She kissed him goodbye, knowing he wouldn’t remember her tomorrow.
“Constance,” He whispered, voice hitching on all the words he didn’t have time to say. Instead, he brought shaking fingertips to the curve of her cheekbone, his other hand reverently stroking her dark hair.
“Cyrus.” She rested her forehead against his, feeling her husband’s warm breath against her skin. “It won’t hurt for you. Not after tonight.”
A sharp inhalation. “It will. It will hurt.”
“Cy-”
“No,” Cyrus cut her off, bowing his head and avoiding her begging gaze. “I might not remember you, or our time together. But there will always be a piece of me missing; one I’ll never find again. So don’t…don’t say I’ll be fine.” The shine in his green eyes finally escaped the capture of his lashes, leaving glossy trails down his face.
“One more minute.” The guard drawled. The hardened lines of the sentry’s face became deeper by his moustached mouth, alluding to years of heavy frowning and schooling his expressions. Constance had noticed that, just like she noticed the dark circles beneath the man’s eyes, and the nervous way his fingers drummed against his thigh. Truly nobody wanted to be there, in that dark prison oozing with bleak promises and hopeless futures. Truly the only worse fate than being here was what awaited her on the other side.
Constance breathed. One more minute to say everything she needed. “I love you, Cyrus. And I don’t regret it one bit.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she kept going. “We always would have been caught.” She laughed darkly. “There was never any escaping it. But the time we had is everything to me.”
Cyrus stared deeply at his wife, searching for any hint of a lie. She knew there would be none for him to find.
“I won’t even know to be angry with them for what they’ve done.” He said desperately, as if pleading for her to understand. “You opened my eyes and my heart; it’s torture knowing they’ll soon be closed once more. And my newfound ignorance will be my destroyers’ merry reward.”
Constance reached to grab his hands and squeezed them tight. “Sweetheart, your parents won’t be in power forever. All the people they’ve wronged…we’ll find a way. And when that day comes, you’ll be an amazing ruler.” Her smile was sad but genuine, lopsided and awkward in that endearing way he always teased her for. Though this moment didn’t suit teasing, she still wished he would. “And on that day,” she continued, “I’ll return, and I’ll tell you everything. I promise.” Her lips pressed against the back of his hand.
“I love you.” Cyrus wept.
The guard extended his arm to Constance. “Time’s up.”
Constance accepted the proffered limb, and with it the offer at one last small dignity before her world crumbled.
“No,” Cyrus cried out behind her, his pleas growing with every step. “No!”
Constance didn’t dare look back, even as the sounds of several footsteps and a struggle became apparent. Cyrus’s last view of her, as cruel as it sounded, didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be holding onto it tomorrow. Once the potion stole his memories of her, that last look wouldn’t exist. Hers would, and she wanted it to be something she could live with without breaking down.
She allowed the guard to lead her down a long, narrow staircase of gray stone. The sky wept its dying dusk light through the arched windows, letting the colors drip across the walls and paint her skin as she passed. She ached to stop and stare- drinking it all in as her last night before disaster. The guard continued to guide her downwards until the windows vanished and torches lit the dark.
“Tomorrow you’ll be taken to the docks.” He sniffed. “Put on a boat to Dellway.”
“Right.” She said wearily.
He glanced over. “It’s not too bad, you know. New life. Not everyone is this lucky. Especially considering…”
“I eloped with the royals’ only son? After years spent trying to end their regime? Yes, I suppose so.” She finished, dry and resigned. The idea of exile really should have satisfied her. She’d always assumed capture would mean death, and that was even before Cyrus. Now? They should be burning her at the stake for what she’d done. But King Everette and Queen Florence wouldn’t be so kind as to put her out of her misery. No, because she’d been sentenced to the worst possible fate- a life entirely without him. Constance and Cyrus were meant to share their lives, and now they wouldn’t even share their memories.
The guard‘s lips thinned but he stayed silent as he steered her gently into the cell.
“Be right outside,” he said gruffly, an apologetic undercurrent to his voice. The key turned in the rusty lock, sealing her behind the iron bars.
His back now turned so he could watch for intruders, she slid the wedding ring off her finger and admired it. A simple silver band with a red stone. Constance shut her eyes and kissed it before partially undoing her braid, weaving the ring in until it was safely hidden under thick locks. She wouldn’t let it be taken from her.
****************************************
The shadow of the ship sprawled across the docks, made darker by the strong morning light. Unsurprisingly, even the sunny golden rays and pleasant warmth couldn’t lift her mood.
“Load the passengers!” A sailor shouted, waving to his shipmates to get to work.
Constance gently waved off the guard from last night, who had accompanied her to boarding. Obligingly, he took a step back and allowed her to lift her own suitcase- yet another luxury she was allowed, although it had been cruelly emptied of any obvious personal keepsakes. The theft of her photos had been difficult, and she’d only barely managed to maintain her composure as the wardens had dug through and torn them to shreds. What would crying and begging do? It would bring her no mercy, but it would certainly bring the crueller of her captors satisfaction.
Holding her head high, Constance joined the line of hopefuls looking forward to a fresh start.
“Good luck, Princess.” The guard nodded at her before vanishing into the crowd. Her heart raced at the title- technically hers but known to only a handful. Regaining her composure, she followed the woman in front of her onto the Lady Lucinda. Her hand came up to grip her hat, which was at serious threat of being stolen by the sea breeze.
“Good idea. I’ve already lost mine,” a soft voice cut her from her thoughts. Constance turned, seeing a woman smiling up at her from only a little further back on the gangplank. She was the picture of feminine elegance in a powder pink dress- cinched at the waist with a white ribbon- and delicate looking white gloves adorning slim fingers. As she’d said, her head of red hair was indeed hatless.
Constance smiled politely before turning back around at the ushering of the crew. Following their instructions, she was soon aboard the vessel and staring at the sprawling coastline from the deck. Setting her suitcase by her feet, she tilted her head until his home was in her line of sight. The castle was a glorious thing, close enough to the sea to appreciate the glimmering blue waves and hear the screeching of greedy seagulls, while also placed to soak in views of the farmlands, rolled out like a plush green blanket. The large stone structure towered high above the rest of the town, turrets reaching even higher towards the sky as if they were praying hands stretching towards heaven. Cyrus might be in one right now, leaning against the windowsill and humming that song he loved. Was he looking at her ship? Constance swallowed down the lump in her throat, but had to settle for wiping away the tears as they fell. She couldn’t bear to even imagine it. His eyes, once filled with love and devotion whenever they set upon her, would now not even glint faintly with recognition. She gripped the railing hard.
The horn blared, bringing her back to her new reality. The gangplank had been folded, signalling the end of boarding. No chance of escape either, unless she jumped- not that that was feasible. The crew rushed around, not bothering to glance at anyone else unless they got in the way.
“Marlow- check the rigging!”
“Aye, Captain!”
“Samuels- final checks on supplies! Get to it!”
“Aye!”
Constance did her best to drown it out. She closed her eyes and let the crashing of the waves fill her uneasy mind.
It was only about half an hour until the horn blew once more, and this time she knew what it meant. The Lady Lucinda pulled out of port. Small but strong waves crashed against the hull. Constance could smell the salt, could taste it on her tongue. It was strange for her, being on this ship today. If everything had gone according to plan, she and Cyrus would have been on a train right now, hurtling through the countryside and towards a place they never would have been found. It was a nice image in her mind- the two of them cuddled up in the carriage, giggling and eating sandwiches, and leaving smudges on the glass of the window from their fingertips. Cyrus had never been on a train before. Being a royal, and one from the Ackehurst family at that, it was deemed too unsafe and promptly forbidden. He’d hated the long rides in horse-drawn carriages, always complaining jokingly of cramps but simultaneously being very serious about his qualms. Yet another thing about Cyrus she would miss- his ability to make even his whining a pleasurable experience; one to be laughed over and shared.
The shore drew further away, the castle becoming naught but a dot in the distance. Her heart ached. When it finally dipped out of view, she knew a chapter had ended. There was no more to be done, and so she conceded with as much grace as she could muster. Plucking her suitcase from the deck, she strode past the excitable crowds peering over the railing and made her way towards the passengers’ quarters. Her white Mary Janes tapped against the smooth metal of the deck as she reached one of the crew members by the main entrance.
“Second class quarters?” She asked. It was highly unlikely either of the royals had gotten wind of her transportation details; they wouldn’t have been nearly as generous. In their minds, she was probably being dragged behind the ship on a buoy, sufficiently feeding their bitter satisfaction.
“Them stairs there, Miss.” The boy said with a jolly smile that she did her best to return.
The descent was quick, and the stairs thankfully easy to navigate in her shoes and dress, and with case in hand. She glanced down at her ticket. C201. Constance strode further down the narrow corridor, squeezing past any fellow passengers who bustled by. Soon, she was standing in front of the room that was to be her home for the next six weeks. Exhaling slowly, she turned the knob.
The room was a reasonable size. That was the first thing Constance noticed, and what a relief it was. No windows, but it wouldn’t bother her- the prison last night had none, either. What this had that the cell lacked, however, were a cabinet of lovely mahogany and a loveseat against the left wall. The bed was a bunk, crafted from the same type of mahogany as the cabinet. Giving it a little test with her hand, she concluded it was very soft indeed, and would do very nicely. Methodically, she emptied the meagre contents of her case into the dresser, taking care to hang the dresses so the wrinkles would fall out. Her one other pair of shoes went in beneath them, and her hat on the little hook inside the door. She slipped the case under the bed and stood, drinking in the space.
The door swung open.
“Oh, it’s you again!”
Constance turned to the source of the intrusion. There, in the doorway, was the redheaded woman from earlier.
“I suppose we’re roommates.” She gingerly held out her ticket for inspection.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Constance said. She extended her hand. “Constance McCarren.”
The woman accepted the handshake. “Amélie Blanchet.” So it was a slight French accent Constance picked up on.
“There’s plenty of space left in the dresser,” Constance told her. “I…didn’t have much.”
Amélie smiled. “Which bed is yours?”
“Please, you choose. I already got to the dresser first; it’s only fair.”
“I won’t say no, but I will say thank you.” Amélie laughed, a delicate sound like fairies ringing bells. “The bottom, please.”
Constance bobbed her head lightly in agreement, lips drawn ever so slightly upwards. “Suits me well enough. My mother always did say I was uppity and had airs.”
Her new cabinmate giggled again, hand covering her red lips. “It seems I’ve been paired with a comedian.” She set her cases down and unclipped them. “So, Ms. McCarren, what brings you aboard the Lady Lucinda?”
Constance’s hands immediately went to her braid, feeling the familiar form of the ring buried deep inside.
“The recent…loss, of my husband. It…it compels me to start afresh in Dellway.” She decided upon, thus hopefully avoiding any further uncomfortable lines of enquiry. “And yourself, Ms. Blanchet?”
Amélie immediately appeared rather distraught. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Her eyes were sincere when they met with Constance’s own. “It must be so difficult.”
Constance hummed and looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap as she sat upon the loveseat.
“I recently inherited a house in South Roseshire.” Amélie explained, making Constance grateful for the topic change. “It seemed silly not to make the most of it. So here I am. And you really must call me Amélie; we’re friends now.”
Constance grinned lopsidedly. “Then you must refer to me as Connie- as my friends do.”
Pleased, Amélie hummed as hung her dresses. How so many fit in two suitcases, Constance really hadn’t the slightest inkling. Magic, perhaps.
“Have you been to Dellway before?” Constance asked. “Or will this be your first time seeing the house?”
Amelie adjusted a third pair of shoes in the wardrobe. “Twice before, when I was very young.” She shut her eyes at the memory, long lashes brushing her pink cheeks. “What a lovely garden it had. It’s silly, but I used to pretend I was a fairy, making all the flowers bloom.”
“No,” Constance assured, “it’s not silly at all. I used to play knight as a child. I would rescue all the townspeople, who were really just sticks trapped in a bit of mud. As you can imagine, my mother wasn’t very happy when I tracked dirt all over the floor.” Despite her adulthood, she’d felt like a knight not too long ago. Rescuing her handsome prince from his tower; sneaking to him in the night for secret stargazing and soft kisses. It hurt now, knowing that she may have rescued him, but in the end she couldn’t save him.
Amélie tilted her head, oblivious to Constance’s onslaught of memories. “At least knights are real.” She pointed out.
Constance refused to be trapped in the past. She would see him again one day, and she wouldn’t lose the parts of herself that he had fallen in love with. Her face once more lifting, she raised an eyebrow.
“Fairies aren’t real? Or are they just shy?” Constance whispered conspiratorially. Her efforts were rewarded with another light laugh as her new friend tucked her cases beneath the bed, beside Constance’s own.
Amélie stood and reached out a fair arm, fingers splayed in an alluring invitation.
“Why don’t we go search for fairies together then, hmmm?”
Constance took her hand.
****************************************
Blanchet house was a tidy little thing, all tucked away behind tall green trees and fields of dappled sunlight. The air itself smelled fresh and sweet, which Constance attributed to the thriving apple orchards on the other side of the property. A flock of handsome ducks waddled through the grass to the nearby pond, ducking their sleek heads beneath the water in search of food. Their light splashes and quacks were a welcome addition to the sound of the breeze tickling the tree leaves.
The exterior of the house was washed in blue paint and wrapped with frilly white trim, making it look almost like a cake. The three stories twisted into various shapes, and- with a slight pang- making Constance draw immediate comparison to a miniature castle. The abundance of windows edged with silky curtains promised a healthy dosage of sunlight.
Constance was in love.
“I thought you said you inherited a house?” She prompted, amused.
Amélie tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. The wind had teased it loose from the neat bun during their train journey.
“The estate wasn’t of this size when I last visited.” Amélie admitted sheepishly. “My grand-tante, she must have bought out a few of the neighbours. I’m not quite sure how I’m meant to care for it.”
It wasn’t anything extraordinary to Amélie- she had only been passing through- but Constance had lived her whole life in the kingdom of Quell. The idea of a woman, any woman, owning her own house, let alone an estate…it was amazing. Of course, there had always been the illusion of ownership, with the castle holding properties ‘in trust’ for ladies, but Constance knew as well as anybody else that it was merely an excuse for the royals to further their own power by draining it from those of the female sex. Yet another grievance against them in a very long list.
Instead of voicing this to her companion- “Well, it’s the both of us now; I’m sure we can manage together.”
Amélie- with the hand not holding the parasol- reached over and squeezed Constance’s hand gratefully. “I’m so glad you agreed to keep me company. Merci.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” Constance said honestly. Before Amélie, she’d not known what would become of her, in a new place all alone. Now, she not only had a place to live and a clearer sense of purpose, but also a new friend. Their time together aboard the Lady Lucinda had been very special. Amélie had managed to ease her through the worst of her grief, although they both knew the ache was there to stay. No amount of distance nor time could tear Cyrus from her heart, but the opportunity to tell someone else about her sweetheart had been almost healing. Of course, certain details were omitted, but the important parts were able to remain. Constance gladly recounted tales of Cyrus’s antics, and their rambling conversations under the shade of the big oak tree- the one at the edge of the forest that they came to call their own.
Even now, as she and Amélie strolled closer to the house, Mary Janes becoming lightly dusted with the dirt of the road, her mind was tangled up in him. Soft chestnut hair, forest colored eyes framed by long dark lashes, cheeks sprinkled with freckles like a starry sky…Constance missed tracing them with her fingers, trying to make constellations. What would he say to her now, if he were here? If he remembered?
She lifted up the bottom of her skirt, making sure the hem wouldn’t brush the ground. The ring shone on her finger.
“Race you to the house.”
He’d tell her to have a little fun.
****************************************
The edges of the newspaper crumpled under her tight grip.
QUELL AT WAR.
Amélie was none the wiser. She pottered around the kitchen, pouring water from the kettle into two ornate teacups. Not bothering to ask, she dropped one cube of sugar into Constance’s cup and forewent milk completely before setting it before her. After five years together, tea preferences were something they knew by heart.
“What’s the matter, Connie?” Amélie asked, a worried shine in her eyes. They flicked down to the paper. “Did something happen?”
“Mmm.” Constance hummed lowly. She slid the paper over to Amélie, exhaling deeply.
Amélie studied it for a moment. “Quell is officially in a state of war. After decades of dissatisfaction with royal policies, the rebel groups of the North have banded together to overthrow the monarchs. And while still unconfirmed, it is rumoured that Prince Cyrus stands with the rebels. At present, the Prince remains missing. ”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“I know, Connie.” Amélie said. She grasped her friend’s hand tightly. “I know.”
“He had a hideout. In Sea Valley. I have to…I have to go.” Constance frowned into the dark pool of her tea. “I might not-”
“You’ll come back.” Amélie interrupted. “We have a lot of apples to pick this season. You’re not getting out of it, chérie.”
Constance huffed a small laugh. Just like Amélie to remind her of all the chores she wouldn’t be able to sneak out of. In their time on the estate, they’d come into a sort of routine. Constance usually took the lead in the outdoors, while Amélie’s domain was the house. They worked well together. Constance enjoyed those long days tending to the gardens and the animals and the orchards, and she knew she could always return to a hot, homecooked meal from Amélie. Ms. Blanchet turned out to be quite skilled culinarily, and Constance was more than happy to reap the fruits of the other woman’s labour. And as cowardly as it felt, the idea of returning to the place she’d been cast out of, the place where she’d lost everything…her heart clenched. What would she do, staring into that forest gaze again and being met with not even a flicker of recognition? Here, far away in Dellway, Constance could pretend. Unfortunately, denial is more challenging to manage when you’re staring straight into the truth.
“I’ve missed him.”
Amélie pursed her lips and rubbed Constance’s fingers, letting the tips of her own brush over the ring.
“And…Amélie, I’ve been selfish. I should’ve gone back sooner. Continued to do my part in the rebellion.” Constance sighed.
Her friend furrowed her brows, a serious expression clouding her fair features. “They would’ve killed you.”
“The threat of death never stopped me before. It wasn’t why I stayed away so long,” she confessed. This had weighed on her for a while, keeping her up some nights. Staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet ticking of the clock, Constance tried to justify it to herself, but her heart knew the truth. “I knew how it would hurt to see Cyrus. And I couldn’t bear to trade the sanctity of our life now for the pain the future promised me.”
Amélie gave her a small, sad smile. “Like when we met- we’ll share the pain. You won’t be alone in it, Connie. But if I know one thing about you, it’s that you refuse to run from anything. At least, not for long.”
Constance nodded silently.
“Don’t leave any ‘what ifs’ to haunt you in the years to come.” Amélie finished sincerely. “You have to face the hello and the goodbye.”
A few weeks had passed since their conversation- it was the earliest she could arrange the travel. Constance’s suitcase sat on the bed, filled with a small number of clothing articles, a worn Verity Blue novel, and a few bottles of perfume. Very demure when weighed up against her plans, but anything else needed could be sorted in Quell. Apples- the plump orange cat- weaved his way through her arms as she concluded packing. Her hand found the delicate spot between his ears, and his purrs increased substantially in volume.
“Be good for Amélie, hmmm?” Constance murmured. “No more stealing eggs.”
The cat blinked lazily, making no promises.
The quiet schnick of the latches felt a bit like a condemnation, but Constance refused to dwell. Amélie was right; no more running. Apples watched her as she disappeared around the doorway, clutching the case tightly. She descended the stairs with perfect posture, face calm and appearance neat. Amélie clucked approvingly.
“I shall walk you to the train,” she declared. Not an inch of room was left for debate. Not that Constance would have protested- she would miss Amélie until her return and turning down a few final moments with the woman would be foolish.
Together, they strolled down the dirt path towards town, just like they had a thousand times before. Golden beams of afternoon sunlight gently warmed their faces and set Amélie’s red hair into a fiery glow. Whistled tunes of birds drifted down from the leaves, a special kind of music native to South Roseshire.
“I’m not quite sure how I’ll be able to say goodbye to him for a second time.” Constance said, her voice cutting through the soft sounds of the nature surrounding them. Logically, she knew she would have to say goodbye, and this time it really would be for the last time. After all, although she loved him wholeheartedly, she was a stranger to Cyrus now. Chances he’d even be willing to spare her a few minutes to talk were depressingly slim, but she was nevertheless determined in that regard- she had made him a promise.
Amélie looked upon her with sadness. “I wish I had the answer for you.”
The rest of their walk was quiet. A companionable silence- the sort that need not be filled with endless chatter and pleasantries. Just a deep undercurrent of understanding sweeping the two women along.
It wasn’t too long before they reached town, and consequently the train station. Constance and Amélie climbed the stairs to the platform. The steam engine sat idle, letting its passengers say a final farewell before last boarding.
“I suppose this is goodbye.” Constance said.
Amélie nodded once. “For now.” Resting a hand on Constance’s upper arm, she leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek. “Take care of yourself, you hear me?”
Constance smiled slightly. “I will, Amélie. And I expect to find you well upon my return.”
Amélie’s lips turned up at the corners. “I’m sure Monsieur Les Pommes will take good care of me, provided I give him enough fish.”
“Don’t let him get too fat.” Constance laughed, knowing the little animal would happily eat more than his fair share if given the opportunity.
The train horn blared in warning.
A sigh escaped Constance, tired and nervous. “That’s me.” Stepping closer, she wrapped her friend in a final hug, warm and encompassing. Pulling away was nearly as hard as turning her back all those years ago…
She lifted her case and boarded the train. From her seat in the window, she watched Amélie wave as the locomotive pulled out of the station. Constance let her eyes stay glued to her red hair as Amélie grew smaller in the distance.
“Must be nice; having somebody to send you off.”
Constance let her attention be pulled to the unfamiliar man across from her.
“My Tilda couldn’t make it,” he explained matter-of-factly, shrugging and plopping his hat in his lap. His voice was a pleasant drawl- a very friendly and jovial sound no matter what came out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry.” Constance said.
The gentleman shrugged. “So, where’s a nice lady like yourself off to?”
She thought a moment before answering truthfully. “Visiting family. And yourself?”
“That’s nice.” He hummed. “I’m off to Redwood on business. I will say, all this traveling gets a bit tiring though.”
“I’m more of a stay in one place sort, myself.” Constance said, Blanchet House clear in her mind. “What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
The man smiled. “Sales. If you ever need a representative, I’m your guy. Oh, here-” he fumbled into his pocket and produced a business card.
Constance received it with light interest. “Jacob Wyatt, sales.” She read. “It’s nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Constance McCarren.”
A grin lit up his youthful face and he accepted her handshake.
“A pleasure, Ms. McCarren.”
The pair spent the next few hours conversing as the scenery outside swept by in a colourful blur. Constance learned that Mr. Wyatt was quite young (really only a boy of twenty-one) and had married his wife Tilda a few months ago. They’d had a lovely wedding in the garden of his mother’s house and honeymooned in the next town over, spending several days sampling pastries since Tilda dreamed of running her own bakery one day. Mr. Wyatt loved to talk, spilling words like a faucet, but Constance enjoyed listening. It was an interesting thing, hearing about the everyday lives of the people around you. It was the sort of domestic bliss she had hoped she and Cyrus could have a taste of one day, although deep down she knew it was impossible.
As she watched Jacob Wyatt wave to her from the platform as the distance between them increased, she pushed down the jealousy and smiled back at him.
****************************************
Cyrus was still as beautiful as she remembered.
Different, but beautiful.
His warm brown locks were longer, the ends curling round to tickle his chin. A new scar adorned the side of his neck, just large enough to be noticeable from where she stood in the crowd. His clothes were darker, too. Where he once wore bright, flowing fabrics, he was now clad in durable dark blue and black material- more appropriate for a fight. But the most noticeable change by far was the shadow that had overtaken his soft features. Purple bruises beneath his eyes alluded to many sleepless nights. The set of his jaw put his face in a tried and true frown. And he was much too still, no longer the fidgety, flighty thing she’d once known. Time had hurt him.
Constance should have protected him.
“Cyrus!” She called, elbowing her way desperately through the sea of writhing bodies. “Cyrus!”
He didn’t even glance her way. Chants of his name and screams cut the air from all directions. Cyrus merely held his head high and stared stoically ahead. Behind him, the King and Queen looked on with poorly concealed disappointment but not one ounce of care. Queen Florence held a folded paper in her hand.
“Hey! Watch yourself!” A woman growled after taking Constance’s elbow to the side. Constance ignored her and kept pushing forwards.
King Everette raised one hand.
“No,” Constance gasped. She was so close now, she could still save him, she had to. She hefted herself onto the platform, just barely managing to kick off the guards who lunged for her.
“Cyrus!”
Cyrus’ head whipped around. As soon as his gaze landed upon her, his eyes widened.
“Con-”
King Everette dropped his hand.
The shot rang out.
Constance froze, hands shaking.
Slowly, she stepped forward and knelt beside him, reaching for his outstretched hand. The red stone on her finger was a perfect match for the blood pooling across the boards. Her finger was just a hair’s distance from his when arms wrapped around her, wrenching Constance backwards and away from her love.
“No, no,” She sobbed. “Let go of me!”
The guards ignored her pleas, dragged her thrashing form further and further from Cyrus. He stared after her, forest green unblinking and drained of the emotion that had just set them alight.
It was over.
****************************************
Amélie stared out the window as thick drops pattered against the glass. Apples lay asleep on the sill in front of her. She stroked his head.
Constance had been gone too long now, and the house felt far too empty without her. As much as she would have loved to beg her to stay, to cling to her hands and tell her to remain in the safety of South Roseshire, she knew it would be to no avail. Connie was far too stubborn and determined for her own good. She wouldn’t abandon Cyrus or break her promise. Constance was brave enough to face the goodbye, despite not knowing how.
Amélie was not.
No longer could she bear to look at the desk where she had penned the letter. Sea Valley. Constance had trusted her enough to not even think twice about relaying that information. The King and Queen would be sending Connie back to her soon- Amélie’s reward. Constance would stay put with her, she’d assured them. No longer would the woman be a problem for them. With no Cyrus, it was unlikely she’d ever return to Quell.
She hated herself for it, but she didn’t regret it.
She couldn’t handle goodbyes.
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