The door opened and when I turned to greet the good doctor, I was stunned into silence at the sight of the wide and dark wool skirt of a diminutive woman. I scrambled to my feet and lowered into a clumsy curtsy. “Your Majesty.”
My mind raced with reasons why she might enter this room. Was my stay unauthorized? Was I trespassing? I chided myself for getting so comfortable in a place where I certainly didn’t belong.
“I’m so sorry,” I added hastily.
She guided the door closed and waited for it to latch before saying, “What on earth do you have to be sorry about, child?”
For being here, for not being in the kitchen, for the calamity in the Rubens Room. A thousand answers tumbled through my mind, but nothing passed my lips.
She moved to the window and pulled back the curtains, then muscled the lever that pivoted the glass so the afternoon breeze flowed in. “That’s better. You cannot recover in stale air.”
A chill filled the room. I pulled the sleeves of my sleeping chemise down to my wrists and peeked up between my brows to see she was standing at the end of the bed, taking stock of the food tray on the table and the pillows pushed haphazardly around the bed. She frowned. “Are they keeping you fed and comfortable?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My head still tilted downward but I tried to gauge her expression.
“And Dr. Holland? Has he kept an eye on you?”
Again I nodded and replied yes.
“Is there anything else you require?”
The way her fingers laced and unlaced at her waist, I was quite sure she was as uncomfortable as I.
“No, ma’am. I’m quite well.”
“Good,” she said. “Then I was rather hoping you could answer a few questions for me. I’m having some difficulty understanding certain events.”
Her gaze probed mine.
I held my blankest look. If no one else had told her the truth, I surely shouldn’t be the one. Who was I, after all?
But all the lies and secrecy had put her in danger. They had put all of us in danger. Something had to be said. “What do you wish to know, Your Majesty?”
For the next half hour, I told her what I knew of the Fayte Guardians who protected her from the shadows and the monster who had come after her—leaving out the fact he had called himself my father. I half expected her to dismiss my words as the ravings of a fevered mind.
She didn’t.
She merely settled herself on the edge of the bed, folded her hands gently in her lap, and took in every word.
It was cathartic, in a way, to share these burdens, even if it didn’t lighten them.
When I finished, the Queen rose and moved to the window again. She stared out over the eastern view, the early afternoon sun making a halo over the smooth sweep of her sandy-brown hair, ornamented with a simple square of lace pinned above her chignon.
I shifted on the stool as the silence between us lengthened. “Perhaps I said more than I should have,” I muttered, wishing I had been more judicious in my telling.
“No.” She turned back, and the light from the window silhouetted her features. “I appreciate your candor, however much it may strain one’s understanding. And rest assured, the Prince and I will be discussing this efficiency campaign of his.”
A sound at the door stopped her. When the physician opened it and saw her, he stepped back.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty. I shall come back.”
“No, Doctor. Your timing is fine. I was just leaving.” She turned to me. “I am pleased to know you are recovering well. If there is anything you require, do let it be known, and it shall be provided.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. I rose and curtsied again.
The doctor watched the Queen until she disappeared through the door that he held for her. He closed it, and his weighty gaze returned to me. “So, Miss Shackle, how are you feeling?”
The Queen had come to see me. Me! I was at once elated and panicked. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
The man smoothed the few strands of hair he had left at the freckled top of his head and scrutinized me for a long moment. “I see you’re out of bed.”
I stared at the vanity table. Recounting what I knew to the Queen was like reliving the ordeal all over again, but there was still so much I didn’t know.
“If you would, Doctor, would you tell me what’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”
He fished around in his satchel and pulled on the pair of black leather gloves he’d taken to wearing during his visits. I’d never said anything to him, so I could only imagine what he’d been told. “Just a precaution after your swoon,” he said. “Nothing more. Are you in any pain?”
Not that I could pinpoint. Just the same familiar ache where my heart should be. “No, I feel fine.”
He bent over me and took a long look into my eyes. Asked me to follow his finger. Asked me to lift my arms, bend my elbow, extend each leg and bend it. Then he held his chin and sucked in his lips. “I would say I’m looking at a perfectly healthy young woman.”
Healthy? Maybe. But perfect? Not even close.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The next morning, I arrived early to our familiar corner of the kitchen, hoping to avoid any commotion or questions about my absence. Mrs. Crossey was already at the stove, stirring a batch of what smelled like porridge.
A line of freshly baked loaves lined the worktable. I took up a knife and went to work slicing them for the Servants’ Hall breakfast table.
“Welcome back,” she said when she noticed me behind her. “You’re in quite fine order this morning.”
“I tidied up before I left the room. Stripped the bed and left the linens for the chamber maid. I can collect them, though, if you think I should. I didn’t know what was appropriate.”
“Calm yourself, dear. It’s
