Peter woke to a stunning headache and the feel of soft sheets.
He tried to sit up, then winced. His arms were raw as if they had been burned. The bed springs creaked as he moved, turning his head to look around.
He was in the larger of the two rooms he'd checked last night. A simple wooden nightstand rested next to the headboard of the bed, its tiny vase of wildflowers the only thing in the room resembling a feminine touch. The sheets were white and crisp. The blank wooden walls were scrubbed and had a feeling of severity. Beside the nightstand was a chest of drawers he hadn't noticed before. The wood was a deeper mahogany, the carving obviously fine. It stood out in a room otherwise devoid of luxury.
Probably a gift from Stefan, he registered.
The door opened then, and Catherine appeared, holding a steaming pot of water and what was clearly a dish towel.
“I thought I heard you stir,” she remarked, as she set the pot on the nightstand.
The prince looked at her wordlessly as she dipped the towel into the water and wrung it out.
“This will hurt,” she said. She touched the towel to his arm, and he found she was right. He struggled not to squirm as she washed the angry red blisters that had formed up and down his arms. “The swelling will die down in a couple of days. You'll be sore for a week or two, though.”
This done, she replaced the towel in the pot and reached beneath the bed to pull out a small stool. She sat beside the bed, leaning on her elbows on the nightstand.
“Did you forget that I had aconite growing wild in the garden?”
“I didn't know it was so potent.”
“I breed it to be worse than it should be,” she laughed. “To keep out folks like you.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And what exactly kind of folks are you, Prince Peter?”
He was silent for a long time. Then—
“Where is Adva?”
Catherine swallowed. “Truth be told, I don't know. But you'd be better off not knowing, don't you think?”
“No.”
The young woman looked away from him. She wasn't beautiful, but her face held an undefinable interest. Her green eyes seemed intelligent and conflicted.
“I should tell Stefan you're here,” she stated, her tone light.
Before she could move, his hand was wrapped around her wrist.
“Don't.”
She looked at him. His arms were swollen with blisters and fever-red, his face gaunt, hair untrimmed and beard scraggly, both still matted with what looked like mud from the river. Although he had been nigh impossible to haul onto the bed, it was still obvious he had recently lost a lot of weight. His dark eyes were bright, however, and they stood out from the rest.
Catherine let herself be pushed back onto the stool. Peter released her arm with an apologetic expression.
“Why not?” she asked. “He's your brother. My mother is on the castle staff. She'd do much better at caring for you than I.”
“Who's your mother?” he asked, rather than answer her initial question.
“Alice.”
Peter blinked. “Alice that's taken care of us since children? I never knew she had her own daughter.”
“I stayed with a nurse, mostly,” she said. “Alice would come home after she was done in the castle for the day.”
“Thank you for lending her to us,” he said, some laughter in his eyes. She couldn't help returning his smile. “She was like a mother to us growing up.”
“So Stefan has told me.” She cleared her throat. “Now explain to me why you don't wish me to tell him you're here.”
“I'm not crazy,” he said suddenly, raising an eyebrow.
“What?” she managed, letting out a bit of nervous laughter.
“I'm not crazy. Whatever Stefan has told you. You needn't lean away like I'm some sort of wild animal.”
Catherine looked down at herself and realized she was indeed leaning as far from the bed as possible without losing her balance.
“You look an awful lot like one right now,” she pointed out. “And with all due respect, prince, the castle has been flying the black flags for three weeks now.”
“I'm well aware. I've not lost my mind.”
She eyed him. He met her stare with gravity.
“Perhaps not,” she admitted after a few moments. “But you are avoiding my questions.”
Peter looked away, towards his hands.
“Stefan hasn't been himself lately,” he said, with astonishing frankness. “I'm sure you've noticed.”
The young woman grimaced. “He's been unhappy lately, if that's what you mean. Because of—everything.” She gestured. “Everything that's gone on.”
He frowned. “It's something more than that, Catherine. Something about Stefan has changed. I can't think what it is.”
“It's that he's worried,” she scowled. “Worried about you. Worried about the kingdom. Worried about how he's going to fix this mess that—“ She stopped herself, looking away.
“That I created,” he supplied.
“Yes.” Catherine wrung out the rag and began washing his arms again.
“Isn't it right to marry the woman you love?”
“Not when you're the prince,” she said, eyes flashing. “Then you marry as who's decided for you.” She scrubbed a little harder, making him flinch.
“Aren't you and Stefan planning to marry? Don't you understand?”
“No, Prince, we are not,” she snapped, looking up. “And no, I don't understand! And neither does Stefan, nor any other person with a pair of clear eyes in Pheia.”
Instead of irritation, which she expected, she found realization and compassion dawning behind Peter's eyes. She scowled.
“Now, what is that expression for?” she asked, forgetting herself.
“You can't marry, can you? Stefan can't marry you now that he's been made the crown prince.”
Catherine threw the towel into the saucepan, making the hot water slosh over the sides over the nightstand.
“No, dear Prince. We can't.”
Peter looked away, ashamed. After a few moments, he looked back at her, his back straightening. His eyes were bright and determined.
“Catherine, let me make this right.”
“You've done quite enough, thanks,” she said, nearly out the door already, saucepan in hand.
“Let me prove to you and Stefan—to the world—that I'm not mad. That Adva really was alive. That perhaps she's telling the truth in the story she told my brother. That she's perhaps—more—than human. Let me mend the shattered image of the royal family, fix what I destroyed. Then Stefan can be free to live as he pleases—without the need to pay for my mistakes.”
She stood framed in the doorway, her back to him.
Finally, she spoke, almost too quietly for him to hear.
“There's no question at all about Adva being more than human, prince. The real question is what you'll do. What Pheia will do.” She looked over her shoulder. “You broke it, Peter. Fix it. For Stefan.”
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