18 July, 1371. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten
Celia could feel herself drifting into despondency each day, little by little. It was like slowly sinking into a pit of sticky mud.
The mud will eventually drag me under and choke me. I don't know how to stop it from happening. I don't even know if I have the strength to fight it anymore.
She'd withdrawn from everyone.
Not physically, of course. She still made all her usual appearances around court as queen, attended every banquet with poise, walked in the gardens with her ladies trailing behind her in a giggling clump.
But in her mind, she'd withdrawn. The only place she felt a spark of life was the time spent in her sons' nurseries.
Outside of that, she felt hollowed out. Empty and useless.