IV.
Michelle does not sleep the night before her departure.
The room that she has loathed for so long is now Michelle’s last remaining defense-- the only place that no one will come to remind her of her fate. In the morning, that will change, but Michelle would not dream of sleeping away her last night of peace in her home. Instead, she kneels by a window ledge with a pen and a crumpled sheet of parchment, and for several hours she does nothing but preserve the emotions and thoughts that she wishes to give to her mother. None of it will be said when they part the next morning; her enemies will watch, searching for any sign of weakness. She cannot give them such a thing.
They will find no weakness in her, only a steely, desperate strength.
But they are not watching her here, for the last time, and so Michelle fills up the parchment with a million scrawled sentences and dark blots. When it is finished, it is late in the evening. The letter is folded beneath her pillow, someplace she is certain the servants will find it. Her mother’s name is written on the outside, and so she knows it will find its way into the right hands. She also knows that they will not dream of examining the contents not meant for them. In the wake of what Michelle is doing for them, it is unthinkable.
Once this is finished, Michelle’s remaining hours are spent watching the familiar skies over the forest behind the castle. She has memorized these skies over the years-- every constellation, every crag that juts up into the expanse from beyond the forest. She has always preferred the night, always spent her time searching the stars for answers that her mother and father are unable to give her.
Will they be faithful to her now, or will they forget her once she is far away?
The inky black of the night begins to fade into watery gray, after what might have been moments or years of staring. The first hint of this lightening fills Michelle with dread, and at first, she prays she might have imagined it. However, reality does not bend to her prayers, and so they fall upon closed ears. Gray light seeps in through the windows, only further removing any color from the dull room in which she seeks refuge. Michelle does not leave her window, kneeling on the cold floor as she looks out over the harsh, unforgiving kingdom she has made her own.
Will it be lost to her forever?
It is hers, now-- almost. This is what she thinks on as the sun rises, barely visible through the thick clouds. Her father has no heir apart from her: no cousins, no brothers, no court, no distant, titled relative. This kingdom, when he is gone, will be her birthright. And, rather than allowing her to take it into her own hands, her father has chosen to hand it off to his enemy in exchange for a pretend peace. Her kingdom, in his hands, is nothing more than a piece of currency in a bloody exchange.
Where is all his talk of honor now?
The cold, quiet anger that rises up in her chest is all that Michelle has left to defend herself with. It is this that she clings to, though she almost immediately loses it altogether when the door to her bedroom opens.
Her mother’s face is a portrait of quiet agony that Michelle was not prepared for. She almost breaks then and there.
The queen is dressed in an old gown of black, one that she has taken in herself to hide its ill-fitting spots and to tuck away patches that are faded and worn. The circlet around her mother’s head is not what makes her look regal as she steps into the room; it is the way that, from head to toe, the queen holds herself with the pride and dignity of a seasoned warrior. Even in her agony, Michelle’s mother is strong, and she knows that there will be no tearful goodbyes today.
“Mother,” Michelle breathes, inclining her head. The formality is used as an attempt to hide the stinging in her eyes and to force it back. “I thought you were one of the servants.”
“They are busy making the preparations for your departure,” the queen replies, her voice quiet and composed as she steps into the room. “I told them I would help prepare you myself.”
Michelle notices, for the first time, that which her mother is holding. A gown of deep green cloth, finer than most of the gowns that Michelle owns, is folded in her hands. A jacket rests over her arm, and a set of boots rest on top of the fabric; a comb and some dark ribbon are on top of the boots. All of it, though it is clearly not new, is meticulously cared for.
“Those are not mine,” Michelle breathes, her eyes rising back to her mothers’ again. It is like staring into a mirror. Even in her age, the queen is the source of any beauty Michelle can claim for her own, and she prays that she has the same nobility. She will need it, today.
“They are mine, from many years ago,” the queen confesses. She brushes past Michelle, moving to the old, empty vanity that the servants helped Michelle clear out the evening before. There, she sets the comb, the boots, and the ribbon.
A shrinking suspicion fills Michelle, and she presses further slightly. “Before the King?”
“Before the King,” her mother confirms, a slight, composed smile crossing her lips as she glances at Michelle. “I used to travel quite often when I was young. You shall likely be given many such gowns when you settle into life in Terygen. They say the court is lively there.”
As Michelle’s mother lays the jacket out so it does not crease, Michelle moves to join her mother in arranging the materials. “I shall not wear them, so long as I have this one.” The words are quiet but sharp as Michelle sets the boots on the ground, and when she straightens she finds her mother smiling at her with glassy eyes.
“I should expect nothing less.”
It is the most sudden movement that Michelle has ever seen the queen make when she reaches for her daughter. Michelle finds her face cupped in her mother’s hands as a kiss is pressed to her forehead, and an exhale hitches in her throat as she presses her eyes shut. For just an instant, Michelle allows the pain in her throat to be felt. She takes in the soft hands on her skin, the kiss that has been given many times since she was young: whenever she fell, when she had a disappointing excursion, when she was worn down from a long lecture across the dinner table.
This is going to be the last one, and Michelle knows it with an awful finality.
When Michelle’s mother steps away, she lets out a soft breath and moves to undo the buttons of the men’s shirt Michelle is wearing. Before her daughter can protest, the queen raises a finger to hush her. “You will be aided in dressing often, once you arrive,” she warns, letting out a breath. “Allow me to help you, my brave one. Just this once.”
Rather than speaking and revealing the constricted nature of her throat, Michelle only nods.
It is strange, to be aided in dressing. Her mother produces the proper undergarments from within the folds of the fabric, things that Michelle has not worn since she was just reaching her adolescence and her father went through a phase of demanding she did so. In the end, Michelle is grateful for her mother’s help. She would not know where to begin with the corset, which presses unpleasantly against her ribcage, and the petticoat is larger than she had expected it to be. Stays would be impossible to do for herself, and they make it difficult to breathe. All this must be done before the gown is brought over her head, and the queen takes time in brushing down the fabric and buttoning it.
Michelle closes her eyes shortly into the process, simply listening. There is a rhythm to her mother’s precise movements: swishing of fabric, the shrieking of laces, the snapping of clasps. It is quiet and it is firm, and it is all of the traits that Michelle will miss most from her mother.
After she has finished with the gown, the queen begins to comb out Michelle’s hair. The sensation brings an ache to Michelle’s eyes again, for it reminds her of the times in her youth when her mother liked to do the very same thing. They have the same hair, and so her mother’s fingers are gentle and deft as they smooth the tangles that days of dread and panic have created. It is ironic, how in such a short time her mother can erase all traces of Michelle’s internal plight from her appearance.
After a short time of weaving locks of hair, the queen finally clears her throat. Gentle hands turn Michelle to face the dusty mirror, and when Michelle’s eyes find herself, she barely recognizes the one staring back at her.
She looks just like her mother.
Her dark hair has been combed and arranged into a knot meant to keep all of her curls from her neck and shoulders. The style is composed and it is regal and it is severe, all the things that both women know Michelle will need to be in the coming hours. She is garbed in the riding gown and jacket, and the deep, hunter green of the fabric reminds Michelle painfully of the woods she spent her childhood running through. The collar of the jacket clasps around her neck, and the garment is all buttons and crisp lines and regality. The boots, though they are clearly used to wear, are polished and shining where they poke out of the skirts, and Michelle would not have any of it any other way.
When she turns to thank her mother, she finds tears streaming down the queen’s face. They are swift and silent, and neither one acknowledges them as Michelle steps forward for one last embrace. She clings to her mother, and for once, the queen puts aside her dignity and holds her with the same desperation.
“I am not ready.”
“I know, my love. I know. I was not ready, either... I never would have been ready.”
“I do not know their ways.”
“You will learn.”
“I know not how a court operates, mother. I am used to being alone... I will want to be alone.”
“You will learn, my love, how to be alone in a crowded room. That is the only space you shall have to breathe, and you will learn to cherish it.”
“He will be like the King.”
Her mother is silent, but her arms grip Michelle even closer, almost instinctively out of protection. For a moment, the quiet stretches between them, and then the words that leave her mother’s lips break the silence into a million little pieces, though they are but a whisper.
“I pray, for your sake, that he is not.”