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AS SOON AS FINN PULLS the horse to a stop, I jump off without a word and run inside the castle to my rooms. I cannot stand the way I feel; like I need to escape from myself, which is impossible.
I hate myself for what I have done and yet I want to comfort myself and excuse my actions, because after all, I am me.
This must be what it is like to go mad; opposing viewpoints both coming from my own head. It makes no sense and I hate it.
I pace the room, my lovely receiving room, filled with beautiful things, arranged by the King. This was a kind thing he did. He made my rooms lovely, he was generous to me, he spoiled me.
And he kills people for fun.
I know this.
And so, I am back to arguing with myself.
I walk through to my work room. I am lowered to this; taking one of my own potions, like some village idiot who cannot get through the week without the aid of some crutch or other.
I feel poisonous.
I find a flagon of ale on the table and a cleanish goblet. I drink the whole thing down and then pour another one.
I cannot decide which potion I need the most. A cure for stupidity or the opposite of a love potion. I feel addled and it’s not like me.
I have been alone a long time and that can be enough to send some people mad, but never me. I thrived on the peace. I had my little rituals, my daily habits and they were all good for me.
I have common sense and intuition – though granted that’s not working now. I usually have a clever mind, a sharp mind.
I have seen good looking men, but I have never kissed one before the King. I wasn’t one for a foolish dalliance or a quick fling. I was sure that as I grew older I would meet a man who met all my requirements.
A hard-working man. A kind man. A funny man. A good-looking man. A fit man. A family man. A man who wanted me to be equal to him in things that mattered – where we lived, how many children we had, how we spent our money. I have always wanted a life partner, never a King.
And never a match that made me feel unclean, unkind and so unlike myself.
I find several potions that might help and take them through to my bedroom. I will choose a tonic and sleep my worries away, even though it is not yet dark. Maybe I will wake up and find that this horror was a dream and that I haven’t turned into a selfish woman after all.
I sink onto the bed, clutching the vials to my chest. It’s such a lovely room. So pretty and so comfortable
And it’s a payment from the devil.
He is the devil. He is an evil man, a selfish man, a man who relishes in the hurt he can do to others. He kills if he wants to, he has the power and he abuses it, in the most disgusting, despicable way.
None of this is alluring to me.
And yet when his lips touched mine, instead of images of blood and guts filling my head, I saw stars and swirls. And instead of flinching from his touch I wanted to move towards him. And when I saw him vulnerable and hurt I had to help him.
I couldn’t not.