The morning light was a blade of harsh gold, slicing across the chamber to pierce Gisela's closed eyelids. She stirred, her body stiff, a deep ache settled in her back from a night spent in rigid, unsleeping vigilance. When she pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the vast bed, the frame gave a soft, sighing creak.
As if the sound were a summons, the door opened. The maids streamed in—a silent, efficient procession of rustling skirts and downcast eyes.
"Good morning, Your Highness," they chimed in whispered unison, dipping into low, synchronized curtsies.
A wave of profound weariness washed over Gisela. She was already exhausted by their perpetual, polished presence. Yet she understood this was their purpose, as fixed and immutable as her own destiny.
They moved with fluid, practiced speed. Gentle but impersonal hands stripped her of her modest nightdress. They guided her to the waiting bath, its water steaming with the scent of rosemary. They bathed her with meticulous care, the soft cloth moving over her skin in a ritual that felt less like cleansing and more like an erasure of the previous night. Lifted from the water, she was patted dry, anointed with sweet almond oil until her skin gleamed, and then her fiery hair was brushed until it crackled with static before being twisted and pinned into an elaborate confection befitting a queen, tiny pearls woven into the copper strands like captured dew.
Finally, they dressed her, layering on silks and fine wools, tightening and smoothing—each garment another weight, another layer of the persona she was now condemned to wear.
It was a ritual, precise and soul-numbingly impersonal. As they fastened the final clasp, Gisela met her own hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror. This is your life now, the gaze seemed to say. You will need to get used to it. The thought was a cold stone dropped into the pit of her stomach.
The door opened once more. A young servant girl entered, dipped into a swift, deep curtsey, and fixed her eyes on the floor.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice thin. "His Majesty the King awaits you in the breakfast parlour."
She vanished as abruptly as she had appeared, leaving the announcement to curdle in the perfumed air.
He waits for me? The thought was an icy shock. To break our fast together? Why? Dread, cold and slick, coiled tightly within her. The memory of the previous night—the disdain in his eyes, the sharp kiss of the blade, the crushing silence—flooded back. She did not think she could face him, to sit across that expanse and perform normality.
Perhaps he only sees a foolish child, she thought, her fingers knotting in the heavy silk of her skirt. But I am not a child. I am a woman. I am his wife.
The contradiction was a silent torment. Before she could steady her resolve, another servant materialized in the doorway, a silent, expectant sentinel. There was no choice. Drawing a shallow breath, Gisela straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and allowed herself to be led from the chamber and down the hushed corridor toward the unsettling audience that awaited.
She paused at the threshold of the breakfast parlour, her gaze sweeping the scene.
The table was a vast expanse of polished oak, burdened with silver and porcelain—an intimidating array of eggs, kidneys, kedgeree, and toast. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off crystal. At the far end sat Henry, a solitary nucleus of power. He did not look up, his attention wholly consumed by the methodical dissection of a steak. His personal guards stood like statues along the walls, and his chamberlain, a man of severe bearing, hovered behind his right shoulder, ledger in hand.
"Are you going to stand there and gawk indefinitely?" His voice cut the quiet, firm and devoid of warmth, his eyes still on his plate.
"My lord." She offered a slight nod and forced her feet to move. The journey to her chair at the opposite end felt like a march to a scaffold, her heavy skirts whispering with every step. She gripped the fabric, seeking balance and a semblance of courage. Lowering herself into the high-backed chair, she felt infinitesimal, dwarfed by the cavernous distance between them.
Her attention fell to the unfamiliar bounty before her. It was all alien—the rich, heavy scents, the ornate presentations. A world away from the simpler, heartier comforts of home. Tentatively, she picked up her fork, let it hover, then merely pushed the food around her plate, her appetite extinguished by a smothering weight of anxiety.
He ate with slow, precise bites, the soft scrape of his cutlery the only sound. Then he paused, lifting his head. His eyes, cold and analytical, traversed the length of the table to find her. He observed her idle movements for a protracted moment.
"You do not like it?" The question was an indictment, his tone glacial.
"I… It is not that. I just—" The words tangled, leaving her flustered and mute.
"Just what?" he pressed, his gaze now a trap.
Her amber eyes, wide and luminous in her pallid face, met his. They reminded him, disconcertingly, of an owl's—watchful, vivid, brimming with a silent, wild intelligence. A faint, unreadable smile ghosted across his lips.
Without another word, he pushed his chair back. The scrape of wood on stone was a deafening verdict. He stood, his imposing frame unfolding, and did not break his stare. He watched, with detached fascination, as a fine tremor shuddered through her.
Then he began to walk. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one echoing with terrifying finality as he closed the vast, ceremonial distance between their thrones, his eyes never leaving her face.
He pushed her chair back from the table, the legs shrieking against the stone floor. She remained imprisoned within it. He leaned down, placing a hand on each armrest, caging her. The scent of him—spice, leather, cold morning air—invaded her senses. Escape was impossible.
"I… I merely have no appetite," she whispered, her eyes fastened on the ornate embroidery of his doublet, her body a leaf in a storm.
"Look at me." The command was soft, yet absolute. A sly, cruel smile played upon his lips as he watched her struggle, a predator savoring the tremors of its cornered prey.
"I am sorry," she breathed, the words ashes. "I did not mean to… displease you."
"I said," his voice dropped, each syllable a separate lash, "look at me."
Slowly, with agonizing effort, she lifted her gaze. It did not meet his directly, but traveled a terrified path upward: past the ruthless line of his jaw, the stern set of his mouth, the arrogant blade of his nose, until finally, unavoidably, it collided with his own. His eyes were a cool, assessing hazel, and in them, she saw no mere anger, but something far more chilling: a cold, clinical fascination with her fear.