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EVERLEIGH WAITS A WHILE after Will leaves and then pulls on her fleece lined boots. She puts two cloaks on over her nightclothes, both black, and goes to the door. She opens it a tiny bit and peeks out, keeping her body out of sight. If she sees one of the little maids she will ask them for some ale and they won’t see that she is dressed.
She is happy to be cautious and patient; after all she does this every night and hasn’t been caught yet, and with the end of her life firmly in her sights, she doesn’t have many nights left to do it.
There is no one there. She pulls her cloaks tight around her body and tucks her hair inside the hood. She pulls the hood low down over her eyes and keeps her head down, too. She hurries through the corridors to the closest door. She doesn’t meet anyone – they are all still enjoying the feast – her feast.
She takes the path leading away from the castle, away from the river and down to a large copse of trees. The earlier rain has left the air damp. She winds her way through tall, strong, old trees she doesn’t know the names of, until she finds her clearing.
Her mother’s clearing.
They buried her mother here, under the tallest, strongest, oldest oak in the forest and she knows that her brothers and her father all spend time here. She should have been sent into the river, pushed off the island, but the King couldn’t bear the thought of her being cold and alone.
Everleigh has seen her father here, as well as her brothers, and knows they are glad to have somewhere restful they can sit and grieve for their mother.
She realised several years after her mother died, probably around the age Addyson is now, that the best time to come here is at night. No one has ever interrupted her. She doesn’t know if anyone ever comes to visit at the same time but sees her and leaves her to grieve in peace. It’s what she would do.
She would sit for a time – she doesn’t know how long. Sometimes she would talk to her mother, out loud, and once she’d unburdened herself she would head back to bed. Other times she would sit crying until the rain came or the morning sun. Sometimes she just enjoyed remembering her mother and reliving her memories of her.
Tonight, she speaks to her mother about the feast. She knows her mother will never answer and some days she doesn’t even believe that she can hear her. Other days she believes her mother’s spirit watches over her.
Now with less than a week to go until she dies, she can feel her mother in the wind, in the air, in the light from the moon. She closes her eyes and thinks about her mother’s hugs, her mother’s face, her laugh, her smell.
She rests her head against the tree. Even though it has been raining through the day, where she is sitting is dry. Six days. Hardly any time, not enough time, to live, love, laugh, eat, drink, talk.
She will be dead soon.
She understands now that the knowledge of her role as Kingmaker drove her mother mad. She isn’t sure how she is still sane, when she knows what’s coming. Blind acceptance of her life and her role; what else could she do? Rally against her fate? Refuse to let Halfreda hurt her, turn the dagger back and kill everyone who tried to stop her? Run away?
She can hear the feast from where she is sitting, the music is loud and carries far beyond what it normally does. People from all over the Realm have come to see her die and are currently dancing up a storm in her name. It’s creepy, really. She isn’t even allowed to stay at her own party. It’s as though, without her there, they can all relax and enjoy themselves without the guilt of looking upon her face and knowing that they would cheer at her death. She closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her, taking away her maudlin thoughts.
Everleigh shakes herself awake. She’d drifted off to sleep and it’s much colder than before.
She stands up, stretching out her arms and legs. She is aching and stiff. She wraps her cloaks tighter around herself and starts towards the castle. Could she do what Will suggested and run away? Even as she lets her mind mull it over, she knows it is impossible. She must face her future. And her future is death.
She’s ready to sleep.
She heads out of the shelter of the trees, in to the heavy rain. She pulls her hood down and scurries forward. She will be warm and dry soon. Her fire might still be burning, if not she’ll call one of the little maids to relight it.
Ahead, close to the castle she can see a figure, a man from the size and shape. She has no choice but to pass him. She hopes it isn’t one of her brothers; she doesn’t want to see anyone now. She doesn’t want to answer questions or let anyone know about her secret visits. She doesn’t want to risk sharing this time with anyone else.
As she gets closer she raises her head and looks up. It is a young man, but she doesn’t recognise him.
She keeps her gaze high as she walks towards him. She doesn’t want to look as though she’s doing anything she shouldn’t be. She walks tall and keeps a smile on her face.
As she gets closer, he turns to watch her. She doesn’t know him, so she guesses he doesn’t know her, unless he’d been at her feast.
As she passes him, their eyes meet, she smiles and so does he. She keeps walking but can feel him watching her.
And as she turns the corner to go through the door, he is watching her still.
***
THE CLOAKED FIGURE paces the room. There is a fire burning and his guard, Wolf, is sitting, spit-polishing his boots.
“She will do it. She has to. She will.”
“If she does not we will make her.” The guard shrugs. There are ways of making people do what you want. Especially pretty, young girls. It was easy enough.
The cloaked figure nods. He is upset, which isn’t like him. He has less than a week; he should have organised himself sooner, but he’d been wary: the fates are not to be meddled with, it was an adage that everyone knew. And yet, maybe his fate was to question his fate and ensure the outcome that he so desperately wanted. He has great plans and a bold vision. He just needs to ensure that he is crowned.