For the first time all evening, I almost smile.
Not because she is afraid.
Because she is predictable.
She thinks I am going to kill her.
Or force her.
Or both.
It is not an unreasonable conclusion.
Most people who find themselves alone with me come to the same one. When she repeats the word "Tomorrow?" I decide to amuse myself.
"Yes," I tell her. Then I pause. "The day after today."
It is a joke.
A dry one.
Small.
But still a joke.
She does not laugh.
Not even a little.
Her fear deepens instead.
Her shoulders stiffen.
Her breathing changes.
And suddenly the humor drains from the moment entirely.
I do not blame her. From her perspective, today must have been a nightmare.
She was sent here like a sacrifice. Married in a ceremony I barely remembered was happening.
Forced to sit beside me in court while nobles whispered and stared at her like some strange political curiosity.
Now she is expected to follow me into my chambers as if this entire situation is normal.
Of course, she thinks she is going to die tonight.
The other women sent here did not fare much better.
Not by my hand.
But the outcome was the same.
Queens are political targets. People forget that when they dream about crowns.
I stand.
She rises immediately after me.
Silent.
Careful.
Like prey following something that might turn at any moment. I walk toward the door. She follows. I can feel her fear behind me like heat.
The strange thing is
I do not actually want to hurt her. That realization surprises me slightly. Usually by now, whoever has been forced into my orbit has already irritated me beyond tolerance.
But this girl...
She reminds me of something.
A frightened puppythat someone kicked too many times. Move too fast toward a creature like that and it bolts. Corner it and it bites. The only way to deal with it is patience. Let it learn the room first. Let it decide on its own that it is safe enough to breathe.
I do not know why that instinct is suddenly present. Perhaps because she has not tried to manipulate me yet. Or perhaps because earlier she looked at me like I was the worst thing she had ever seen.
That part had irritated me.
Still does.
But I understand it.
War leaves marks.
My face is simply one of them.
We walk through the corridors in silence.
Her dress whispers across the stone behind me.
Her breathing is quiet but uneven.
She thinks I am taking her somewhere terrible.
Perhaps I should tell her otherwise. But explaining things has never been one of my habits.
Instead I keep walking.
Letting her imagination do whatever it wants.
Eventually she will realize I am not going to kill her tonight.
And when that realization comes
Maybe tomorrow she will breathe a little easier.
Or maybe she will still look at me like I am a monster.
Either way...
For now, at least
The frightened little creature is still following me.