The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty by Mira Zamin
***
“What did Kershid want?” asked Gwydion as I entered our bedroom after spending the rest of the day sitting with Avera and grieving with the ladies of the court. Like the servants, they remembered the Queen before her illness, when she had been vibrant and ever-present. While we Emirati nobles knew her only by reputation and formal relations, they knew her personally. It was a hard loss and even the most weathered heart would have cracked at Avera’s broken grief.
Gwydion was lying beneath the bedspread, his muscled chest bare. His injured arm rested beside him. Propped up against the cushioned backboard, he was reading a book whose binding looked vaguely familiar. The wall sconces and small lamp on the ornate bedside table provided ample reading light. I was glad that Gwydion seemed as unmoved as ever. After a day of woe and lamentation, Gwydion’s insouciance was a welcome respite.
“I do not think I have ever seen you read before,” I commented as I scanned the wardrobe for my nightgown.
“There are many things you have never seen me do, my dear,” he replied mildly.
“And for that, I thank the Seasons everyday,” I retorted, changing into the diaphanous garment. I was too emotionally exhausted to do anything more with my grey dress than kick it to the side and leave for Reyal or Miri to sort. I climbed into bed beside Gwydion. “I have not eaten all day,” I hinted.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Allow me to get you something. By the by, while you were gone, a guard came in to announce that the Assembly will meet tomorrow.”
I regarded him steadily until he shrugged and reluctantly left the bed. I was thankful to note that while he was shirtless he had not completely disregarded the concept of pants.
“There should be some food in the front room.” Reaching over to the slim leather-bound volume he had been engrossed in, I was startled by the contents of the title page:
The Diary of Selene Lilah Khamad, Princess of Aquia
DO NOT READ
Offenders Will Be Persecuted
“I think you meant ‘Prosecuted,’” he called.
Blood flushed to my cheeks and forehead. “Oh no—I meant ‘Persecuted.’”
I tried to scrounge up what I had written in this one. Very likely something mind-numbingly embarrassing and slightly incriminating: in short, not something I wanted in Gwydion’s hands.
Balancing a silver tray of bread, sliced meat, and cheese, Gwydion returned. Seeing my shock, he smiled. “What do you think? The author has a certain witty charm to her style, but overall, I find the contents vapid, despite some interesting insights into her psyche.” Setting down the dish, he started assembling a sandwich.
“I wrote this when I was thirteen. I cannot even begin to fathom why you would want to read it. I am afraid to see what you may have read.”
Grinning lopsidedly, he brushed his fingers free of crumbs and stretched for the book. My grip tightened as I pulled it away. “Don’t you want to know why Kershid wanted to see me?” I dangled the offering temptingly.
“That knowledge will be with you forever. I am afraid that as soon as I fall asleep, this beauty will be thrown in the fire,” he grunted, wresting the journal from me. In return, he handed me the sandwich.
Folding my arms, I changed tactics. “I can’t see what pleasure you could derive from this. I have read everything you wish to parade in front of me.”
“Yes, but have I ever read it aloud to you?” He thumbed through the pages and affecting a falsetto, began to read. “I do think I love Lord Ferdas. Whenever I see him, I go all shivery-like and Rory has confirmed my symptoms. I’ve dreamt of him thrice in a row now. And what sort of dreams were these, Selene?”
I groaned into my sandwich.
He continued. “Meanwhile, Rory maintains that Lord Gwydion is besotted with me, which is truly hilarious because Lord Gwydion is already involved with someone: himself! Alas, this is a union I fear will produce no heirs for Lord Wiliem; very disappointing for all involved. My, were you not clever? A wit! I am afraid, my dear, you do betray yourself. Throughout this journal, I am mentioned quite often and very much derisively: a common symptom to use your terminology of love at this age.”
Sardonically, I answered, “Oh yes, of course. How could I have mistaken my deep and abiding affection for you as dislike! When you cornered me in Clemen, I was not attempting to flee because I did not like you, oh no, it was because I could not handle the depths of my love. Ugh. Why do you even have that?” I made a half-hearted snatch for the journal.
“‘Know thy enemy.’”
“I would say you have already achieved that,” I quipped, gesturing towards my belly.
He snorted. “It does my heart good to see that ever-biting wit live on.”
Extinguishing the sconces, he plunged the room into semi-darkness. The only light was the flickering lamp, which cast obscene shadows across the room, distorting colors and shapes. The bronzes and blues were sickly, bruising and the shapes were vague shadowed monstrosities. Stretching over Gwydion’s bare chest, I quenched the light, and the room fell into merciful darkness. A refuge from the rising panic. Cocooning myself in my blankets and with my head nestled in the crook of my pillow, I tried to fall asleep, but an eerie rattling would not stop echoing through my mind. It was the sound of the trembling cup Erina had raised the night before.