The temptation to wake Edgar by dumping a glass of cold water over him and demanding hey, quick question, who the fuck is Elizabeth is a very strong temptation indeed. But I know that in his condition, he is unlikely to be intelligible until after he has sobered up. So I storm out of his office, inform the night guard (sadly no longer Matthias) that His Highness is drunk and requires a transport to his bedchambers, then slip away to the guest wing. Thousands of questions are flying around in my head, colliding with the inside of my skull like a swarm of moths against a window. I want to cry. And I need a hug.
I am just sensible enough to observe the rotation of the palace guards. I stick to the shadows, wait for the guard to pass, and only approach Thorunn’s door when the hallway is empty. He is surprised to see me at so late an hour, much less at his room, but seems to understand my urgency at once and rushes me inside.
As soon as the door is closed, he asks, “What happened? Eloise, are you alright?”
I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t even know why I came here. Perhaps it simply that Thorunn is my only friend in the palace. Where I once would have fled to Martha, Laurie, or even one of the girls in a pinch, I cannot trust any of them. They are all complicit in my father’s madness. And soon, my own as well, if I do not get a grip on myself.
The longer I am silent, the more panicked Thorunn becomes. Frantic, he lights a lamp. “Are you injured? Who did it?”
“I—I’m not injured,” I finally manage. I take a deep breath and take his hands. “No one needs to die. I promise.”
Although I have coaxed him back from the brink of a barbarian’s rage, he does not seem fully convinced that I am uninjured. He leads me to the sitting room as if he is guiding an exceedingly old and frail grandmother to her deathbed, continuing to look me up and down for anywhere I might be hurt. Usually, I would despise such close scrutiny from a man. But now I just feel numb. Numb, and furious.
“Tell me, Eloise,” Thorunn pleads. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
How can I? How can I articulate the anger that is so hot in my chest that it threatens to boil me from the inside out? How can I possibly explain that I have learned everything that I ever wanted to know—that Edgar loves Mom, that he has been providing for us, that he wants to meet me and know me as his own daughter—but that I got my wish in the most insulting way possible?
He doesn’t even know my fucking name. That is the nail in the coffin. The conclusory leap is not a difficult one to make. Mom sent him so many letters over the years, usually writing my name as “Ellie.” If Edgar read even a single one of Mom’s letters, he might assume that Ellie was short for something else. But even I have written to him, when I was young and hopeful, and I always spelled my full name. So he has read Mom’s letters. But only a few of them, where she addressed me by my nickname. And he has read absolutely none of mine.
Every time we wrote to him, Mom and I waited tirelessly by the mailbox for weeks, hoping for a reply. None ever came. The only gifts I ever received from him were the books—an unsigned delivery from an anonymous benefactor, a generous gift certainly, but not a single word from the man who sent it. Not even a generic, pre-printed greeting card. I once assumed this silence was simply because he did not wish to contact us (or was entirely unaware that he should). The truth is worse. If the mad ravings that I read in his letters are to be believed, Prince Edgar has sent me and Mom a small fortune in gifts and a library’s worth of letters over the course of eighteen years. Yet not once did he wonder—or check—that they reached their destination, until we had already suffered in abject poverty for my entire life.
And I am angry. I am more furious with my father than I have ever been, possibly even more than when he killed Mom. He is responsible for more than her death. He is responsible for her suffering in all the years leading up to it. Before the community kitchen came around, she often went hungry so that I could go to bed with a full stomach. She slaved all day, every day, in that filthy washing house down the street so we could afford the rent. She stood behind me and covered my head to protect me from the neighborhood boys, laughing and throwing pebbles at the town lunatic. All of the suffering that Imogen Rossach endured was entirely preventable! This whole time, she was entitled to riches, luxury, and respect! That was what she deserved; it was exactly what Edgar promised her; and only by his sheer incompetence was it stolen from her!
“In eighteen years,” I laugh humorlessly—not realizing I am saying it aloud, until it is too late and I honestly don’t care anymore—“you’d think that in eighteen fucking years he would realize that something didn’t add up…”
None of it had to happen. It only happened because he did not care enough to check. Somehow, that hurts more than if he did it intentionally.
And then I am crying. I fold over my legs and just sob. When Thorunn moves close to comfort me, I collapse into him, burying my face into his chest to muffle my wails. Even in my darkest hour, at least I have the sense to keep my voice down, lest someone be listening in the room next door. I cry until my lips and fingers are completely numb, and then I just curl up in Thorunn’s arms and tremble. He encourages me to drink some water, which I refuse at first, then reluctantly accept. After a long time, during which the moon has dipped low in the sky outside of Thorunn’s window, I calm down enough to sit quietly and breathe without choking up.
I have never been more grateful for the silence. I don’t trust Thorunn enough to tell him the truth of my father, and I would not know what to say even if I could. But he does not ask, perhaps sensing that I cannot answer. Instead, he stays resolutely by my side. He only gets up twice, once for more water and a second time for his big fur cloak. As soon as he drapes it over my shoulders, I practically melt. It is heavy and secure as a full-body hug. Thorunn sits back down next to me, and with the barrier of his cloak now safely between us, I am relaxed enough to rest my head upon his lap.
“My lady?” he asks, stunned. “Is this…alright?”
I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is that I cannot possibly be alone right now, and all the people that I would want to comfort me are miles away on Lavendel Road.
“He’s just so fucking stupid,” I half-chuckle to myself. “But no more than me, I guess. I wish I never found out…I wish I never came to the palace.”
I should not be saying any of this. The words spill out anyway. After some time, he reaches down and brushes a lock of hair away from my face.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Thorunn whispers, “but I couldn’t be happier that you came. If you hadn’t…I might have never seen you again.”
His outlook on life is so simple. So innocent. Here I am, in a constant balancing act between past and future, losing sleep as I ponder every possibility, no better than the workaholic Martha chained to her desk, except that I don’t even have the luxury of my own desk, just a flimsy little schoolchild’s table in my basement room, still covered in a snowdrift of shredded letters that I haven’t figured out what to do with yet. And then there is Thorunn. He knows nothing except that I am here. To him, only chance brought us together. He sees no red string of fate or the foreboding shadow of an axe. It is just…life. How simple. He must be at such peace. I envy him for that.
I must fall asleep right then, because the next thing I know, the room is full of sunlight. I look up. Thorunn has barely moved an inch. His head nods forward and his eyes are closed in the peace of slumber, and as I shift to look around, I feel the gentle weight of his hand on the back of my head, as if he had fallen asleep petting my hair. I do vaguely recall that; it was quite soothing. When he feels me stir, he gives a little snort as he rouses out of sleep. Then his eyes fly open.
“Eloise! I—I’m so sorry—I must have fallen asleep, I didn’t realize…”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “Thank you for staying.”
Though my neck and back are slightly sore from the awkward sleeping position, I am wonderfully refreshed. The angst of the previous night is little more than a distant memory. I would be happy laying here forever, gazing up at those kind, beautiful gray eyes.
I push myself upright, cup his cheek in my hand, and kiss him.
He is surprised at first, but quickly accepts it. Gradually, his hands come to rest on my waist. They are so large that they can almost encircle it entirely. My heart flutters in anticipation. How natural it is, from there, to slide into his lap and part my lips to deepen the kiss; to let my hair fall free from its half-ruined bun; to press my chest close against his in search of his warmth and his closeness…
Abruptly, Thorunn yanks his head back with a gasp.
At that same moment, it strikes me how far we have gone—my legs straddling his, my petticoats pushed up to my hips, both of our faces flushed hot and red. “Sorðinn!” he exclaims, at the same time I scramble off of him with a flustered, “shit, fuck, god damn it,” and manage to put a couple feet of distance between us. He stands and starts to pace, hands on his hips. I frantically try to smooth out my skirts again and pull my hair back into its ponytail.
“Good gods, that is dangerous,” Thorunn pants.
“Like a strong drink,” I gasp. “I always assumed…when adults warned me about being alone with a man, lest I be tempted…”
“That it can’t be that bad, right?” he finishes. I let out a bark of laughter.
“Right! Surely I will have more self-control than that! Nothing can be so…”
“…wonderful.”
“…addictive.”
“I am so sorry, my lady. Please, you have done enough forgiving of me, but I must beg for it again.” Thorunn shakes his head. “That was crude of me, and I swear, I never mean to dishonor you…”
I stand and stride towards him. Now that we are no longer in such dangerous proximity to the sofa, I am confident enough to stand on my toes, plant a small peck on his cheek, and lower back to the ground without being sucked into another tempting kiss. “I do not need repentance, my lord. Only patience. In due time we shall have what we desire, but for now, I must focus on my work.”
“Was it your work that hurt you last night?” he asks.
The night of restful sleep is not enough to help me answer this question with any more ease than the first time he asked. I weigh my options for a minute, then respond carefully, “Not exactly. I’m afraid it is confidential.”
“You said something about…eighteen years.”
“I should not have said anything at all, my lord. I was upset about something related to workplace matters, and my thoughts slipped out into words. But I assure you, it is nothing you did wrong, and nothing we can change.”
Since we are both players in this delicate game of international politics, we are both expected to understand each other’s secrecy in workplace matters. That is why I have never bothered to ask Thorunn what his precise business is in Saol Eile, since there is very little he could tell me without betraying his own confidences to the North. And similarly, though Thorunn clearly worries greatly for me, he is not at liberty to know what I do while working for Prince Edgar.
Although he knows this, he is not happy about it. A moody cloud, like a spring thunderstorm, darkens his face. “I’ve got to be doing this chivalry thing wrong,” he mutters. “How am I supposed to protect you when I don’t even know what is going on?”
I manage a wry smile. “I can’t imagine it is easy. Perhaps this is why international romances are so discouraged—effective communication is nigh impossible without some treason.”
He nods forlornly. “Patience,” he echoes from earlier.
“Patience,” I agree, and rise up to kiss his other cheek. “Can you do just one thing for me, my lord?”
“Anything,” he promises. I believe him wholeheartedly.
After I give him his instructions, I go to the balcony and survey my options. Leaving Thorunn’s bedchambers the way I came in is out of the question, since the guest hall could be full of housekeepers and guards who could see me. We are on the third story, just above a forested patch of the gardens, where very few people would be this early in the morning. Perhaps some gardeners, sweeping up fallen leaves and branches or preparing the plants for a harsh winter, but unlike the notoriously gossipy house staff, I am not as concerned if a gardener catches me. Most of them care very little for palace scandals and just want to finish their job. As I am surveying the scene, Thorunn comes to my side.
“Eloise,” he says slowly, “you know I trust you. But you cannot be serious—”
“I just need some rope,” I tell him. “You must have a traveling pack somewhere.”
“ Eloise. You are going to break your ankle again.”
“I’m not going to break anything! This is nothing.”
As a merchant upon sailing ships, I was keenly fond of the crow’s nest, so much so that the crew of Master Odric’s vessels often called me “Mistress Corvidae”—so often was I clad in my dark, brooding plumage; and so unafraid was I of the dizzying heights. I recall my mother’s background as a chimney sweep, the scraps of rope I found around Edgar’s office window, and their fateful meeting in the library rafters. Climbing is in my blood.
To Thorunn’s surprise, I scurry effortlessly down the side of the building. The rope is mostly a precaution, wrapped around my waist to catch me if I fall, but not once do I fear that I will need it. The palace’s outer walls, like the inner walls, are crowded with lavish decor at every opportunity. These take the form of elaborate granite carvings, fantastic hand- and footholds for even a girl in a full dress and petticoat to scale the wall with ease. I reach solid ground in a matter of minutes. Once I have made it, I untie the rope, squint up the wall to Thorunn’s balcony, and offer a thumbs up. I dare not risk calling out to him, lest someone with an open window overhear. But I can still blow him a kiss. To my delight, he mimics as if he is watching it sail through the air, reaches up, and catches the invisible kiss before bringing his hand up to his own lips. I can’t help but laugh.
Were it not for Thorunn, this sunny Saturday would have likely been wasted in my own alcoholic stupor to match my father’s. But he has done the impossible and filled a cynic with hope. So, for the first time in a very long time, I return to the records department with a spring in my step, a smile on my face, and an earnest belief that things are going to turn out alright.
—
MEMORANDUM
RE: Regression Returns Strategy, Revision 5
DATE: November 22, 489 AR
I must be constant to remind myself that, although I firmly dislike him, Prince Edgar is no longer my enemy. He has been fighting the same battle that I have — a fight for the truth.
From the unsent letters I gathered in his study, I have learned the following:
(1) Edgar made semi-regular payments and gifts to Mom and I, enough that we might live comfortably. He made these gifts in secret by taking small sums of cash from the royal bank, ordering those withdrawal records purged, then paying for the gifts (including the fees for couriers, I assume) with that cash. He entrusted all of those receipts to Mr. Pym for safekeeping in his personal records. Somewhere in between him sending these gifts and our intended receiving of them, all but the books were intercepted.
(2) Knowing this, I was initially confused why Pym burning those receipts was so upsetting to Edgar. If he wishes to keep Mom and I a closely-guarded secret, why preserve the paper trail at all? But in Edgar’s letters, he alluded to someone “trying to convince him that we never existed.” He also expressed doubt that we were still alive — that we might as well have been killed, presumably by the same people who ordered destruction of the records. Edgar wants to preserve proof that we are real. Someone else wants to erase it.
(3) Pym stated that he was purging the records on the orders of Queen Philomena. If Her Majesty wants the records destroyed, and if Edgar suspects she would go so far as to have Mom and I killed, then I am very, very relieved that I never reached out to her. I hesitate on only one discrepancy: what motive would Queen Philomena, a literal queen with infinite money, have to steal the paltry child support payments and birthday gifts meant for Mom and I? I have no difficulty speculating why a queen might wish to erase evidence of her son’s affair partner and bastard child. I can even conceive of reasons why she might have them killed (particularly if she is concerned about the line of succession). But to deliberately cause their suffering in poverty? Out of what? Sheer spite? That just seems . . . childish. It feels almost beneath her.
Last remarks: I know very little about Her Majesty. I must also note that, as the year draws to a close, the time of her death approaches. I do not know when or how, only that it will happen next year. And when she steps off the stage, so will King Edwinn III, and Saol Eile will begin its slow yet inevitable decline into anarchy. This is the most peaceful the royal palace will be for the next seven years. The window of opportunity is quickly closing.
Next steps: I need answers. Why does Her Majesty want Mom and I to quietly disappear? Who stole the money and gifts meant for us? Are we in any actual danger, or are these simply the ravings of a madman?
But to answer these questions, I need to scrap every last bit of my previous plan. Edgar is no longer the target of sabotage or revenge. He — as much as I am loathe to say it — may be the only person in this palace that I can trust.