VII.
It has only been a quarter-hour since Michelle arrived here, and she is already contemplating murder.
She is not sure whose murder it will be specifically, but someone or something will certainly be on the receiving end of her wrath if the stays on her gown continue to taunt her. Michelle understands her mother's warning now. If she is going to continue wearing gowns like this one, undressing will be almost impossible. No matter how much she tugs at them, prises at them with her fingers, or wriggles in the bodice of the gown, they seem determined to strangle her still.
Her boots lay discarded under one of the elaborate chairs, one sprawled on the floor while the other strands straight and ready to be worn again. The riding jacket adorns the same chair like a cape, while her circlet is one strong breeze away from tumbling off the washstand. On the whole, it has taken exactly fifteen minutes for Michelle to prove that she is not suited to a room as nice as this one.
Michelle is one more failed attempt from spitting out a haphazard string of curses when there is a knock at the door. Michelle's eyes snap to the door of the bedroom, narrowing. It does not make sense... The noise seems too faint to have come from there.
It is only after a second knock that Michelle realizes it must be coming from the adjacent room, whose door is still open. After a moment of quickly trying to erase the frustration from her brow, Michelle darts to the next room in a whirl of swishing skirts and bare feet slapping the floor. When she finally opens the door, the woman on the other side only makes her feel more disheveled.
The girl who awaits her has a sweet, fresh face and bright eyes that light up as soon as she catches a glimpse of Michelle. Her eyes do not go to the crumpled, partially undone gown or to Michelle's mess of hair. Instead, the pretty blonde offers her a smile and a quick, neat curtsy, gently tucking the small pile of clean towels she is holding to her chest.
It is odd, though... She does not look like a maid. She wears no uniform, but rather a simple but lovely gown of pale blue. The color is not dissimilar to the dress that Michelle's father had wanted her to wear. It suits her much better, pairing nicely with her sweet blue eyes and the tidy flaxen bun into which her hair is tucked.
“Your Highness," she greets, nodding. Her voice is even and composed, but it holds a bright sort of confidence that is unique to her disposition. “I am here to help you get fresh and settled in."
For the first time, the blonde's eyes flicker to Michelle's clothing. She scans her over in one look, but it is not a judgemental one. There is a sharp efficiency to the gaze, as if she were taking inventory of all the little details she can about Michelle. She has a quick mind and a bright spirit.
Those were two traits that Michelle had never considered capable of coexisting; at least, not outside of her books.
"Shall we get you out of those clothes?" the woman proposes, not waiting for Michelle's response. "You must be exhausted, I simply can’t imagine riding in a carriage for two days straight without stopping.”
Word travels fast here, then. “I-- erm, yes, thank you.”
Michelle blinks, stepping away from the door. Her helper does not wait to be asked again, stepping into the chamber that Michelle had not had a chance to examine.
It is like the bedroom, dressed in fabrics of a blue that is a bit paler in here. There are a few sofas, a table, and a writing desk. Several bookshelves line the walls, but Michelle does not have time to pay attention to the little thrill of interest that rises in her in response to them. The blonde girl is already moving for the door to the bedchamber, leaving Michelle little choice but to follow.
When she enters the door to the room, she finds that the woman has already begun to fill up the shiny copper basin. She has turned a faucet that Michelle had not noticed before, and now the humming of the pipes underneath the rushing of water into the tub reminds Michelle of a cheerful song. As the tub fills, the woman stands by the washstand, where she has set the towels after carefully moving Michelle's circlet to the dresser. She is taking a moment to arrange them in comfortable silence, and Michelle pauses for a moment as she contemplates whether to speak.
It is only once the blonde's back is turned that she finally decides to speak up. The woman is bent over, opening a small, carved cabinet that Michelle had not noticed before.
She clears her throat, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I am sorry, but are you...“
“Oh, a maid?” The woman finishes her sentence in a relaxed anticipation that surprises Michelle. When she turns, she holds a few pretty bottles containing various liquids that Michelle does not recognize. As she speaks, she begins to set them in an attractive arrangement on the washstand. Her expressive features and tone make sure that Michelle knows that she is engaged in her answer. “Not officially, no. But I still remember how to do everything, don’t worry.”
Michelle realizes that the woman thinks her question was to her qualifications, and her eyes widen. “Oh, I was not worried about… Well.” She pauses for a moment, weighing which is more important to her: correcting the woman's assumption or clarifying the response.
She decides on the latter. “Sorry, what do you mean you remember everything?”
Those clear blue eyes find them, and a lively understanding flashes through them. “Oh! Sorry, I’m terribly forgetful sometimes." The woman pauses mid-thought, swiftly to the tub to shut off the water with a practiced movement. It is after she has finished and turned to fetch one of the bottles that she speaks.
"I used to be a lady's maid-- for the queen, actually, ever since I was a little girl." The bottle's glass stopper is off in a flash, and then a few droplets of the contents spill onto the water's surface. The effect is immediate: the warm steam wafting from the bath smells of pine, which Michelle cannot help breathing in.
The woods... Sticky sap on her hands, leaves and needles tangled in her hair, and the taste of a storm on the wind as cool droplets christen her neck. The familiar images of home flash across her mind as she shoves them into the little chest of undesirable reminders in her mind. Better to focus on something else; currently, that something is understanding the woman who is so focused on arranging the screen in front of the window beside the tub.
"Queen?" Michelle asks, the word leaving a bitter tang on her tongue. That is a title that will be hers soon. In her experience, it is an empty one.
"Queen May, yes." Michelle recognizes the name she had found in her father's library. May, the wife of the deceased King Benjamin... The last queen. Michelle will be expected to live up to whatever standards she established.
The blonde woman finishes moving the screen with a satisfied sigh, brushing some nonexistent dust off the blue gown as punctuation to the action. "She was wonderfully kind to me... I truly did love growing up around her." Before Michelle can ask more, the blonde woman gestures invitingly for her to come closer. After a reflexive pause, Michelle steps toward her, and almost immediately her fingers begin to undo the stays. She was not wrong; she knows what she is doing. Her movements are deft, and in thirty seconds she has completed the task that Michelle had been attempting for fifteen minutes.
Her fingers remove the outer layer of the gown and begin to work on the corset, loosening it. From behind Michelle, the girl continues to speak. Michelle decides that this woman enjoys conversation. More than that, she is comfortable speaking about herself, which is more than Michelle can say.
"After my mother passed, I had nowhere to go. My father had died as a soldier before I was born, you see, and my mother was a cook in the palace kitchens." Though the story is a sad one, the woman does not tell it to seek out sympathy. Her tone is matter-of-fact and conversational as she finishes loosening the corset, causing Michelle to let out a breath of relief.
"Rather than turning me out into the streets, however, Her Majesty offered me a position as one of her attendants." The petticoat is next, and it takes a bit longer. Michelle is content to listen to the woman's story as she works, grateful that there is no need for her to speak. "I was young. It was my job to tend to her, but she practically raised me. When Eddie and I were married, she saw to it that our wedding was the happiest day of my life, and she was as proud as the mother of the bride the whole day."
"Oh!" The exclamation leaves Michelle's lips as the petticoat falls to the ground. The woman pauses in her reaching for it to cast Michelle a quizzical glance before she says, "You're Elizabeth."
For the first time, the girl's face lights up. Her eyes are even brighter when they are filled with joyful surprise, and Michelle cannot help the way her shoulders relax at the change. "Why, yes! But please, call me Betty. Almost everyone does."
Michelle takes the opportunity to step out of the petticoat, and before Betty can trouble herself with it, she reaches for the fallen cloth. As soon as she straightens, she realizes that her actions might have run the risk of offending Betty.
When she looks into the woman's eyes, she realizes she need not have worried. The blonde is not upset... In fact, if Michelle is not mistaken, a gleam of something like approval appears in her eyes. It is gone as soon as Michelle notices it, replaced by crinkling at the edges of her eyes as she smiles.
"Did Eddie talk to you about me?" In a few quick movements and some rustling of fabric, Michelle finds herself completely disrobed. Goosebumps rise on her skin as she resists the urge to cringe or attempt to cover herself.
However, Betty is not looking anywhere but Michelle's eyes-- in fact, Michelle is certain that the thought to do so did not occur to the woman. She seems to interested in Michelle's answer to focus on anything else, though she does manage to gesture to the bath absently.
Michelle inhales, letting out a careful breath. A bit of tension escapes her with the exhale as she moves to the tub. "He did, yes. He... Rode in the carriage with me."
"That he did, didn't he." Fondness, sweet and flowing like honey, enters Betty's voice. It would be sickly if it were not so genuine. Betty is difficult for Michelle to keep up with; she is quick and investigative one moment, softness and youth the next.
"Peter-- or King Peter, sorry!"
Michelle has just begun to climb into the bath when Betty continues and the name that leaves her lips nearly causes Michelle to slip. There is a splashing of water and the screech of Michelle's foot slipping down the side of the tub as she narrowly avoids falling.
Luckily, Michelle manages to catch herself by propping her hands on the side of the tub so that her body hovers a distance away from the water. Embarrassment heats her cheeks at the clumsy mistake... Is she really so easily taken over by her emotions?
Michelle glances quickly at Betty, certain that the sharp girl has caught the mishap and judged her for it. However, when Michelle's eyes meet Betty's wide ones, the concern in their blue depths is quickly revealed to have another origin.
"Oh, don't be offended," Betty presses, and it takes Michelle a moment to realize why she is worried. She thinks that Michelle will be upset that she has addressed royalty without their title, as if somehow an informal address to someone she barely knows is a great slight.
The thought nearly causes her to laugh, but luckily Betty's justification draws her back to the present. "It's just, we were raised together... And he doesn't much care for the title."
Michelle's mind whirs at the words as she lowers herself into the water. Raised together... But Betty had said herself the was the daughter of one of the palace staff, and the king was the ward of the monarchs as well as royalty in his own right. Yes, Michelle had grown up alongside many servants, but only out of necessity. If her father had been in possession of the necessary wealth, they would have had a staff of servants who were not permitted to interact with the royals outside of their station.
"You did not offend me at all." The words are quiet but genuine. Michelle comes dangerously close to offering Betty a smile, but she quickly remembers to keep guarded and careful.
She immediately regrets the thought when Betty shoots her a relieved smile of her own. Before Michelle can dwell on the action that has caused her to feel increased respect for this girl, Betty has continued talking.
"Thank heavens. You know, I was worried you would be one of those sort." Her words are conspiratorial now, playful even as she reaches for one of the bottles from the table.
When she uncorks it, Michelle smells soap, clean and not strongly scented like the stuff her father always insisted on having. Nevermind that they did not have piping and the water they used to bathe was cold; nevermind that the servants froze at night and the people starved.
"Those sort?"
"The snotty ones, with their noses up in the air." Betty hands over the bottle, and Michelle is relieved. The thought of being assisted in cleaning herself causes her face to smart. She much prefers to listen to Betty continue on as she dips her hair in the warm water, soaping her hands and then running them through the curls as the blonde continues. "All wrapped up in silks and titles and all that. Some of the royals who come to visit are."
"I would think you saw a lot of that, working for royals." Michelle tries to tell herself that she is simply continuing the conversation to keep Betty going, and nothing else. But it is not true, and she feels a sinking feeling as she realizes it. She genuinely cares about this woman who is unlike any other she has met.
She understands why Betty and Ned are married; there is something about both of them that makes them impossible to dislike or distrust.
"Well, I certainly have seen some." Betty's response is amused as she reaches to fetch Michelle a washrag. Michelle accepts it, using it to dry her face before pausing. After she has done so, she offers Betty a grateful nod, and the girl grins easily in return.
"Though it's surprising, really. The royal family has never been like that-- Heaven knows that King Benjamin never was, bless his soul." Michelle stiffens.
The conversation is moving in the direction of the man that Michelle would like to avoid. Michelle's desires are torn; she does not want to speak of the king, but she is interested in the history of the former monarchs. Luckily, Betty decides the direction of the conversation for her.
"In fact, he seemed rather determined to prove the opposite. If he hadn't been so ridiculously in love with Queen May, I'd have thought he married her just as an act of rebellion."
The past two days and the lack of sleep have dulled Michelle's defensive barriers, and she can feel her confusion flicker visibly across her face. Betty does not seem the least bit bothered by it. In fact, she seems delighted to have a reason to continue speaking.
Michelle decides she likes this about Betty. Conversation is easy with her; her quick mind allows her to anticipate the direction that the flow of thought will travel, eliminating some of the need for Michelle to respond. There are no mind games.
"Oh, you don't know?" Betty asks. It is not a disparaging comment. Michelle suspects that Betty would be disappointed if she did know whatever bit of trivia the blonde is about to tell her. "May is the daughter of a blacksmith from a village a bit outside the capital city."
Michelle manages to hide her surprise this time, but only just. For a moment, she runs the information through her sleep-addled brain to make sure she has not misheard.
"But... She's the queen." Her tone is not disapproving, but it is careful. Her father would rather Michelle died a spinster than marry below her station, despite the fact that Michelle's family lived with the same poverty that the peasants did. The kingdoms she has read of, the novels he had given her... All of them disapproved of marriages between royals and commoners. Wars had started over such things in the ancient days.
"Yes," Betty says, to Michelle's relief. For some reason, she had worried that Betty might think her disapproving for being confused. It should not matter what Betty thinks, but... The way the woman had said 'those sort' echoed in her mind.
She never wants to be 'those sort.' Michelle does not want to be anything like her father.
Betty breezes past it all, not noticing Michelle's pause. "But Benjamin never cared much for that sort of thing. He was a terribly rebellious youth, from what May has told me. Spent lots of time sneaking out of the palace in plainclothes, you know, riding like a madman through the surrounding villages."
There is amusement in Betty's voice, and as Michelle tips her hair back into the water to rinse out the soap, a slight smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. Something about the blonde's expressive emotions is contagious, and when she sees Michelle's smile, it only encourages her to continue.
"He wasn't enamored at all with the thought of the crown... But when he saw May, he was a goner." Michelle runs her fingers through her wet curls, but her eyes do not leave Betty even as she begins to soak the cloth with soap. "Married her less than a year after meeting her, and he spent the first month of it wooing her in secret! A right shock she had when he told her who he was."
Michelle can hardly imagine... Or maybe she can, what with her current predicament. Rather than dwell on that, she continues on. "And so she became queen after that?"
"Well, his parents weren't fond of the idea." Disapproval enters Betty's tone as she speaks of the monarchs from two generations ago. "They threatened to pass the crown to his younger brother, Richard, and his wife Mary. Benjamin didn't care, though. He told them that he would be just fine off and living with May as a peasant. Meant it, too... But, well."
Michelle is planning on asking Betty to elaborate, but she continues anyway. "They weren't given much of a choice, not really."
Betty is quiet for a moment, and the only sound is the lapping of the water against the tub's edges. "I do not understand."
Betty inhales for a moment, breathing in the smell of pine. "Richard was a youth, newly married, when he learned of his disease."
Richard... This is a name Michelle has never heard. It is not in any of the books she has read, has never come up in her father's discussion of Terygen. A second brother lost in the shadows.
Such an existence sounds rather appealing to Michelle.
"He was always a rather sickly child, though a sweet, earnest thing." Michelle begins to rub the soapy cloth along her skin, but she is careful not to let the water make too much noise. She wants to make sure to catch every word from this woman. It would be wise to have it available, to know the history of those who came before her.
It would be wise to know what has forged the man whose life has somehow become tangled with her own like gorse in a thicket.
"But as he grew older, it got worse. They knew he wouldn't live to grow into the crown for long, so they gave in and it stayed with Benjamin after they died." Though she will never admit it, Michelle finds herself feeling a quiet pride on Benjamin's behalf. A successful rebellion... Such a thing is almost impossible when your name is tied to a crown.
"They never did learn exactly what Richard had... Always coughing, always pale as death. And shortly after Mary revealed she was with child, he began to fade away. Never even lived to see his son born."
The blonde's careful words begin to make sense. Still, Michelle will not say the name; she will not risk letting it leave her lips if it is not an absolute necessity.
"And his son was..."
"King Peter, yes." This time, Michelle is ready for it. Still, her fingers clench slightly tighter around the washcloth in response to the surge of emotions that enter her chest. Confusion frustration, and more than anything a helplessness that makes her sick.
For an instant, Michelle thinks that those clear blue irises flicker to her whitened knuckles. However, Betty moves to replace Michelle's cloth with another, leaving Michelle to wonder if she is imagining things.
"King Benjamin and Queen May took him in, and they raised him as their own. It was unfortunate, but certainly not the worst outcome."
"Because they could not have children?"
Michelle's quick reply causes Betty to glance her way. "Why, exactly." There is pleasure in her voice. A similar feeling shoots through Michelle. She understands now. The chatty blonde does not speak on to hear the sound of her voice. She likes the process of guiding one mind until its movements are in step with her own, understanding.
With her love of sciences and writing, Michelle can appreciate that.
"You've certainly done your research," Betty comments idly, reaching to the bottom of the tub after rolling up her sleeve. Michelle hears the rush of moving water, and the level of the steamy water began to lower.
"Just a bit." Michelle does not want to be thought ignorant of their kingdom, but the stubborn side of her also does not want to be accused of caring for the king or his mahogany eyes.
She prefers to focus on the intelligent blonde who is able to distract her from all of this. "Thank you, for seeing to me even though it was not required of you."
"Oh, certainly!" Betty brightens at the thanks as she reaches for a soft blue towel. "Eddie mentioned that you had just arrived, and he told me that the two of you were stuck in that carriage for two days."
Betty's inflection makes the time spent sound like eons, and amusement warms Michelle at the hyperbole. "I never quite understood how he grew to be so comfortable with travel. He can sleep anywhere, you know."
Fondness again-- Michelle can hear it though Betty's back is turned, permitting her to exit the tub and wrap herself in the towel. As Michelle lightly presses the moisture from her long, soaked hair, Betty continues. "I envy him that. I never seem to be able to fall asleep when I need to."
Despite herself, Michelle finds herself offering Betty a piece of herself as she wraps in the towel. "My father used to have me drink sleeping tonics so I would not stay up all night."
She pauses, hesitating. Michelle does not know what it is, but something urges her to keep speaking. "I poured them all out my window. But he gave me enough of them that I could probably figure out how to make some for you."
When Betty turns, a laugh bubbles from her lips. It is a sweet sound, girlish, just like she is for all of her cleverness. "Oh, heavens know I could use it."
The woman begins to collect the various bottles to put them into the neat little cabinet, gesturing to a small pile of clean, white linen on the dresser that Michelle had not noticed before. Michelle is touched when she realized that the woman brought her fresh undergarments.
Though the ones she wore were her last bit of home, Michelle does not want to insult the woman's thoughtful preparedness. As she listens to Betty's words, she begins to tug on the soft material. "Though it's a bit of a blessing in disguise, really. I write best at night."
Michelle's head turns her direction as she finishes with the garments, interest filling her at the comment.
"You are a writer?"
Betty straightens and begins to collect the soaked cloths from the tub. "Yes, and a poet when I'm feeling dreamy." The comment causes Michelle to allow a small smile on her lips. She has always enjoyed the free structure of poetry.
Betty returns the smile from across the room, and Michelle feels a sympathetic thrill in her stomach as she spots passion lighting Betty's eyes. That is an expression she has never seen outside of her own reflection in her smudged beakers after an experiment.
Maybe she does not wish to be here... Maybe her heart longs for woods and thickets and crumbling hallways that will forever evade her. But at the very least, Betty has shown her that passion might not be lost to her here.
"I really fancy the histories," Betty confesses, her voice lilting and lively. "Collecting interpretations of the political movements of the palace, you know. All the important decisions that are too easily swept under the rug."
Oh, Michelle knows a thing or two about closed doors. A bitter laugh nearly leaves Michelle in response, but she contains it. The bitter sound would be ugly juxtaposed with Betty's fervor.
"Since I married Eddie, I've been bored out of my bloody mind without any work to do. Bless him, but my husband is compensated a bit too much to justify me staying on as May's attendant when there are others who could use the work."
Michelle nods in agreement as she turns to the shirt and breeches on her bed, despite the fact that they will almost certainly be too large. Betty does not seem surprised by the movement; Michelle is almost certain that Ned prepared her for it.
"I've never been the sort who is content keeping the few same rooms clean; Ned prefers to do the tidying, it calms him down when he is overwhelmed. Something he can control." Michelle does not stop to examine the slight envy that enters her from hearing Betty speak so easily on the thoughts of her husband. She knows for a fact that her father has never cared for her mother's peace of mind... But that is no fault of Betty's.
"So I write, at the king's encouragement. Soon, I'll be finished editing my first volume, and he assures me it will have its place in the royal library and in print."
So her future husband patronizes writing, and the writing of women. Her father would be scandalized.
Michelle pointedly avoids looking at Betty as she buttons the front of Ned's shirt. It is as she predicted-- both the tunic and breeches are far too large for her. But they are clean, and the cloth is far more comfortable than a stiff dress. She would much rather knot the waist of the trousers and tuck the shirt into them than don another corset.
She does not want to speak of the king... But Betty the type of woman that has never populated Michelle's life before. Self-assured, confident, and in control of her choices despite what life has thrown her way. Indulgent in what she loves rather than sacrificing it for the comfort of others.
It would be foolish not to cultivate an acquaintance (her mind whispered the word friendship) with such a woman. So when the response flashed across her mind, Michelle did not let it die on her tongue. "I would love to read it, sometime."
It was the right choice. For the first time, the eyes that are bright and quick soften slightly. As Betty steps closer to fix the collar on the overlarge shirt Michelle wears, it is an act of affection rather than one meant to help.
"Well, it's nowhere near ready to read..." Betty hums, stepping back to examine the fit and see if she can help. "But perhaps I can make an exception, as a wedding present."
For the first time, the familiar tone Betty uses causes Michelle to stiffen. The blonde does not seem to have noticed, and when she comes closer to fix the button that Michelle had missed in her haste, Michelle stiffens.
"You know, perhaps I shall write a bit about your story," she remarks thoughtfully, fixing the following buttons.
"After all, it will certainly be of interest to our people." Each syllable steals a little more breath from Michelle's lungs. She feels as though she is made of stone under Betty's fingers, and cracks of pent up exhaustion mingle with Michelle's feelings of being overwhelmed. The feeling of drowning returns.
"You're set to become a piece of living history here in Terygen, and-"
"No."
"Oh." Betty's surprised murmur hands in the air between them, and her hands are frozen on the last button. For a moment, Michelle sees hurt flash across the irises that is terribly, terribly transparent.
Michelle has never understood why drowning people would injure their rescuers-- not until now. In her flailing to regain her control, Michelle had not been capable of focusing on anything but herself.
Betty steps back, and her face is drawn into a reserved expression that somehow cuts into Michelle. Immediately, she misses the familiarity, the mischievous gleam in the blue eyes as Betty said something slightly controversial. It is not any emotion present that is distressing, it is the lack of anything in those clear eyes.
"I... That's alright. I have quite enough material to edit already." Betty's lively tone has been replaced by one that is measured and methodical.
Michelle hates it, hates that she caused it. For a moment, there is silence as Betty turns to gather up the towels and washcloths in her arms. This time, it is Michelle who offers the first words.
"Betty... I am sorry."
"It's alright." The response is immediate. Betty's back is turned to Michelle as she repositions the load she is holding, but Michelle knows that it is not enough. She can see the tension the blonde woman is holding in her shoulders.
"No, it is not." Michelle exhales, running a hand through her wet curls. "I suppose..." The sentence trails off as Michelle struggles to follow it, struggling to collect her thoughts.
Betty is quiet, but when she turns, that persistent curiosity returns. It is tentative, but it is there. "You suppose?" The words prompt her to continue, and they give Michelle a flicker of hope.
She can mend the damage she has caused, but in order to do so, she will have to be vulnerable. Michelle has never had to open herself; everyone in her life up until now has known all they needed to about her. Odd, unpredictable, offbeat. But now, faced with a woman she cares about even though she has just met, Michelle has to truly explain herself for the first time.
Betty likes to make the effort to make others understand, so Michelle will return the favor to make it right.
"It is strange, to think of myself a part of your nation's history." The words might be offensive if they were spoken absently, but each syllable is thoughtful from Michelle's lips. "My kingdom's history books have never painted a story worth telling."
There is a moment of quiet uncertainty, and Michelle's heart begins to pound. Just when she thinks Betty is going to turn and go back to gathering her things, the corner of her lips quirks up. "I understand."
Michelle nearly breathes an audible sigh of relief. "A lot of the time, the stories we tell are the sort that should never have been written in the first place. I understand that better than anyone."
Of course she does. The act of recording history is a powerful one... Narrative is everything. One word can change the definition of an entire battle because it is not the battles themselves that really matter; it is the consequences. By choosing to devote herself to recording these histories, Betty is not just immortalizing battles, policies, or movements. She is eternalizing why they matter, or if they do at all.
Michelle decides that if someone must do the job, Betty is the right person to wield that power.
Betty takes a breath and lets it out, straightening. She is less tense, but something still holds her back. Finally, she begins to speak, peering at Michelle through sharp blue eyes. Whatever she is about to say, it is a test.
"But if you're ever looking to put down one worth reading, I would love to capture it with my pen. Heaven knows history could use a few more queens writing it."
Warmth sparks through Michelle like the first, flickering breaths of a wildfire. The spontaneous smile that grows across her lips is as genuine as it is foreign to her.
"I would like that." There is something almost playful in Michelle's voice, though she is completely truthful.
Michelle's fire is spreading, and the smile that Betty offers in return only makes it grow. "Me, too."
For a moment, Michelle worries that she is going to have to say something more, give away more of herself than she already has. Though she likes Betty, she is not sure she has it in her with the exhaustion weighing on her.
Luckily, Betty has moved on-- something she is able to do easily, it seems. This particular trait is refreshing, and Michelle straightens slightly as Betty sets down the towels, removing any thought of her leaving just yet.
"Now, won't you let me comb back your hair? You've got the loveliest curls."
Though Michelle is tired, she does not think twice about complying. Betty moves her to sit at the vanity, and her hands are gentle and experimental in Michelle's wet hair as she continues to speak about her writing. Perhaps her hands are not as experienced with Michelle's type of hair as her mother's but they are just as gentle. Betty is a fast learner.
Shortly after Betty has begun to comb through Michelle's wet hair, a few of the footmen enter the room with the trunks that Michelle brought with her. This causes Michelle to relax further. She may be in unfamiliar rooms, but at least she has her collection of mysteries to surround herself with like armor.
For a half an hour, Michelle and Betty sit at the dresser, with Michelle commenting every so often on what Betty is doing with her hair. At the first mention Michelle makes of some of the styles her mother favors, Betty is further transfixed by the idea of doing Michelle's curls. By the time she finally stands to leave, she brings with her a promise that she can do Michelle's hair whenever she wishes. Michelle is grateful for the promise of further interaction with Betty, and Betty is pleased by the idea of more chances to innovate with the traditional styles of Terygen.
When the blonde leaves, Michelle is left in a room that is too quiet. Michelle has always enjoyed solitude; she had longed for it from the moment he found herself surrounded by enemy soldiers. But now that she has what she wants, there are too many opportunities to think about what awaits her.
Michelle is not ready to sleep just yet; she knows she will only dream of what is to come. So, instead, she turns to the trunks. When the first is opened and she is greeted with the musty smell of old paper, she can feel some of the tension drain away.
A pile of books and old experimental volumes grows at her side as she chooses which she would like to have on her nightstand, watching her sleep like old friends. She is not sure how long she has worked when she hears a slight tap on the door.
She knows who it is by the sinking in her chest and the increase in her pulse. Michelle turns her head from where she is kneeling on the ground, and sure enough, the careful brown eyes that have been lingering in the back of her mind lock with her own.
He still wears the same clothing as before, though the passage of time since their first meeting is evident on them. The bottom button of his doublet has come undone, reminding Michelle of the way that Betty had fixed her own button. She ignores the thought, not wanting to draw any comparisons between them.
They are not alike, and she will not even tolerate the thought.
Still, it is hard to ignore the signs of youth that are so reminiscent of the fact that they are not separated by many years. Beneath his crown, the curls that he had made some attempt to smooth earlier are a bit disheveled, not quite obeying him. She knows that running his fingers through them would just make it worse, the same way that tugging on his slightly crooked collar would only cause the other side to appear askew.
"I just--" Michelle raises an eyebrow as he speaks, causing him to pause. He clears his throat, collecting his thoughts. "I wanted to make sure you were settling in alright."
Michelle turns to her trunk, exhaling in a controlled breath. "You do not need to explain yourself to me."
He is silent for a moment, and she does not look at him over her shoulder. Michelle rises with the old volumes in her arms, steeling herself as she turns to walk to the nightstand. When she turns and finds his doe eyes on her still, though, she cannot help freezing.
"I am sorry if none of our clothing was to your liking," he says quietly, an earnest note in his voice. "If there is something you would like made, you can ask anyone here. They would love to help you."
It is hard to focus when he speaks that way-- hard to hate him when he acts so concerned. But he is not Ned or Betty. He is not an innocent bystander to this; he is the reason she is here. She will be civil, but he will not lower her guard."I am just fine with this sort of clothing."
No surprise crosses his face. No argument leaves his lips. Instead, he makes a move like he is going to step closer, then seems to catch himself. His words are measured, but Michelle can hear the honesty behind them. "Then we could make you more clothing like that."
Michelle does not respond. She finally manages to uproot her feet from the floor, approaching the nightstand and setting the books onto it. She does not look her way as she begins to arrange them into a small pile based on size
"Is it Ned's?" She pauses, clutching the largest of the books, but it is only for a moment. "He mentioned that the two of you had some time to speak on the ride here." She slides it beneath the others, finishing the stack.
Just when it seems like she is going to let his words fade into nothing, she turns. Her eyes are emotionless, her face stone as their gazes meet. "We did." A pause, then the words that she has been thinking all day leave her.
"He is a good man."
Something almost like a wistful smile hovers at the corner of his lips, causing Michelle's eyes to flicker to them. "I think so, too."
Michelle stares into those gleaming eyes, inscrutable. Her own mouth tenses at the edges as her chest rises and falls uncertainly, and then she is moving to the trunk again.
"Princess--"
"Yes?" She responds too fast, pausing again and turning to him in one swift, angular movement.
He was not expecting such a quick response. In fact, by the way his mouth falls open slightly, Michelle can tell he was not expecting her to respond at all. He blinks several times to regain his thoughts and finally does so under her piercing gaze.
"I cannot help feeling like..." He trails off, but she does not make any move to help him. If there is something he wishes to say, he will have to decipher it himself. Still, she is not prepared for the words he settles on.
"Like I have done something to hurt you." Michelle takes a breath sharply. To hide the movement, she turns back to the trunk, kneeling with her back to him once more.
After a moment of quiet, the king speaks again. "Please, if there is anything that I can do to make this adjustment easier, I would love to know." The same feeling that overcame her when Betty spoke of the wedding returns. Michelle feels like she might rupture like an open sore, spilling around her the exhaustion and frustration and bitterness like an infection.
"You have done nothing that you are not perfectly entitled to." Each word is precise, methodical. They fall into the air, measured droplets into a beaker. Calculated, familiar.
"After all, you won."
Quiet: a successful experiment.
Michelle rises, holding a few more old bundles of parchment. She is halfway to the bed when the words come, all at once, like they have been spring-loaded.
"I need you to know that I hold no ill will toward your kingdom."
Hers are just as quick-- rounds from a musket. "I wonder if my people whose crops and livelihoods have been destroyed would say the same."
"Please, Your Highness, you have to understand-"
The parchment is set on the table beside the books in a rustling of torn edges. "That is where you are wrong, Your Majesty."
"Peter." A note of quiet vulnerability. He is asking her to meet him, in the same way that Betty had. But they do not have the same rapport; Michelle has made certain of that.
It is safer that way.
She turns, slow and careful. When her eyes find those chocolate ones that capture her, she is not ready. But she is more prepared than she was, enough so that her words come after a short pause. "I do not have to understand anything."
He is quiet, gaze unwavering, and Michelle feels more words rise up as a defense. "I have come, just as you wished. I am going to be your bride, and your queen. That is what you wanted."
"I..." He catches his breath, and Michelle can see conflict shooting through his eyes. However, under her eyes, he makes the decision to step towards her. Something in his eyes feels like it is reaching for her.
"It isn't, if I am honest."
She cannot breathe. He has stolen all hope of that.
If did not wish for her to come, did not want her to rule with him, then why accept her father's desperate exchange? For favor, in the eyes of his people? To further drive home a victory that had been inevitable for more than a decade?
Either he is a sadist, a fool, or... No.
She manages to force out the words with the ghost of the air in her lungs. "Then you are a crueler man than I thought."
"I never meant-- I thought..." If Michelle is drowning in his ocean, then he is sinking in the mires of the fens that hide in the forests of her homeland. "This is for the people, Princess. Yours as well as mine."
Michelle purses her lips as her gaze digs into him. "I said that you did not have to explain."
"I know." He takes another step forward, and her heart rises in her throat at the desperate gleam of hope in his eyes.
"But I'd like to."
For a moment, they are quiet, staring at one another across the room. Somehow, the distance feels impossibly far and yet still connected. Michelle feels like a spider in the center of a web, staring at the mayfly that is struggling across the yards of silk. If she wished, she could have him at her side with a flick of her wrist; she could break him just as easily.
She can dash herself to pieces on the ocean rocks, or she can allow her people to live the rest of their lives struggling for survival like prey animals in the cruel forest.
"I would like to rest." The words catch in her throat, and they are so quiet that Michelle thinks that she might not have said them at all. The thought is quickly disproven by the way his face falls, the flicker of hope swallowed by clouds of disappointment.
The expression is concealed in an instant, though not with the mastery that Michelle is using to maintain her countenance of marble. Though his face composes itself, Michelle can see the slight dip in his shoulders, as if a heavy weight has been placed upon them. He takes a breath, and when he speaks, his words are soft.
"As you wish." Michelle is too tired to examine how she feels about this unfamiliar respect for her desires. "I will ask someone to bring you dinner."
Michelle swallows, and she managed a stiff nod if nothing else.
He collects himself, turning, and Michelle waits for the sound of his boots on the floor to fade. However, the rhythm of his movement stops in her doorway, and Michelle catches her breath.
"If there is anything you need, anything at all..."
Michelle shuts her eyes as if doing so will cause her heart to stop pounding like that of a startled rabbit. "I will ask."
There is a slightly rustling; he is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, she realizes. Just when Michelle has finally caught her breath, his quiet words drift towards her, driving all thoughts of sleep from her weary mind.
"Goodnight, Princess."
And then he is gone, and Michelle is left with a pile of books and an ache in her throat.