The Paper Crown

8. False Impression

The rain is pattering on the roof and I am cramped and chill on the chaise beneath it. Somehow, last night, I managed to rid myself of all clothes bar my slip, but I didn't remember to remove the diamond necklace and it lies heavy and scratchy at the base of my throat.

I fumble until I get it off, and let it slip somewhere lost among the cushions. My throat is dry. When I sit up, my head pounds, my back aches, and my stomach lurches alarmingly.

I shudder and shiver, trying to control the uprising in my stomach. Slowly, it subsides. I crawl from the chaise to the rug in front of the fire which is now nothing more than glowing coals. I stare numbly at them for several minutes before it occurs to me to stoke them, but I can encourage little more than sparks and soon give up.

A blanket. I need a blanket.

By the fire's dim light, I can see little of the room, but soft breathing from the darkness reminds me that the prince is sleeping on the bed. I feel my way across the carpet on my knees. There were candles last night. They must have gone out, or perhaps Mariusz got up and doused them while I slept. I find the bed by banging my head against it, but Mariusz does not wake.

I stand and pat the mattress until I find the heavy wool of the quilt and tug at it. Mariusz murmurs something in his sleep and rolls against me. His flesh is hot and solid and faintly clammy against my hands. I draw back, my heart thumping. Thank god he didn't... fuck me. Or perhaps I was so drunk then, it wouldn't have mattered. I'm almost sober now, and his closeness drives some strange uneasiness deep inside me.

I pull the quilt from under him, careful not to let myself touch him again. My hands doubt the memory of the feeling.

The quilt bleeds his warmth into my flesh. I sit by the fire and drape it round me. What time is it? With the rain coming down heavy, dawn will be dark. I can't go back to sleep. The alcohol has worn off, leaving my mind vacant and wheeling. My heart is beating too fast. My limbs are cold. My head hurts.

A finger of flame starts up in the coals, and dies again. Their glow swells and subsides like a heartbeat, making time with the rain. The heartbeat slows, and the glows grow fainter, beat by beat, until I am left in the dark, with nothing but the sound of rain to keep me company.

The rain stops.

For a heartbeat, I think I am in the tower again. The door is locked, and it is dark and cold and alone. Then Mariusz's breath rises gently from the darkness. I shuffle towards the bed. Thin light filters from behind the curtains. It cannot be far off dawn. His arm lies flung out across the sheets. The rest of him is indistinguishable from the dark shadows of the blankets.

The strange, bubbling uncertainty within me subsides. This is my place now. Its doors are open. Its skies are wide. The past cannot chase me here. I am safe. I am free. And I am not alone.

I touch Mariusz's palm, where he cut himself, and trace my hand up the length of his forearm. He shivers in his sleep. He's still too hot. He drank far too much. I reach his shoulder, and trace my hand down to his heart. The muscles tense and release beneath my skin.

"What are you doing?" he whispers.

I jump back. He rolls over and falls asleep again, instantaneously.

And my hands once more doubt their memory.

The next time I wake, it is to the sound of people at the door. I am lying on the hearthrug in front of the dead fire, wrapped in the quilt. In my sleep-tangled thoughts, it occurs to me that I should be in the bed with Mariusz when they come in. Before I can arrange my head and limbs to the purpose, the door opens. I stare stupidly as three young women enter the room. They are from the same group that locked us in last night, though they are much quieter now and their faces very pale. Surprise ripples over them when they see me on the floor. Two go to the bed to rouse Mariusz. The other pours two glasses of water and brings one over to me.

"Voici, buvez."

She sounds displeased. As I take the glass, the quilt falls to reveal my slip. The woman clicks her tongue and says something to the others in Selician. Mariusz grunts something in response. Even half-asleep, he sounds angry.

I take a sip of water and my stomach lurches. I scramble to my feet and make for the bathroom, getting there just in time to be sick into the toilet. The woman follows me.

"Go away," I hiss.

She does not understand. She takes a towel from a hook and presses it into my hands with some superfluous, disdainful words in Selician. I press my cheek against the cool porcelain tiles of the bath and try to quell the acid convulsions in my belly.

From the bedroom, the other women shout something. They come into the bathroom, holding the bloodstained bedsheet between them, and cheerfully show the bloody smear to their friend.

Her demeanour changes. She smiles broadly at me, leans down, and pats me encouragingly on the shoulder.

"Brava, Princesse, bien fait."

Behind her, Mariusz stumbles into view, still shirtless, his trousers unbuttoned, his cut left palm shoved into the pocket. He meets my gaze with bloodshot, swollen eyes and shrugs.

Bravo, Prince. Well done.

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2024-04-16: I have a migraine, so I have no idea what to say, except, perhaps, that Alex earned her hangover and I don't deserve my headache.