Page 61 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

She cries for the hundreds of times Elsa would fix her hair the morning after, asking how she slept, and she would lie, noting the pinch of Elsa’s nose as she would turn away. For the times she would ask Fern to leave the tinted cream behind and she would dab a bit onto her wrists, covering the little bruises.

'Why will you not talk about it? Why will you not admit what really happened? You spend so much time defending his memory, but I knew the whole time.’

Myla shudders, wishing she had the heart to ask him why he never talked to her about it before. But she already knows the answer. Bryar has never been a man to probe or insert himself where he has not been invited, especially when that probing would have opened so many doors they both needed to keep shut. Or when that probing would have called her integrity into question. He sat in an impossible situation, carrying grief of his own in silence.

Myla strips out of her wet shift finally after drying her eyes, and lies down on her bed, watching the gleam of the firelight cast eerie shadows on the walls. As she falls asleep, Myla pictures the moments of her youth which lead to this place, and she wonders: can the worst day of your life save your life?

The large double doors of the throne room swing open, two guards heaving them out of her way. She trembles, fingers wrapped around an exquisite bouquet of white hydrangeas and peonies. Beside her, Maverick Alerys stands, beaming. His gray speckled beard bobbing as he says something, words she can not make out above the thudding of her heart.

This dreaded moment has loomed in the near future, taunting her, yet seeming like a reality she would somehow escape. Now that it has arrived, decorated with crowds of smiling people and a man at the end of the aisle she does not wish to marry, a sickness seizes her, freezing her limbs in place.

She has not escaped it, and no one will help her now.

“Father, I—”

Maverick interrupts her, his words of encouragement a far cry from the warning within his eyes. “I am so proud of you, Myla. Everything we have worked so hard for has led to this moment. You will change the face of the Kingdom. The Alerys name will be written in history.” His lips twist in the phantom of a smile and something lurks beneath the surface. Unspoken words that say ‘do not make this difficult; we have come too far for you to falter now.’

So, instead of speaking up in one last plea for help, Myla forces the building tears back, smiles understandingly, and steps through the doors with the crescendo of the string quartet. To Caius’s right, slightly behind him, ever the dutiful King’s Guard, stands Bryar, his eyes fixed on something in the distance and lips pressed into a firm, expressionless line.

He does not look at her, and for that, she is grateful.

But she keeps her eyes fixed on him. His face is the only stabilizing force in the room. He is the only reason she does not crumple to the floor right here for everyone to watch her shame.

Then, his lips twitch and his fist tightens around his axe. His green eyes flicker to where hers are, and for a moment, they find solace in their quiet understanding.

He nods and those soft, green eyes seem to say ‘well, this is bullshit, is it not?’

Myla’s heart shatters.

The resolve she has finely formulated with deep breaths and lies of ‘this is ok’, seems to fracture. Tears form once more, and the pounding of her heart begins to sound like an angry battering ram on wood, or an urgent knock at a door—

Myla gasps, sitting upright in her bed, thankful for the sudden realization she is not reliving that horrible day.

“Queen Alerys,” a timid voice questions from the other side of the door. “Her Grace has sent me to help you prepare for the party. May I come in?”

“A moment,” Myla responds, flustered as she crawls off the bed, pulling the now dry shift over her head. She opens the door and a young woman—a girl, really—enters. Her golden and feathered head barely reaches Myla’s shoulders. “Thank you,” Myla says, examining the girl, who begins laying an armload of clothing on the bed.

“I am Felicity,” she says, her auburn lashes lowering with a bow. “I am to care for you while you are here. I have brought an assortment of clothes at the Queen’s command. Shall we pick one for this evening?”

Myla wants to insist she is not attending; the idea of seeing Bryar is too painful. Queens do not hide in their chambers. She corrects her train of thought, passing a brief glance over the options of dress before her.

Not wishing to miss an opportunity to form alliances, she merely nods and begins sifting until she selects a breathtaking, blush dress. I would not dare to show up looking as bad as I feel, what would that say of me as a queen?

Felicity helps her into the gown, lacing it tightly until her silhouette is sleek, tucked neatly into the form-fitting gown. The neckline scoops just beneath her collarbone, a tulle front providing a tease of what is beneath, reaching a scandalous point between her full breasts. Long sleeves of tulle bunch at the wrists, draping around her elbows gracefully with a delicate design of rubies swirling up her forearms. This same pattern of rubies trickles down the skirt, sparse at first and then increasing in frequency until they pool at the hem of her dress like a glittering red rain.

Felicity runs a brush through her hair, smoothing the tangles formed from the bath, then pulls loose waves over each shoulder, simple and natural. After a hint of rouge is applied to her cheeks, Felicity nods with approval.

“Is it to your liking, Your Grace?”

Myla nods. “I will not embarrass myself, at least.”

Felicity eyes the dress around her middle before speaking hesitantly. “Shall I take any of the form-fitting dresses and have them altered, Your Grace?”

Myla glances at her reflection, and for the first time, she notices change. From tender breasts to a swelling in her stomach, it is evident: the child within grows.

“It is obvious?” she asks.

Felicity shrugs slightly. “Only to the trained eye. But I could have the dresses taken out a few inches to give you time to hide it longer, should you need to.”