Chapter 64
When I awoke once more, the light seeping through the window was either the first whisper of dawn or the last sigh of dusk. It hardly mattered. What did matter was the sheer agony on my body. A fresh wave of sweat broke out upon my brow.
My gaze landed on the maid, Mrs. Barly, who sat beside my bed, knitting. She glanced up, caught my eye, and immediately abandoned her work, leaning forward with that motherly concern I did not ask for.
"Lady Florence, shall I fetch you some medicine and soup?"
Ah, soup. That wretched, infernal concoction. The very thought sent my stomach into revolt.
For three months, this wretched cycle repeated itself. The seasons shifted, autumn losing its grasp, winter whispering at the door, yet I remained trapped in this little wooden prison, half a corpse. My wounds had mostly healed.
I had learned, in between bouts of nausea and fever, that I had been deposited in a secluded cottage deep within some forsaken forest, a charming arrangement that included Mrs. Barly and two guards who, I assumed, were there to ensure I did not suddenly rise from my deathbed and make a run for it.
And yet, despite my apparent worthlessness, food, fine food at that, was delivered to the cottage every two days. Spices, the richest cuts of meat, the freshest produce. I wanted to laugh myself into unconsciousness. Why waste such extravagance on a dying prisoner? Was it to mock me? To prolong my suffering with the knowledge that even my execution was to be done in style?
The cruelty of it all was, admittedly, impressive. Whatever poison those two wretched women had forced upon me had done its work spectacularly well. I could not hold down a single meal for more than an hour. Three times a day, at the very least, I emptied my stomach with a vengeance. My monthly cycle had long since vanished, as though even my body had resigned itself to the thought that I was, in fact, beyond saving.
And then, quite suddenly, in the fourth month of my imprisonment, the torment ceased. No more nausea, no more stomach-wrenching misery. I could hold down food. I was gaining weight again, albeit at a slow pace.
It was only when I stood before the mirror one evening, regarding my still too-thin frame, that my fingers brushed over something unfamiliar. A small swell in my lower abdomen.
Sitting in the warm bathtub, I allowed Mrs. Barly to fuss over me as though I were still on my deathbed, as though I had not spent the last month holding down food like a triumphant warrior of digestion. The poor woman scrubbed my shoulder with such care, one would think I might crumble to dust at the slightest pressure.
"Have they changed the poison?" I inquired mockingly.
Mrs. Barly faltered, her cloth hovering uncertainly against my skin.
"This new variety seems to have taken a particular fondness for my stomach," I mused, watching the water ripple with my movements. "Perhaps I am cultivating a disease in there. A most fascinating experiment, truly."
She said nothing, only continued her diligent washing.
I leaned my head against the rim of the tub, closing my eyes. "Excellent. Fabulous. I could not have asked for a more thrilling existence."
By the fifth month, the mysterious bulge in my abdomen had grown a touch larger. Not alarmingly so, but enough for me to regard it with the sort of disdain one reserves for an unwelcome houseguest who refuses to leave.
Sitting by the window, I rubbed the lump absentmindedly, my eyes fixed upon the great expanse of white beyond. The forest was coated in snow, its branches bowing under the weight, its paths long hidden beneath the frost. A picture of serenity, if one were inclined to appreciate such things. I, however, was not. My gaze slid to the locked door.
Five months. Five long, mind-numbingly dull months in this suffocating prison. At first, I had thought they might at least allow me the privilege of fresh air, but no. The window was thick, sealed shut as though my very breath might carry with it the means of my escape.
I snorted. Did they truly believe I would attempt to flee? I, a woman with a leg that functioned more as an inconvenient accessory than a limb? Without a cane? Without so much as a sturdy branch to aid me? What, precisely, was I meant to do? Limp heroically into the snowy abyss?
Life had become a dreadfully tedious affair. At the very least, they could have given me a book. Something to occupy my mind, to keep me from sinking entirely into the abyss of my own misery.
The thought struck me with such force that I decided, then and there, to make my plea. What did I have to lose? They had already imprisoned me.
I rose from my chair, limped to the door, and raised my fist, fully prepared to demand my entertainment. But then I caught the sound of hushed voices beyond the door. Naturally, I pressed my ear to it. I had nothing better to do, and eavesdropping counted as theatre in desperate times.
"Six months, and only showing so little?"
I narrowed my eyes. That was Annette's voice. Annette Vaneeri herself, gracing this humble prison with her presence? How honored I was. Truly, I might shed a tear from the sheer privilege.
"She had it hard the first few months. She is doing well now," came Mrs. Barly's response.
Then, a female voice I did not recognize. "Madam, are you entirely certain it is Her Grace, Millicent's?" A pause, then, with a hushed sort of audacity, "What if it is one of the guards'? In prison, well, anything might occur between a guard and a female prisoner. Even a male prisoner, too."
What in the name of all things unholy were they prattling on about?
"I am certain." Annette's voice was calm. "I have screened every guard. Not one of them has so much as breathed improperly in her direction. She is carrying my grandchild."
I was only half-listening, cobbling together their words into some semblance of meaning, mostly out of boredom. And then, Annette uttered the words that turned my blood to ice.
"Make sure to handle Lady Florence with care, Dr. Barly. I expect her to give birth to a healthy child. If anything happens to my grandchild, you shall be the one to pay the price."
I forgot how to breathe. My hand trembled as I lowered my gaze hesitantly to the slight protrusion beneath the fabric of my dress.
No. Absolutely not. It was impossible. Millicent Vaneeri was defected, through and through. Unbelievable. This was some manner of cruel jest. A sick, twisted trick designed to break me further. It had to be.
I shot forward and pounded against the door, my fists landing with furious force, my heart raced to match the rhythm.
"Open this blasted door!" I roared. Anger poured into me like a flood, but it was not alone. No, it came tangled with fear, with anxiety.
Annette's voice. Her wretched, damning voice, echoing in my skull, granting my dying wish at a later date.
I did not want to believe it, but the pieces began to fit.
Moving me from the cell to here. A much more comfortable place. Mrs. Barly assuring me I had not been poisoned. The rich meals, the fine ingredients, food meant for someone worth keeping alive. The way Mrs. Barly treated me as though I were a porcelain doll rather than a prisoner. And the sickness. The months of sickness.
Not poison.
No.
Pregnancy.
A pregnancy effect. It had to be.
"Open this damn door!" Just as I raised my hand for another strike, it swung open, nearly throwing me off balance.
"Lady Florence, are you unwell?" Mrs. Barly stood before me, her hands reaching out with feigned concern, her expression an artful display of practiced sympathy. "Come, let me help you back to bed."
I shoved her aside with a glare that could have set fire to the walls. My fury had found its target. My sights locked onto Annette Vaneeri, standing composed, indifferent, as though she had not just sentenced me to a fate worse than death.
I surged toward her, my hands curled into claws, intent on wrapping them around her elegant throat. But, cruel as ever, my body betrayed me. My left leg buckled beneath me, sending me stumbling. Before I could collide with the ground, Annette caught me, the force of my fall pulling her down with me.
"Be careful!" she scolded, as though I were a reckless child.
Rage consumed me. I swung my palm toward her face, determined to leave a mark. Yet, before my strike could land, my wrist was seized in an iron grip. One of the guards.
Annette rose with effortless grace, stepping back. The guard held me down.
"Curse you!" I spat.
"Take Lady Florence back to her room," Annette instructed, her voice as smooth and unshaken as ever. "It seems she is tired."
"Yes, I am tired," I hissed. "Tired of you and your daughter's endless treachery!"
Annette barely spared me a glance, merely adjusting the folds of her gown as she turned to Mrs. Barly. "Watch her carefully."
She moved toward the exit.
She thought she had the power to dictate my fate so easily?
"I will not give birth to this devil of a child."
She stopped and turned her head, glancing over her shoulder with amusement.
"You do not have to give birth. You have your own will, after all. We shall simply cut you open and take the child ourselves. Not a great inconvenience."
She left. Just like that.
My vision blurred, and I turned my face to the floor. My fists clenched against the wooden boards, as though I might hold back the blades twisting mercilessly within my chest. I pressed my quivering lips together, determined not to let a single sob escape.
I would not cry.
But a silent tear slipped free, striking the floor. Then another. And another. They fell without end, pooling beneath me as my lips parted at last, and the sound of my raw grief broke from me.
Millicent Vaneeri, the woman so revered for her unwavering sense of justice, was ordering this.
It hurt, it hurt beyond words, this wretched realization that there was no justice for me.