“So, this is the adverb form of…this…adjective?” I asked, pointing at a word on the left page and finding its close relative on the right page.
“Yes. The conjugation requires removing these two letters,” Chevalier explained.
We’d finished eating lunch an hour ago, and now we were sitting on the sofa, reading my father’s journal. Well, I was reading it, and Chevalier was answering my questions and correcting my pronunciation. The dry, dusty Garnetian legal documents I’d been studying between my formal lessons and social engagements contained difficult political terminology with very little descriptive detail, and on the other end of the spectrum, I had a few high-level works of Garnetian literature on hand, full of metaphor and imagery, with very little reading material to bridge the gap. It had been important for me to learn as much as I could by myself, though, and after months of hard work, I was proud to say I was moderately proficient at this point. Chevalier's presence was an insurance to prevent any misunderstanding in the text and a support for when I inevitably became emotional. Even if the journal's contents were mostly benign day-to-day happenings in the life of a king, that king had been my father.
My father. Arvon Romanov.
He was so real now.
I had his journal; I had his portrait; and now, I could read his words, know his very thoughts. He talked about the food the chef prepared, meetings with foreign diplomats, road conditions after a heavy rain. All mundane details I suddenly found intensely interesting.
Especially when Mother appeared amidst those mundane details.
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Saw a pair of swans on a lake today. The locals tell me swans mate for life, and the old male was alone for many years before he found a female. They have a clutch of eggs now. Will have to tell Evelyn of this. She will laugh and ask if I expect her to lay a clutch of eggs.
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Sometimes, it was nothing more than a single line in his daily entry, but there was obvious affection in that unassuming sentence. How much he appreciated her waiting up for him when he worked late, just so she could kiss him goodnight before they fell asleep. How cute he found that funny face she made when her horse relieved itself at that inopportune moment. How much he liked to pick up little trinkets on his travels as gifts for her when he came home, and how much she liked to receive those little gifts.
She sounded the same. I could picture that face, and I could hear that laugh, because I’d seen and heard them before. She was the same person I always knew, regardless of status or wealth. The way she used to worry when I took longer than expected getting home from a job was the same way she had worried about my father working late into the night. The way she always found humor in an awkward situation, bringing it to everybody’s attention with her quick wit and bright smile. And she always loved giving and receiving gifts, too.
A queen or a beggar, she had always been the same.
Except for the wistfulness I glimpsed in her eyes when she saw a couple walking hand-in-hand.
I’d asked her once about my father. Just once. I was too young to remember the circumstances that led to my question, but I remembered vividly the sudden, crushing sadness that weighed her shoulders down, her green eyes widening and filling with tears, her bottom lip trembling when she looked quickly away. I never asked her again. Not until right before she died.
She’d said he was a good man. Kind and tender, like Chevalier. Shortsighted, stubborn, and an eternal optimist, no matter how dire the circumstances.
And he was. It was all here. His devotion to her, his almost naïve hope as Obsidian closed in on Garnet, the increasing tension in the pages alongside statements of certainty that the invasion wouldn’t come, that by some miracle, things would turn around. What he wrote alone would have been enough for almost anybody to see how truly dire conditions were well before the worry and fear crept into his words, even knowing nothing else about the situation.
No, not “crept.” Lurched. Coated. Buried beneath the weight of sudden surprise and dismay when he saw what everybody else already knew. And when he finally realized, his concern for his country, though overwhelming, was but a distant second to his concern for Mother.
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I shouldn’t have brought her into this. I should have realized it was too late. These two years with her have been the happiest in my life, but it would have been better for her if we had never met. She disagrees, of course. I am afraid she will refuse to leave when the time comes. There is no future for her here, or in Obsidian. I shudder to think what would happen to her there. The wife of a foolish king who failed to protect that which was entrusted to him.
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A stark clarity took over the last few pages. Gone were the daily entries, replaced by an undated, detailed plan for her escape, including orders for her forcible removal should she insist on staying. She had no family in Obsidian anymore, but he still had a few contacts there who could help smuggle her through the heart of the country, right under the Emperor’s nose, and once she had crossed the border into Rhodolite safely, she was to present herself to the nearest guard or aristocrat and ask for refuge at the palace.
I knew that didn’t happen. I knew the end of the story for my father, too, but knowing it didn’t make it any easier when I turned the page to the last yellowed, worn, tear-stained entry, where his neat, elegant script suddenly became a hasty scrawl.
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Evelyn,
I’m sorry. I am prepared to lose my life defending my country, but I cannot lose you. Know that I will always love you, and I will find you again, be it in this or another life.
Remember me,
Arvon
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And on the opposing page…nothing.
I stared at that blank sheet of paper in silence. My voice had barely made it through Father’s last words, and that empty page felt like a hole in my heart. I had never known him before, and now he was gone again. We met, and we parted, all in a single afternoon. In a few words.
A tear hit the paper. In my field of blurring vision, I saw a hand larger than mine take the journal gently from my hands, and then strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close for a familiar embrace. There were no words, no empty platitudes. Just Chevalier’s warmth, holding me while I cried.
It hurt more now. Not only because I knew more about my father, but because I knew what Mother had lost. All those nights I’d found her crying and hugging the journal to her chest, I hadn’t understood. I hadn’t known what it felt like to love someone so completely that they were another part of me. A part that felt like something was missing when they were gone. A part that felt like everything was right in the world when they were present.
A part that couldn’t live without them.
Now, I knew. I understood.
“Chevalier?” I whispered, looking up at him through tear-filled eyes. “Promise me…promise me we’ll get more than two years?”
He brushed the tears from my cheeks with his thumb, but he didn’t speak for a moment. It was a silly thing to ask, and I knew it. There were no guarantees. That wasn’t a promise he or I or anybody else could make. But I still wanted to hear the words, however false the reassurance they provided.
“There is still her letter,” he finally said.
That simple statement felt like a blow to my stomach. I’d forgotten. How could I have forgotten? He’d told me right after I discovered the truth of my background, on the day I returned to the palace, still bedridden, and Belle named him king, that Mother wrote him a letter of explanation at the end of the journal. And I forgot.
“We can read it another day,” he suggested.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook my head. Better to get it all over with now, and then I could spend the next few days crying it all out.
The next few days. I just hoped I wouldn’t spend all winter crying.
I took a deep, shaky breath and asked, “Could you read it?”
His left arm held me snug to his side while he picked the journal up with his right hand, setting it on his lap and turning that horrible blank page. A thin, weak hand scratched across the next two pages, the lines uneven and marked with ink blots where she had to stop and rest. My heart constricted in my chest. I took another deep breath and nodded for him to begin.
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Prince Chevalier Michel,
You know the truth now, about me and about Ivetta. I’m sure you have many questions, chief among them why I hid this from her. Maybe I was wrong, but everything I did was in her best interest, or so I thought. I am writing this to offer some explanation for my actions and, I hope, rectify at least some of my errors.
A year before Obsidian’s invasion, the Emperor invited Arvon and me to Obsidian to discuss a deal he said would stabilize relations between our countries. He wanted us to promise the first princess of Garnet to be his son's bride. We hated the idea, but we felt we had no choice if this was a chance at peace, and so we agreed. I know now that the Emperor never intended to keep that agreement. The invasion came, followed by a siege of the castle, and Arvon insisted I escape and leave him to fight.
I didn’t know I was pregnant until I crossed the border to Rhodolite, and then I was afraid to reveal my identity to anyone. The Emperor would not hesitate to use a daughter as a political pawn against Rhodolite, the same way he had used her against Garnet before her conception to trick us into lowering our defenses. So, I traveled alone until I reached this village, and when I gave birth to Ivetta, I decided to remain in obscurity and do my best to raise her alone, close enough to the palace to receive aid if I felt the need, far enough away to go undetected.
I know she deserved much better than I gave her. She has always been so sweet and kind, my reason for living when the heaviness of my past threatened to destroy me from within. I could never have asked for a better gift than the one I received in her. It is not a stretch to say she has kept me alive all these years. We weathered many hard times, but as long as we were together, I knew we would manage. That was why my illness devastated me. I didn’t fear for myself; I feared for Ivetta. She is a strong, intelligent, resourceful girl, but alone, she is far too vulnerable to those who would mistreat her. Unfortunately, you know this all too well.
When I became too sick to care for her anymore, I decided it would be best for her to seek employment at the palace and a place in the servants’ quarters. She only partially took my advice, having inherited her stubbornness from her father. She wouldn’t risk my health with a move, nor would she hear of leaving me. Her long walk to and from the palace concerned me greatly, but there was nothing I could do to stop her.
I was also worried about her assignment at the palace, knowing she would serve one of the princes. My official correspondence with Rhodolite ended with the fall of Garnet, when you and your brothers were still children, and I had only rumors and hearsay to tell me what sort of men you became. I’m sure you’ll understand my concern when I learned Ivetta was working for you. I thought I’d made the last in a series of horrible mistakes regarding my precious daughter. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before I realized my fears were unfounded, at least where you were concerned, although the circumstances of that revelation were something I never wanted her to experience.
Ivetta tries to hide her problems from me, but she’s always had nightmares, and she has a tendency to talk in her sleep. She thinks I don’t know about Jack. I wish I didn't. Every night since he assaulted her, she relives that horrible event, and it breaks my heart. I’ve discovered the mention of your name calms her. I know you came to her aid, though I don't know how, and there aren’t words that can adequately express my appreciation. You have protected and provided for her where I could not, and I thank you for that.
I know Ivetta loves you. Her face lights up when she talks about you, which she does, all the time. I am certain you love her, too. But when I tell her this, she insists I am dreaming an impossible dream and nothing could ever happen between the two of you. That is perhaps the worst thing I have ever done to her: allow her to grow up thinking this is her life. She refuses to believe anything will ever change.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am just dreaming. But she is truly a princess, by blood and by nature, and if these few words give my dream the barest possibility of becoming reality, then I must write them. Whatever happens, whatever you decide to do, I give you my blessing. Please take care of my beloved daughter. I know she is safe with you
Queen Evelyn Romanov of Garnet
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Chevalier's voice fell silent. I covered my face in my hands, sobs shaking my body, and he set the book aside, pulling me closer and kissing me on top of my head. His fingers threaded through my hair, stroking in a long, continuous rhythm down to my hip, lifting from there and letting the strands slip through his fingers before his hand returned to the top of my head again. Slow, gentle, calm; such a sharp contrast to the heated intensity of the night before, when his fingers tangled in my hair and his hungry kisses covered every inch of my exposed skin. It had been almost too much, almost frightening. But I hadn’t run away, because I knew I had only to say the word, and he would stop.
And I…kind of liked it.
He wrapped both arms around me and embraced me tightly. “I promise, little dove,” he murmured in my ear. “Not two years. I promise you a lifetime."21Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV0uYBQusjd
