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As soon as her bedroom door opened, revealing her old governess, Elwyn knew what had happened. But she still made Lady Bianca Henderson say it, all the same.
Maybe it would have been kinder to interrupt her, to spare her the pain of inflicting pain. Elwyn could have said, “I know what you’re going to say.” But she couldn’t speak. She could hardly even force herself to breathe in those agonizing seconds between when Bianca said, “Elwyn, darling...,” and when she finished the sentence.
Her father was dead. The thing she had been dreading for weeks and months had finally happened. Some people might have felt relieved to have it over at last, but not Elwyn.
It had been a constant weight on her mind since the Solstice, when her father had finally admitted he was having trouble sleeping, thanks to some dreadful stomach pains. The physicians had been summoned, and they had all had hope for a while. So much so that they had all laughed about their fears. At least until he started vomiting and losing weight. Then new physicians had been consulted, and the College of Barber Surgeons. And again, it had looked, at least for a week or two, as if things were improving. Until suddenly they weren’t.
Over and over, his condition had declined, only to briefly improve. And each time that happened, Elwyn had let herself believe, “This is it. This is as bad as he will get. From here, he’ll only get better.” Later, they could all laugh about it again and say, “It certainly looked serious there for a while,” though she would have the private satisfaction of knowing that she had never lost faith.
But the expected recovery had never happened. Finally, she had given up, and accepted that he was dying. And yet, there was still part of her that held out hope, if only because she had been wrong so many times before. She felt almost as if the universe owed her this one last twist, to defy her expectations one final time.
So now that he was gone, she felt no relief. She felt angry and hurt, as if she had been tricked, like the universe had led her on. She felt stupid, too, and berated herself for having been fooled again and again.
“This is exactly what Lord Aldred said would happen,” she thought, as she cried on her bed and Lady Henderson stroked her hair. “This isn’t a surprise, so why does it feel like one?”
“Remember, he’s in Earstien’s Light now,” Bianca said. “Think of the good times you had with him.”
Elwyn pulled up a layer of quilted comforter and held it to her face. The trouble with remembering the good times was that they were almost always followed immediately by the bad times.
One of her very favorite memories of him, one that she had spent a lot of time thinking over in the past few days, was when he had taken her out back of the palace, into Queen Maud’s Garden, and taught her how to shoot a bow and arrow. He had been so patient and proud of her that day, and even when she had lost her temper (as she often had as a child), he had simply laughed and told her to keep trying.
But then there had been other lessons, on other days, when his laughter had been nastier, and he had mocked her for being a “crybaby” when she got upset with herself. And the infuriating thing was that she had never seen him be half so unpleasant to Edwin or Alice.
“Edwin and Alice,” she said out loud, sitting bolt upright in bed and nearly knocking Lady Bianca to the floor. “Who’s going to tell Edwin and Alice?”
“Queen Rohesia is with them now, along with Lord Aldred, Lady Jorunn Unset, the Bishop of Leornian, and the Lord Chancellor.”
Elwyn was still so overwhelmed by the news that she gaped uncomprehendingly at her old governess for a second before she remembered why so many eminent persons had to be present when a mother told two children their father was dead.
“Oh, Earstien,” she whispered. “Edwin is the king now.” She struggled free of her blankets and stumbled out of bed. “I’ve got to go to them.”
Bianca convinced her to put on a dressing gown, but after that Elwyn ran down the hall to the nursery. Lord Aldred and the Earl of Ardenford, the Lord Chancellor, stood awkwardly in the hall and bowed as she passed, but she paid them no attention at all. In the nursery itself, Mrs. Ripley the nursemaid and Lady Jorunn sat in the corner, beneath a jolly mural of smiling animals, trying to comfort Alice. The little girl was clutching half a dozen dolls to her chest and wailing that she wanted to see her friend, Jennifer. A grave-looking lady’s maid told Elwyn, when she asked, that the Earl of Stansted had been informed, and that he and his daughter would be coming to the castle soon.
On the far side of the room, in front of the windows and the outside balcony, Rohesia stood with her arms around Edwin. The new king was trying to stop crying, and when Elwyn got close enough to embrace them both, she heard Rohesia saying, in a low undertone, “You must act like a man now, dear. Your subjects are watching.”
Elwyn volunteered to sit with Alice for a while—that was the most helpful and productive thing she felt she could manage. But there was a tremendous amount of preparation necessary for a royal funeral, and to her shock, Elwyn found herself thrust into a leading role in the planning of it.
Everyone pitied the young, widowed queen. Hearts broke for the new, little king and his dear, tiny sister. But no one seemed particularly emotional about his other, older sister. Everyone seemed to assume that Elwyn could take charge, because she was technically an adult, and because there was no one else to do it. Before midday, she had met with the bishops of Leornian and Formacaster, the dean of the cathedral, and her Cousin Broderick, who would be supplying the troops for the funeral procession in his capacity as captain general.
She felt so harried, rushed from one meeting to another by Lady Bianca and the Lord Chancellor, that it wasn’t until half an hour after she’d talked with Cousin Broderick that she even remembered her father had warned her about him in their last conversation.
She returned to the royal apartments exhausted and hoping for a nap. But then she was besieged by a veritable army of seamstresses and lady’s maids and gardeners’ apprentices, all of whom wanted some directions as to the “style” of mourning the royal family would be entering. Would veils be worn? Full or half-length? Would there be limits on the dimensions of ladies’ hats at the funeral? Would jewelry be permitted? What about tasteful brooches in onyx and ebony? How many carriages would be provided in the procession for the ladies of the court? And as for the castle itself, what sort of decorations would be needed?
These people had been too nervous to approach Rohesia with their questions, but they had no such compunctions about asking Elwyn. They queried and quizzed her until she finally lost control and, with tears burning at the corners of her eyes, she snapped, “My father just died! I couldn’t possibly care less what kind of fucking garlands you drape the Palm Court with!”
At that moment, Lord Aldred happened to be passing through the royal apartments. He took in the scene, nodded gravely, and then disappeared, while Elwyn covered her face and contemplated throwing herself off the balcony for shame. But the great hillichmagnar returned a minute later with Lady Jorunn, who knew exactly how a royal funeral was supposed to be arranged, having planned a number of them herself.
While the crowd pressed around her ladyship, Elwyn tried to make good her escape, but Lord Aldred was waiting for her in the hallway. “I’m so sorry,” she moaned. “It’s been a very stressful morning.”
“Indeed it has,” he said, looking out at her from under glowering dark eyebrows. “Might I suggest that a nap might be in order?”
“I’m not a child, my lord,” she said, trying to glower back.
“I did not suggest you were. But Lady Jorunn has things well in hand here. And there will be many late nights and long days ahead of you. Rest while you can.” He pulled a small vial from his pocket, opened it, and tipped out a little blue lozenge. “Take this with wine and then lie down. I will have Miss Simons, your lady’s maid, awaken you in three hours.”
She had no idea what was in the little pill—opium or knivrensa or some distillation of pure magy—but it put her out like a candle in a rainstorm. When Phoebe woke her, she could have sworn she had slept for three nights, rather than three hours.
The shock and pain of her father’s death was still there, but she no longer felt panicked and pressured. At least not at that moment. And for one afternoon, at least, that made all the difference.