Somewhere far from the palace, Anne sat in the quiet of her chambers, her eyes closed, letting the hush of the evening settle into her skin.
She breathed in deeply as nimble fingers worked over the arches of her feet, kneading tension from muscles wound too tightly for too long. A soft sigh escaped her lips. The scent of rosewater floated through the air, mingling with lavender oil and the faintest smoke from the hearth. Her fingernails gleamed wet with fresh polish, and her long golden blonde hair was being brushed in slow, even strokes by a silent maid standing behind her. This was the one part of her life she still found peace in.
These were the rare moments she allowed herself to relax, and perhaps the only joy she had left in being Lord Baldric's wife.
For once, her body did not feel like a clenched fist. She could almost pretend her life had quiet joys.
The house was quiet tonight. It had to be—too many parts of it were falling apart to allow guests stay in the house. And their staff has considerably declined due to unpaid wages. Everything was falling apart, quickly too, but here in her private room, with hands tending to her and silence as her companion, she could pretend everything was still whole.
Then, in the distance, she heard it—the groaning creak of the estate's gates and the unmistakable grind of carriage wheels over uneven stone. Her brow twitched. The rhythm of the hair brushing slowed.
He was home.
Anne let out a long, quiet sigh and lifted a hand. "Enough. You may go."
The maids obeyed swiftly, bowing with murmured farewells before vanishing through the door. The room felt colder once they were gone. She pulled on a robe and moved to her dresser, retrieving a book she had little interest in reading. She opened it anyway, angling herself in a pose that looked attentive, composed. Productive.
He would come. He always did when he returned.
Tonight, he would ask about the soirée. About the Queen. About whether Anne had managed to charm Her Majesty enough to give Baldric a way back into favor. He had poured more money into the event than he could afford, handing Anne a budget that had startled her. But desperation made men generous. And he was desperate. His businesses had crumbled. His reputation was in tatters. No partner would align with him now—not since the rumors of his deceit had made their rounds across every noble court.
The house was bleeding. She knew it. He knew it. But he refused to speak of it. The house had grown sparse. Rooms sealed off. Furniture sold. Roof tiles leaking and not repaired.She'd hosted the soirée in the gazebo for that very reason. The house was too empty to hide.
The soirée had been his gamble. To impress the Queen. To be seen. To be welcomed back into court's good graces.
She didn't know how long they could maintain the illusion. The coins Lord Mortimer had provided would not last long. Not with the staff unpaid and repairs ignored. The longer they clung to appearances, the harder it would be when the mask finally fell.
The door burst open.
Anne jumped slightly, though she didn't lift her head. She kept her gaze on the book until Baldric strode in, humming with energy.
He looked... radiant. Lit from within by something strange and buoyant. She frowned. His face was flushed, his eyes wide, and he looked ten years younger than he had this morning. Her fingers tightened around the book's spine.
"Anne!" he exclaimed.
She forced a neutral expression. "You're home."
"I am!" he declared, closing the distance in two strides.
She barely had time to close the book before he pulled her into a hug. His body pressed too close, too sudden. She went stiff. His breath—thick with tobacco and poorly chewed mint—hit her cheek. Not wine. That was unexpected. He wasn't drunk and that unsettled her more.
She kept her arms at her sides and said nothing. He didn't seem to notice.
Baldric—" she began, but he pulled back just enough to look into her face.
"Anne," he said, and his voice was thick with strange affection, "my darling wife. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were my good luck charm."
She barely managed to keep her lips from curling.
"How lucky I am," he continued still holding her, "that you are mine."
She tried to pull away subtly, but he held her fast. Her stomach turned. His cheerfulness was misplaced, and she was already dreading the crash that would follow once he learned that the Queen had refused.
She opened her mouth, ready to douse whatever delusion he was currently bathing in when he suddenly stepped back and grinned wider.
"The Queen has been kidnapped."
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
"What?" she asked, staring at him.
He beamed. "Taken not far from here. Can you believe it?"
Anne's lips parted, but no sound came. She blinked, still caught between confusion and disbelief. "I saw her... this evening."
He waved a hand. "Yes, yes, apparently it happened not long after she left."
She was still trying to process what he was saying when he continued.
"One of the palace guards came here. Wanted help from the estate's men to search the woods. As if we've got guards to spare!" His laugh was bitter, dry. "I told him we had none. Which is nearly the truth."
Anne slowly lowered herself into the chair. The weight in her chest grew heavier by the second. Her mind raced, but her face remained composed.
Taken. The Queen. Taken near here.
"How could something like that happen?" she asked, more to herself than to him.
Baldric didn't answer. He was too busy pacing the room now, triumphant, as if the disaster was a gift wrapped just for him.
"This changes everything," he muttered. "Everything."
Anne looked down at her hands, nails still drying, polished and perfect. And yet she could feel the tremble returning to her fingers.