Althea's body still trembled long after the Crown Prince's footsteps had faded, each tremor a silent echo of her close call. One slip of the blanket, one moment sooner, and he would have seen everything—her true face, her deception, her death sentence. A frantic knock at the door shattered her thoughts. He knows. Her blood ran cold. But it was only a servant's voice, laced with false concern.
"Mistress, are you alright? We heard you were ill."
Ill? If only that were the problem. Althea forced her voice into a raw, strained whisper, pulling the covers high. "I have a fever. I don't want anyone but Morfida. Call her. Now."
"But Mistress, the court physician—"
"No!" The word cracked through the room, sharp and final. "I said, only Morfida."
The servant bowed hastily and left. Soon after, the door opened, and Morfida entered with quick steps. Her long hair was slightly dishevelled, and her face was filled with worry.
