The Next Day

Carissa shuffled through her sheets of paper. Today was Lady Rita's birthday celebration, and the woman had made a point to invite the most influential nobles. And she'd invited Carissa to make the celebratory speech.

A black smear drew her gaze to the page. She'd been so intent on her speech she hadn't noticed it before; there were inky fingerprints dotting the paper. Carissa lifted a blackened hand and grimaced. Perhaps it'd happened when she'd been composing the speech. Or maybe her clammy palms had smeared the words.

There wasn't any time to clean them. She'd just have to avoid touching anything.

"Would you like me to clear the table, your highness?"

Carissa slowed and glanced around. A nearby door was cracked open.

"No, thank you. I'll wait a few more minutes." It sounded like Elon.

"Of course. If you need anything else, your highness, you only need summon me. You needn't clean up yourself; it's a servant's job."

"But isn't that what I am? A glorified, well-dressed servant?"

Both men laughed.

Carissa crept towards the door. It sounded like Elon was talking to someone.

The other man finally sighed. "Your attitude closely resembles that of your adoptive father, you know. And you're just as stubborn."

"Yes, Barry, I know." A smile lightened Elon's tone.

Carissa placed her hand on the doorknob just as someone began to open it. She stifled a gasp and plastered herself to the wall. The servant strode down the hallway without looking back; he hadn't seen her. She glanced to her right. And he'd left the door partially open.

She padded towards it and peered through the crack. Elon was seated at a table. It was of similar size to the great hall—where she'd eaten with the nobles her first morning in the palace. But it was smaller, with five seats at most. Only one seat was occupied—Elon's seat.

Elon had his cheek propped on his fist, staring out the window. The food spread before him looking delicious—with a rainbow of jams, lush loaves of bread, slices of meat—but it appeared untouched.

And then she realized who he was waiting for: her.

Her chest cramped, and she rubbed the heel of her palm over the ache. Elon had sent a written invitation to her that morning to break their fast together—even though she'd told him last night she'd be busy. And, of course, the invitation had been accompanied by a wild flower—as had the ones he'd sent earlier this week. Why he'd sent wildflowers when the garden was teeming with plump roses and colorful hibiscuses was beyond her.

She studied his profile: the curl of his caramel-colored hair around his ears, the shadow of stubble darkening the hard line of his jaw, the midnight blue fabric covering the expanse of his broad chest and shoulders. Why was he still bothering to wait for her to begin breakfast? Perhaps he knew she'd catch a glimpse of him, and it'd arouse her guilt, prompting her to spend more time with him.

Carissa peeled herself away from the scene and strode down the hallways—her strides lacking the efficiency and crispness she'd possessed earlier. Elon was a conundrum. Even when she wanted to understand, he denied her an explanation, saying trust should be enough.

Trust. It always came back to that.

But how was she supposed to trust him when he'd allowed so much to be taken from her: her purity, her sanity, and now Aleck?

***

They hadn't dared laugh at her face. Instead, they'd concealed their laughter behind twitching smirks, lacey fans, soft, manicured fingers.

She'd been speaking for a half minute before she'd noticed their oddly amused expressions. She'd muttered the rest of her speech, the words tangling on her tongue, before excusing herself from the room. A quick glance at her reflection in a window revealed the source of their delight.

Black ink trailed from her forehead to her hairline. The distinct shape of a handprint stained her cheek and part of her lips. After seeing Elon, she'd completely forgotten about her blackened hands and had run them over her face in anxiety while practicing the speech.

Her gaze dropped to the paper, and it crumpled beneath the tension of her grip, her nails puncturing the parchment with slit-shaped holes. Queen? More like court jester.

In truth, she was too tired to care as much as she'd used to. Her head felt tight as a drum with blood pounding out a steady tattoo beneath it. She walked to her quarters in a haze. The day was still young, but her body felt old. Even lifting her feet, feeling her slippers brush against the marble, was tiring.

Perhaps it was time she come to terms with never being enough. When first entering the palace, she'd thought it a plausible goal. Now she recognized it for the outlandish fantasy it was—a world in which everyone accepted her.

The door to her room thudded shut behind her. She sank against it.

The bed was tempting, its thick, creamy covers beckoning to her like a siren's call, but she hadn't the energy to heed its summoning. She should have gone to sleep earlier last night... but seeing Elon had been worth it. Even if he could be frustrating and confusing, at least he loved and accepted her.

It was just unfathomable that someone loved her so entirely—and perhaps that was the problem. She'd never been loved like this before; no one else in her life had been capable. Not that she blamed them. As of late, she hadn't liked herself much at all. How could Elon love someone like her?

She shoved off the floor and stood. Maybe his letters said something about his reasons for loving her. Perhaps she ought to read one. In the jailhouse, she hadn't had the energy to read more. And after she'd met Elon, she hadn't seen the need to. Carissa cleaned her blackened hands in the basin, rifled through the drawer of her nightstand, and pulled out a sheath of papers.

Bleeding ink. Crumpled parchment. Discolored golden borders. They smelled of her life in Zonah. If only she'd known how precious these letters would become to her, she'd have taken better care of them. She unfolded one.

Dearest Carissa,

You're eighteen now—a woman in full bloom. It's with longing and pain I write this letter. Longing, because what man in his right mind wouldn't long for his beautiful betrothed? Pain, because it's been six years since I've been writing you. Because it's possible I won't ever see you. Because you're about to be hurt in unimaginable ways.

If you just glance at this letter, none of this has to happen. I have so much better for you than this. But there's not a single future in which you read this before your journey to Zonah. This path is inevitable now. The only way you'll choose me is after you've experienced misery in Zonah. And it hurts that you find me so disgusting you'd choose the coming pain over me. I just hope you'll choose me in the end.

There are two futures with the strongest likelihood of coming to pass.

The first one chills and nauseates me every time I think of it. In this one, I send you letters twice more, using my Foresight to send it to the appropriate location. You don't read a single one. My older letters have been sold long ago—for five coppers total, on the condition you sell a part of yourself as well.

The location I send my letters to changes—the second nighthouse worse than the first as fewer and fewer men are willing to take what you offer. The lockdown has been over for a year, but you wouldn't have survived the journey home. And so you stay. You're supposed to me mine, Carissa. I'm supposed to wrap you in my arms at night, tuck your body next to my own, and whisper love to you until you fall asleep, a smile gracing your full lips. I'd give up everything I had just to guarantee I'd get to see that smile.

But in this future, I never do. In this future, its other men entangling their limbs with yours, whispering their lewd desires for you in the night. You've become quite adept at hiding your pain. No matter how abusive the man, the most you'll do is stare at the ceiling and count the cracks.

You die at 20. You only survived the pain this long from increased amount of stimulants, but one night, it becomes too much for you.

I'm a ghostly apparition, invisible and helpless. In my nightmares, I kneel next to you on the bed, caressing your bare, bruised shoulder and begging you—to wake up, to choose another path, anything but this, Carissa. Another man is also in the bed. He's slow to wake, his eyes glazed with the after effects of inebriation. He squints outside the window, examines the angle of the sun, and smiles. He's paid to have you until two hours before noon. He examines you in the daylight. He grimaces, then sneers.

His thoughts surface plainly on his face: She was a sight more pleasing in the dark. Should I even bother to use her for the rest of the time?

Then he shrugs his shoulders, making strands of his greasy hair fall down his back. He reaches over and squeezes you—where, I'm not at liberty to say. "Woman."

No response.

He mutters something about nightwomen and laziness before his hand flies through the air, smacking you across the jaw.

Kings are supposed to have pure hearts, uncorrupted by darkness. Even so, this is the closest I've come to hating someone. You're valuable and beautiful beyond what I can express, destined to be a queen, and he treats you with all the dignity due a pile of refuse.

He frowns and puts his ear next to your mouth. You remain still and silent and cold. More muttering, this time about a refund. He sits back against the bed and examines you with an interest I don't like. Finally—thankfully—he leaves.

And we're left alone.

I stretch out on the bed next to you. Though fleas fleck the sheets and stains mar the pillows, I would give anything to actually be there at that moment—and be able to breathe life back into your lungs. But even my gifting has its limits.

I cup your cheek, withholding tears so I can see your face clearly. As damaged as it has become, with one eye swollen shut, a cut lining your brow, your wounds weeping fluid, and bruises discoloring the whole of you, if this is to truly be my last glimpse of you, then I want to remember.

"I love you," I whisper, despite knowing the folly of it.

In these dreams, no matter how softly or loudly I speak, you never hear me. In this future, you haven't heard anyone tell you that they love you in a very long time. But I love you. And I always will.

If I had to choose between the breath I breathe and you, it'd be you every time. If I had to choose between never seeing another sunrise and never seeing you smile, I'd sooner give up the sunrises. If I had to choose between healing you before you died, leaving me permanently scarred and crippled, and my own health, I would have gladly accepted your suffering as my own.

Why would I tell you these things if it's near certain I'm going to lose you and you'll never read this? Because in the other future, this is what you need to hear. In the other future, you're mine—and I can't even express how much joy that thought gives me. But even so, you aren't always certain what you mean to me. I hope this letter will clarify that.

I've loved you for years, Carissa, and I ache for the sight of you. In a strange way, I'm jealous of my future self—the one in this future. He gets to savor your sleepy smiles in the morning, kiss you goodnight, hold you as you sleep, and comfort you as you cry. You get to be his, and he gets to be yours.

I want that, and I hope it comes to pass. I hope you choose me.

Ever Yours,

Elon

Carissa swiped the back of her wrist across her wet cheek before tenderly setting the letter back in the drawer. After a few minutes of searching, she found some paper and wrote him a note.

Elon,

I'd be honored if you'd join me to break your fast on the morrow.

Love,

Carissa

As unbelievable as it was, Elon did love her, and she was done doubting him.