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From the moment the sun peeks over the horizon, its clawed rays glint off marble and metal to scratch my eyes. I toss slick-smooth sheets over my face in a last grasp at sleep. Too late. I bet my husband noticed that. Forcing my eyelids apart, I peer over the bedding to his side.
He’s not there. I breathe.
I stretch, I yawn, I do everything I can’t when I’m fixated on accommodating another person. As dreaded consciousness returns to me, I resent Roland’s silk sheets. I miss when the sun did not glare. It was a gentle animal’s luminous paw, stretching out through my window and across the floor boards. The only sparkles in the room were dust particles, tossed to and fro by fresh air. My bedding was soft cotton, cozy wool and cashmere, and I did not have to tolerate things I hate. Like fabric that feels so slick it seems cold or wet, or being dazzled by my sleeping quarters. Or…
I can’t have thoughts like that. Hurriedly, I open the drawer by my side, and retrieve my stone of amber. I found it in my river; it’s my one reminder of freedom. My one distraction, hope, life raft. This palace is purgatory. I need something to remind me that the world doesn’t end outside the castle walls, that there are places where I feel alive.
Amber has a hardness of 2-2.5, about the same as a fingernail. I oft wonder if I will erode it by endlessly turning it in my hands. It shouldn’t be quite that fragile, but it would be an incredible shame if my desperation for comfort destroyed a precious glimpse into the past. It’s large, shaped a little bit like a teardrop, and a little bit like a triangular prism, with fairly jagged edges. Near the thinner end, there’s a part of it that might be an inclusion, or just bubbles. I’m not educated enough in mineralogy to know. I could take it to someone who is, but, for unknown reasons, I’m compelled to keep this stone, and especially my attachment to it, a secret.
I soften the world through this stone, bathe it in warm orange light, and I remember: Today marks one more year. Four years, I should say. Four years since Roland and I married. One more year until he is required to divorce me. Required to remove this barren blight from Enchancia’s royal family, to free someone from a world they never grew into. Whatever way you want to look at it.
Someone’s walking outside my door. It’s Baileywick, based on the brisk, clicky gait. I stash the stone under the covers, between my thighs, so I can feel where it is. Baileywick stops outside the door, and I hear Roland as well. I’d recognize his confident steps anywhere. What are they doing?
Baileywick swings the door open with bravado, and Roland steps through, with perhaps even more bravado. “Happy anniversary!,” he says, a giant grin on his face.
I smile in turn. “Happy anniversary,” I reply. He’s holding a tray. “What’s that?”
“Breakfast in bed. I thought you’d like it.” That depends on what it is. He gestures with it, as if I can see though a cloche. He brings it over, and reveals… two plates of goldenberry pancakes, absolutely drenched in syrup. This strikes fear in my heart. Some things just… drive me mad. Sticky syrup residue is one of those things. I can hide my discomfort until there’s a socially acceptable point in time to leave and wash up, under most circumstances. But sticky syrup residue in bed- may be another story. And it’s not just the syrup. It’s syrup and silk and sun and talking and being touched AND RO-
There is nothing wrong with Roland. I press my thighs together. Rock digs into my skin. Escape will come. There is nothing wrong with Roland. Escape will come. There is nothing wrong with Roland.
“Looks wonderful,” I say, and smile, as Baileywick brings over two bed trays. Roland piles up pillows and sits next to me. Too close, as usual.
Baileywick bows on his way out. “I’ll leave you two to it. Let me know if you need anything, and happy anniversary, Your Majesties.”
“Good morning.” The words leave my mouth because I just realized I hadn’t greeted him yet. I realize too late that it’s a stupid thing to say as someone’s leaving.
Roland gives me an eyebrow-raised look for a second before shoveling half a pancake in his mouth. He has a habit of talking for a while between too-large bites of food, so I need to say something now, lest he turn the conversation towards something like… “trying.”
“Has Freezenburg signed off on your trade deal?” I listen to him chew for a solid fifteen seconds before he can respond.
“Nearly. They keep wanting more produce than we can spare in exchange for more fur than we need. King’s in his last years, I think. Haven’t gotten to know the successor, but I hope he’ll be better at logical deduction.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “How’s it going with Empress Lin-Lin?”
I don’t have anything in particular going on with the Empress. “Huh?”
“You said you wanted to get along better with her, something about womanly bonding, a moment to take your mind off your duties?”
“Your mother said I should do that,” I remind him. Every Empress, Queen, Princess, and female noble on Ever hates me. If not for taking up their potential spot as a powerful kingdom’s Queen, then for being a useless one. Not one child in four years. Not even a pregnancy. Even miscarriage would be promising at this point, but I’ve lost hope for that by now. I will simply… ride it out. One more year.
He bothers with using a knife on his pancakes now. “Oh, right. Well, maybe she’s right. Would it really hurt to spend time among other women? Maybe ones that have had children?” He slows down a bit as he finishes his last sentence, unsure if he should, yet unwilling to reroute entirely.
Great. The same conversation we’ve had a thousand times. There’s only one thing I have in common with other women of my class, and mine’s broken. People don’t like it when I say things like that, though, so I stopped doing so years ago.
He must have seen bitterness cross my face. “You haven’t touched your breakfast. Is something the matter?”
“Did you make it?” Translation - how offended will you be if I refuse entirely?
“Oh, no, if I made it you wouldn’t want to look at it, much less eat it,” he says with a sheepish laugh.
So, not that offended. Excuse, excuse, one that doesn’t make you sound like a whiny baby like “syrup’s texture is bad” does- “I just wasn’t feeling well this morning.”
His eyes widen. I should have thought before I spoke. “N-Not like that,” I amend, cutting off the smallest, driest piece of pancake I can find and stacking yellow raspberries on my fork. It seems I must suffer the syrup for my crime of getting Roland’s hopes up.
When I put my fork down, he places his hand on mine. I don’t have a comparison for how uncomfortable his touch is. Nearly everyone’s, in truth. It burns, it’s suffocating, it’s like insects crawling on my skin… No one understands what I mean when I explain this, so I’ve never said a thing to Roland about it. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m sure something will change. We have another year. It could bring anything, so don’t lose hope that it’ll bring a child.”
I lost all hope after the first three. He’s talking to himself. He’s rubbing his thumb over my hand and I must resist the urge to snatch it away. I recite the expected response. “I hope we finally have a child, too.”
“I love you, Lorelei.”
Of all the things he says to me, this I can’t stand the most. He doesn’t even know how much of a lie it is. He kisses me, spreading sticky residue from his face to mine.
“I love you, too.”
The lie tastes like poison. I was honest, before he proposed. How did that ever win him over? Now I can’t be honest about anything. I just want this to end.
“How about we try tonight? I know it’s not the optimal time, but maybe our anniversary will… bring us luck.”
Don’t touch me.
Let me leave.
I hate you.
“Sure.”