No Fury

Now: Twenty Three

The next day my heart stops beating.

Whispers tear through the servants' quarters that there is to be a party this week-end to celebrate.

Immediately, I know.

And the night before, when I finally cried his name in rapture, Harry knew, too. Only he didn't tell me.

At noon, the king stands at the front of the courtyard and proclaims to all gathered that the kingdom will be celebrating the prince's engagement to the princess Maria Antonia de la Páxan of Spain. We will rejoice.

A feast. A dance. A festival of lights.

How many ways is it possible to die from the inside out? Here, a heart slows and withers, then the lungs stop bringing in sufficient air. Food no longer matters. And everything grows gray and dim. I am only instinct. I am barely here.

It is the only way to keep my mind from filling with a future full of them: standing together at the courtyard window, holding their firstborn, growing old together with smiles on their faces, hands clasped.

The kitchens are chaos of motion, but I move in jagged steps: a cog in a larger machine, propelled only by the movement around me. We brew for days. I cry silently every night, sleepless for eternity.

I do not go to Harry.
He does not send for me.

Liam and his father bake for the masses. He gives me a warm smile when Da and I bring the yeast to the bread kitchens.

"Hallo, Catie."

I nod, careful to smile, careful to look demure rather than dead. "Liam."

"You'll wed that Liam soon," Da tells me as we leave, wearing a proud smile. "A finer match is unknown, my darling Catie."

Liam watches us as we leave, and I turn to glance at him over my shoulder. We have known each other our whole lives, but he is a man now. His eyes are soft and wise. His shoulders are broad, his face pleasant. I should thank the heavens for such a husband. The sight of him should fill the hollow, pitted ache in my chest, but it doesn't.