Page 99 of Scarred

“Lady Beatreaux, you’re looking lovely,” Michael says as a servant pulls out my chair, allowing me to sit.

I glance back and smile, thanking them, and Michael grimaces at the action.

“Your Majesty, it’s good to see you looking so well.”

Uncle Raf starts in on him almost immediately about calling a meeting with the Privy Council, and as I sit and listen, taking small sips of water from my glass, I realize that he’s stepped into the role his son had, advising the king. Which means he doesn’t plan on going back home soon. I wonder how my mother fares all alone; although I doubt she’s spared me a second thought since I left.

The first course is brought to the table, and my gut grumbles, unable to stomach eating when my insides feel so torn and tossed. I fidget in my chair, so the ache between my legs will spear through me and remind me that Tristan was there. That he cares, even when it feels as though no one else does. It’s odd how just the memory of him is enough to bring me comfort, but I welcome it, wanting something to keep me from breaking down and ruining everything I came to Saxum to accomplish.

I clear my throat. “Is it true you aren’t having a proper service for Timothy?”

The words fly from my mouth before I can bite them back, and my uncle shoots me a sharp glare, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

Michael, who was taking a drink from his glass, places it back on the table and looks at my uncle and then back to me. “That’s correct. We don’t think it would be best.”

Anger sludges through my veins like mud. “He deserves to be honored for his service.”

“The rebels would see it as a victory,” my uncle cuts in. “We cannot give them that satisfaction.”

I huff out a breath, my spine straightening. “They alreadyhavea victory. They’ve murdered someone who was doing his job in protecting me.”

“Sara, that’s enough,” my uncle says.

I lean forward until my ribs bump against the edge of the table. “When he was lying on the dirty ground, grasping my wrists and struggling for air, it wasmewho had their hands elbow deep in his chest, trying to keep his heart beating. It wasmewho prayed to God that he would spare him, begging him to take it back—” My voice cracks, and my fist slams on the table. “To take me instead.”

“He was not even supposed tospeakwith you,” Michael says.

I turn toward him, my jaw clenching. “No worries, Your Majesty. Now he never will again.”

Michael’s eyes are wide at my outburst, his jaw muscle tensing.

I cover my mouth with a trembling hand, nausea surging through my throat. “I’m sorry, if you’ll excuse me. I’m feeling rather ill. I think I need to go lie down.”

“Sara,” Uncle Raf starts again.

I put a hand out to stop him. “I’m fine, Uncle. Nothing a midday rest can’t fix.”

Shoving from my chair, the wood legs scraping against the floor, I toss my napkin on the ground and flee from the room, worried that if I stay even a moment longer, I’ll say things I can’t take back. And that’s the last thing I want.

But I needn’t worry, because no one follows.

* * *

The fire has longsince been put out and I’m sitting in front of it, yet another layer of sadness drops in my chest.

Sheina never came.

I’m angry. And honestly, a little afraid that the girl I thought I knew is actually a woman I know nothing of. Serves me right, I suppose, considering she doesn’t know much of me.

Glancing at the brown floor clock as it ticks against the far wall, I sigh, deciding to focus on something I can control—learning more of the tunnels.

The couch cushions groan as I stand, walking from the sitting area over to my freshly made bed. Dropping to my knees, I peek beneath the mattress’s frame, my arm stretching until I grasp the corner of a small chest. I pull it toward me and open the top, breathing a deep sigh as I pull out the black ensemble I used to wear when sneaking out at night in Silva to take the stolen money from my uncle’s safe and put it in Dalia’s hands.

I strip out of my nightgown, slipping on the black pantaloons and the long-sleeved black tunic, before sitting down on the edge of the bed and lacing up the boots. When I move to the mirror to place my curls back into a bun at the nape of my neck, a sense of calm cascades over my shoulders, feeling like myself for the first time since I arrived in Saxum.

Not all women are meant for frilly dresses and fancy crowns that sparkle in the light.

Some of us prefer the anonymity that comes along with shadows.