Anne is yelling at Harry in one of the spare rooms, throwing her hands around and pacing the floor like she's been trapped. "Why can't you just follow the rules, Harry? All you had to do was follow the rules!"

"Follow the rules?" Harry rakes his hands through his hair, pulling so hard his entire scalp burns. All he's ever done is follow the rules: breathe like this, sit like this, speak like this. The only rule he broke was falling in love with a commoner, which shouldn't be a rule to begin with. "I do one thing wrong and I'm a disgrace. I've always been a disgrace to you. Why even tell me about Silas if you're just going to act like your parents? Why ask me for an heir if you won't like the outcome? Of all people, I thought you would be happy about this."

She doesn't understand, doesn't think she'll be able to. Anne stares at her son, searching his face for anything that will sway his anger. "Do you think I'm not happy to have a grandchild? To have my son alive and well where others suffer?"

Harry glares at his mother, throwing his hands up to alleviate the pain he's created in his head. "That is exactly what you make it seem like! Are you really groomed to a point where you don't even recognize your own actions? Do you even have your own thoughts, mother?"

Anne doesn't answer as fast as she should. The anger in her face and her voice shifts to astonishment. "Of course I do, but they're meant to come out when no one is watching. We're not made to be like them, Harry."

He laughs and looks toward the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right there. That's it, isn't it? You like her values but not her because she's not like us."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already walking out the door.

Brielle waits in the hallway, tearing new holes in an old dress. She doesn't ask him questions as he takes her hand in his and begins leading them down the empty corridor, yet, he still feels the need to apologize. "I'm sorry if you heard any of that. I...well, I don't exactly agree with her reactions after everything she's told me."

He's thinking about running away again, taking another boat and getting as far away as possible so their child has nothing to do with such a corrupted legacy. But he can't—they can't. Alaria and the surrounding Kingdoms are in such a state of unrest, that his departure would unravel the thinning thread that holds them together.

Brielle's lips are upon his cheek, their warm caress lasting only briefly after she retracts them. She's sincere, but something in her tone seems detached. "You don't have to explain. Are you alright? Your face is rather red and your hair is a mess."

Harry is walking too fast and Brielle trips over her feet. Her grip on his hand tightens as she uses his weight to right herself again. Before she can ask another question about his state of mind, Harry kisses her the way he used to when they met in the middle of the night: desperate and slow.

He doesn't offer an explanation, his focus centered on the color rising in her cheeks.

There's a change in her voice, her tone more gentle and rooted in memory. Brielle hasn't been able to return to daily life the way she wants to. Every time she tries to eat, she throws up most of her meal, but she's still in that dungeon, starving, and she can't help herself. To make matters worse, she often sees Aylwin's final expression behind vacant corners.

Harry's trying to help, but his focus is divided between her and his duties, and she doesn't want to impede any progress he's making for Alaria's future. The sudden kiss brought part of her back and sealed it there for good. "You haven't done that in ages."

Harry shrugs, a boyish smile breaking through his current state of frustration. He allows himself to step away from his role as the Prince and enjoy the feeling of her hand in his. When she was away, he started to lose the memory of the sensation the longer that he thought about it. Now, all he wants to do is hold her hand and surprise her with kisses.

"I haven't done a lot of things in ages. Why don't we go home? Ignore all this for a while?" If he stays within the castle walls much longer, his parents will find him and berate him with more insults—more flaws that a Prince shouldn't have, that their son shouldn't have. They'll find more ways to look down on Brielle and attempt to force her out of their sphere, no matter how much value she brings or how much he loves her.

She rests her head against his shoulder. Harry can feel the waning smile on her lips. "I'd like that very much." He wants to paint her smile into the sunset and blend it with the calming blues of winter, but he hasn't managed to figure out how to do so yet. Brielle was complex before Aylwin took her, but now he feels as if there are some things he has to decipher all over again.

"Do you still want to learn how to play the harp?"

Brielle laughs, the sound bright but somehow hollow. "Of all the things we could do, you want to teach me to play the harp?"

The harp happened to be the first thing that came to his mind, but he also wants to teach her how to paint, to sit and stare at her for hours while they talk about anything that comes to mind, and to kiss her for hours upon hours to ensure that she's real and not just a figment of his weary mind. Somehow, playing the harp allows him to do all three in some measure, so his brain chose for him.

Harry shrugs, his cheeks blossoming with color. "I thought it would be nice. We can do anything you want, dove." She could tell him she wants to sleep and he'd be happy. He craves her presence more than he used to want the crown atop his father's head.

Brielle hums, sending pleasant vibrations down his neck. She refrains from saying anything else, the only indication of her wakefulness being the pace of her steps. Harry's made sure to slow his stride since her return, careful not to push her heart past its recovering capacity.

There's something foreign to her now, something unattainable that's buried itself deep within her skin. She's still the same woman he's grown up beside, but she's changed—become less of a little girl with boundless love for most everyone and everything. His mother is relentless in demanding she take lessons to become a proper lady if she is to live as his wife. The old Brielle would balk at the thought. Will she accept them and become the stranger he's always feared himself becoming?

"Do you think your mother will try to raise our child?"

Raising a child is something his mother has little taste for and he almost laughs at the thought. If she were to raise anything, the act itself would be a miracle. All she managed to do for him was tell him tales on occasional nights and allow him to choose some of the lessons he would prefer.

"No, I don't believe her capable. She'll attempt to direct his or her lessons to her benefit, though, as you're not of royal lineage."

A strong breeze streams through the courtyard and almost knocks Brielle over. She grips Harry's arm so tight he has to fight off a surprised yelp. Either Caldwell has been training her, or sewing is a more muscular profession than he thought. "Are you alright?"

She waves him off with her free hand and straightens her posture, breathing hard enough to make him walk her to the closest bench. Brielle doesn't protest and leans against him for support, her face looking paler than usual.

Harry isn't sure what to do. He's never been placed in situations like this, situations where someone is fine one moment and ghastly the next. Sure, Brielle has been sick a number of times, and he's gone out of his way to make sure she had everything she needed despite not knowing what exactly that was, but what does one do to help a woman with child recovering from starvation? Does he get water? Food? A cloth for her forehead?

Brielle manages a laugh. "I'm fine. Really, just need to rest for a minute."

He doesn't buy it and places the back of his hand to her forehead. The skin doesn't feel warm. "Should I get some water? Or maybe some bread?"

She opens her mouth as he stands and makes for the kitchen. Only four servants are in the kitchen, rolling dough and stirring a pot of something that smells far better than anything he's attempted to eat in the last month. The smell distracts his mind, drawing him toward the stove.

"What's in this?" Wanting to have a taste but worried about burning himself, his hand hesitates over the pot. Brielle brought him something that looked similar once, when he was violently ill and couldn't manage to leave his bed for more than a few moments. She'd put something in it that he'd only tasted a few times prior and hasn't since then.

"Beef stew and a number of spices for this evening's supper. Brielle requested it for you, your Highness."

The woman doesn't look up from her spoon and he can't place her name to thank her in a proper manner. Harry smiles and returns his hand to his side. "Thank you. If there's any time, please ensure that the staff have some as well."

He grabs a fresh loaf of bread and a few berries on his way back to Brielle. Strawberries are no longer in season, but blueberries are her next favorite. Or that's what he remembers, she tends to just have fruit stashed in her pocket for any occasion.

When he makes it back to the bench, he finds it empty. Panic surges through his chest, clawing at his lungs and tightening every muscle beneath the surface of his skin. Increasing wind makes his eyes water as he spins himself in circles, frantically searching the courtyard for his wife.

Brielle is a few feet away, speaking with Caldwell and pointing to his left ankle. She's still paler than the sky and leaning forward a little too much for stability, but Caldwell's hand is poised to help her keep her balance.

Harry relaxes and catches his breath. He takes shorter strides to meet them, his fingers picking at the bread to still the nerves beneath the surface that refuse to be sedated. She's all right.

"...Master Avery said I can work it back to proper function if I spend enough time exercising each day. I can't thank you enough."

Brielle leans forward to hug him and Harry chimes in, a smile of his own easing on to his lips. "Nor can I thank you enough, Sir Caldwell."

The look on his face is so astonished Harry can't help but to laugh and offer him a piece of bread. "Yes, you heard that. Brielle told me what you did for her, and it's something you deserve more than most. The actual ceremony is still in planning, but it will happen sooner than later."

Caldwell isn't much for affection, so he takes Harry by surprise when his hug with Brielle shifts to him. His shoulders feel like stones. Harry can almost feel the protrusion of his ribs through the armor and does his best not to cringe. Amazing that he's still on his feet and making his rounds instead of laying in bed.

"I'd say thank you, but I'm afraid it's been said too much already." He clasps Harry's shoulder and pulls away with his smile sinking into his cheeks.

"No need, brother." Harry offers the bread to Brielle and she hesitates to accept it. "Is everything all right, Elle? I brought some berries too—" He begins to pull the small cloth wrapped package from his pocket and Brielle interrupts him.

"Yes, I...well, it's difficult to keep food down after eating small portions once a day for weeks. I don't want it to go to waste."

Now that he thinks about it, she has been vomiting a lot since her return. Caldwell could as well, but he doesn't think he would ever admit to it unless the act was witnessed.

"Oh, well, we can keep it and bring it to supper tonight? There's plenty to go around and I asked one of the ladies to make enough for everyone on the grounds to enjoy."

Caldwell shakes his head and tears a piece off for himself. "Might be the child. My mother couldn't keep anything down at certain hours during the day while she was carrying my sister. She was up all night, eating and praying she could keep it down. I think Farrah said to lie down for most of the day and eat bread more than anything else since it sits better."

Brielle looks at the loaf and frowns. "Is it really that awful? My god, I'll have to eat only bread for months if I want to keep my sanity! Was it only your sister?"

He shrugs and Harry laughs, imagining a larger swell in her stomach and a gender they won't know until the child is born. Everyone wants him to have a son, an heir to raise a legend and build mountains out of sand. He'd rather have a daughter—a sweet little girl who won't have to take his place, who can live the life she wants unburdened by a title.

"I don't think gender matters in that case, Elle."

She looks at him like he's said something a child would say. "And what if it does?"

"Then I'll have to bring you all the bread in the Kingdom, of course."

Caldwell tells her a few more remedies he knows of and returns to his rounds. Harry and Brielle make their way to their home and spend their time in bed, siphoning the warmth from the three layers of blankets Harry placed on the bed the night before.

Harry twirls a strand of Brielle's hand around his finger, humming a symphony someone played for his twelfth birthday. She doesn't seem to think he's very good at it and laughs, sending small vibrations through his chest. "You never had singing lessons, did you?"

Being a choir boy was never at the top of his list. Although he enjoyed the music, he knew his voice and his heart weren't meant for singing. Instruments, though, are another story. The harp calls to his fingers the way Brielle's are drawn to the roses. "Not at all. Only the instruments."

"You'd have been a terrible choir boy."

"Certainly, but I can always play the harp."

She sighs and traces patterns on his chest, beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. For the last hour, she's been fidgeting in any small way possible, pulling at the sheets, drawing patterns, shifting to one side or the other. He knows she wants to discuss something, but pushing her right now isn't the best idea.

Harry kisses her forehead. "Thank you for arranging supper. I haven't tasted anything as interesting since the first time you gave it to me. I also can't wait to see the look on my parent's faces. Do you think they'll be more shocked or angry?"

He would bet on angry, knowing his father. Richard could be served the nicest meal on earth and still find something bad to say about it. Anne, she's far less picky, but she's learned to stick up her nose at anything unfit for a Queen and to her, that's become almost everything, even her only son.

Brielle hums and draws him closer to press her cheek to his chest. "I try to love her, I really do, but she drives me mad. I wanted to do something nice for you, but I won't lie and say it wasn't also to poke her nerves. Why is it so hard for her to accept that we're happy? She'll still have a legacy and an heir, it's not like I stole you and hid you away."

There are a lot of layers to Harry's mother that he has yet to comprehend himself. She's on and off with everything at any given moment, and he's certain there isn't much sincerity left in her after all these years beside Richard. He wishes he had a satisfying answer for her, one that would ease the fears she has about bringing their child into such a chaotic life, but he doesn't have one.

"I wish I knew."

She doesn't answer him right away, letting the silence filter between his bones and seep into his skin. The setting sun falling through the window makes her skin look like her roses, soft and irresistible.

"I don't want to have my lying in at the castle. And I don't want to raise our child there, either." Her hand is still on his chest, unmoving and radiating a heat that resembles that of an ember.

"I don't want you to, either."