Deep Wound

Agatha nodded.

"I'll carry you again when the sun's out."

She turned to the window. "No sun…" she murmured, her pleading glance making his heart swoon.

Reynand nodded slowly. "Hm… the sun will come out if you sleep now."

Agatha blinked, then yawned. "I hate sleep…" she whimpered, her half-lidded eyes betraying her reluctance. "Plomise?" She extended her little pinky toward him.

Reynand entwined his pinky with hers—her tiny finger curling around his larger one. The stark contrast in size sent an unfamiliar pang through his chest, a feeling he never knew he could experience.

"I promise," he said in a velvety tone, and Agatha's smile widened.

The thud of Reynand's footsteps approaching the door signaled that it was time to leave, and Agatha's heavy eyes began to droop with sleep. But just before Reynand could close the door, she jolted awake, springing to her feet beside her bed. Reynand raised an eyebrow.

"Cong… cong…glaat…tulation Youll Glace… I… I… am Agatha Val—mont… Uhm… Uh… Daugh—tel of… of… the Mallquess of… La—Lavens… wood," Agatha stuttered.

Then, while crossing her legs, she clutched her nightclothes at each side and lifted them slightly. She dipped her head low in a practiced, princessly bow.

Reynand frowned. "What are you doing?"

Agatha lifted her head. "Uhm… mothel tell me to… to gleet my fahdel. I plactice evewyday. Cannot fowget."

Her innocent smile spread wide as she returned to bed and closed her eyes, leaving Reynand's heart pounding as though it might burst at any moment.

Reynand closed the door and ordered the nursemaid who still bent over, to keep silent. 

"Don't tell the Marchioness what happened." He hesitated, knowing it might only worry Elara, then continued, "So there won't be a fuss."

"Yes, Your Grace," the nursemaid replied with a deep bow.

The flickering remnants of the 9th Candletime that partially burnt along the corridor's edge, signalled that midnight had passed, and accompanied Reynand's steady stride as he made his way back to his quarters. 

However, he paused when he passed by Elara's chamber, its door left slightly ajar.

With a mix of hesitation and curiosity, he pushed the door open a little wider to peer inside. 

His suspicion proved correct—the room was empty. He furrowed his brow, wondering where Elara might be at this time. 

The neatly made bed and the burnt remains of the 6th Candletime reassured him that Elara had not awakened in the middle of the night like he had, but rather had not even entered her bedroom since sunset.

Reynand swept his gaze around the chamber, noting that everything remained exactly as it had been four years ago, when he first entered this room.

'Why does everything look the same? Doesn't she redecorate the castle every year?' he mused. 

The silence of the chamber and Elara's neatly made bed recalled a memory, evoking a vivid image of their last encounter when he left her—like they just had an affair. 

It reminded him of the deep wound he had engraved on her, when her husband had stolen her purity while drunk and later dismissed it as a mistake. Reynand smiled bitterly.

***

Elara and Lyla hurried through the castle's rear gate, but Elara halted midway and turned to Lyla, who trailed behind her.

"Lyla, just go straight back to your chamber and hide these papers well. I'll go through them again tomorrow after the feast ends," Elara commanded, handing over a stack of papers she clutched.

"Your Grace, your cloak," Lyla reminded her.

"Ah, right."

Lyla then urged that Elara also remove her cloak before entering, so no one would grow suspicious.

They parted at the junction of the rear garden, where Elara chose to enter the castle through the kitchen wing.

The most plausible reason someone might catch her roaming in the middle of the night was that she needed to fetch milk for Agatha. 

Yet she didn't even know how to light the brick stove—usually, Lyla was the one to turn it on so the milk could be heated.

In this time of crisis, she envied the spellbinder who could use magic to ignite fire. 

Elara simply decided to pour the cold milk from a wooden container into a small ceramic pitcher before leaving the quiet kitchen. 

As she was about to turn into the corridor that connects the kitchen and dining room, she stumbled, halting in her tracks. 

Her eyes went wide in shock at the sudden presence of someone nearly colliding with her. The dim glow of a candle hanging on the wall made both of them squint.

"Your Grace!"

"Sophia?"

The girl in a maid uniform, named Sophia, immediately bowed her head before Elara.

Despite her heart pounding, Elara fought to steady her breath and maintain her composure in front of Agatha's nursemaid.

"Why are you still roaming about at this hour?" she asked.

Sophia continued bowing, her fingers fidgeting uncertainly—unsure of what to say. Then Elara's eyes widened, as if realising something.

"Has Agatha run away from her chamber again? Is that why you look so anxious?" she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

"No, Your Grace... Princess Agatha is already asleep in her chamber. Uhm… she had trouble sleeping so she just slept. But she didn't run away like usual." With her gaze still lowered, Sophia bit her lip, guilt evident from Prince Reynand's earlier command, she decided to lie half-truthfully.

Elara exhaled in relief. Ever since Agatha had learned to walk and run, the little girl often slipped away around bedtime—her endless curiosity meant she could always be found hiding, keeping the whole castle awake.

"Alright then, you must be tired. Take a good rest," Elara said, quickly leaving Sophia, who was left bewildered at her Grace's sudden departure from the kitchen without Lyla.

The thud of Elara's footsteps echoed as she climbed the stone steps to her quarters. 

Her heart leapt in relief when she reached the last step and arrived at the passageway, turning left as her eyes fixed on the archway to her quarters.

"Where have you been this late at night?" a deep, hoarse voice called from behind her, forcing her to stop in her tracks.

Elara swallowed hard, recognising the voice that broke the silence of the night. Clutching the ceramic pitcher tightly, she turned around slowly.

"Y—Your Grace..." she stammered, her eyes locking with Reynand's, which were as cold as the ceramic pitcher in her hand.