***Marigold Constallion***

"Shoulders back, lift your chin. Now tilt it down ever so slightly - what did I just say about your shoulders?"

They are tilted back, I want to scream. But a lady doesn't scream at her mother. A lady doesn't scream at all.

"Yes, Mother," I reply, taking in a deep breath and pulling my shoulders back even further. By the time I feel her gaze soften with approval my arms are as stiff as the wings on the glazed duck sitting between us. I wish there were more entrees to shield me from her all seeing eyes, but a dead bird would have to do.

We used to eat at the long table in the ballroom, but that part of the castle is closed off because we can't get any guilds to reconstruct it. Apparently they're all paranoid of the dragonfire residue. Some even said that we should evacuate, but Mother didn't want to hear it.

That doesn't mean she completely ignored their advice, though, which is why we're eating in some obscure room in the other side of the castle.

It's not small, but it's a lot smaller than the ballroom - about a fifth of its size. The table we're eating at is a quarter the length of what I'm used to, and half the width. It's kind of claustrophobic but I guess it would be more depressing to eat in a huge, empty room. Mother banned the servants from the table after Father locked himself up in his room, so now it's just the two of us.

Aside from her nagging, the only sound during mealtimes is scraping silverware - all me. Everything she does, every move she makes, it's all so soundless and graceful and perfect that she practically never makes noise. It's like eating with a ghost.

When I hear a little ruffling of cloth, the almost silent, moist sound of veal being put on silverware, I let my guard down, just a little. Now that her attention is split between watching me and eating, she might not be as uptight about every breath I take.

I study the food, waving off the really fatty or kind of risky ones, narrowing it down between salad and veal, but then down to just veal, because I'm fucking hungry.

I pick out a slice on the very edge and press the fork on top, supporting the bottom with the flat of a knife, lifting it up and letting it drip before pulling it towards me. The pressure of the prongs causes some of the meat's juices to leak out, greasy and pink. 

I pause. It catches my eye because Mother and everyone else had always liked their meat well done; I'm the only one that likes it rare. I didn't think she would notice that.

Then, before I can get the veal on my plate, a drop of grease falls onto the table cloth with a small tap.

From the corner of my eye I see her place her cutlery down. I throttle the urge to slam my forehead on the table and groan.

"This tablecloth was hand crafted by the most skilled guild of artisans in Soran, highly sought after by a generous number of royal families," she says. I can tell she wants me to look at her when I say that, so I don't. "It is one of a kind, well-deserving of its exorbitant price."

Then why are we eating food on it?

"Forgive me, Mother," I say, eyes pinned to my hands. At some point I'd let go of the cutlery and now they're clenched in my lap. I want to stab something. Maybe I'll yell at a maid later. I wish Poppy was here.

"It is prudent that we treat the stain before it sets," Mother says, her tone cold. "You will finish dinner in your room."

"Yes, Mother."

There's nothing ladylike about the way the chair screeches as I stand and excuse myself, but I march out before she can get a word in. At least I don't slam the door on the way out.

I hate her.

She wouldn't have said that to Poppy. She wouldn't have been so hard on Rose.

Well, fuck her. Fuck her. I don't need her. I don't need anybody. But I wish they weren't gone.

They aren't all gone, a nagging little voice reminds me.

I tug on my hair, the burnt ends, which I can't bring myself to trim even though the heat of the fire and smoke made them brittle and ugly. Some of it crumbles apart in between my fingers.

And it's true, that not everyone is gone. Almost. But I've ignored him for so long that it would be impossible for him to not hate me, so he might as well be. I would, if I were him. Hate me. Even if he didn't in the beginning, he probably does now. Since I pretty much abandoned him.

Maybe I should hate him back. I could, if I wanted to. I can feel it bubbling under the surface like maggots crawling in my skin. 

But I can't.

I wish Rose was here. She would know what to say. I would lean down just a little so she could smooth my hair (I'd have to do that because she was so short, but not too obviously so she wouldn't be embarrassed) and she'd tell me that it would be alright, don't you worry, it'll be fine he adores you we all do and even if he was mad well who could stay mad at a face like that? Rose always knew what to say, she was just smart and nice like that.

But you know what you have to do now, don't you? she would finish, after all the patting and soft words. And then I would grumble and whine but do it anyways because we both knew I was the kind of person who would do what I had to and she just sped up the process is all.

The way I worked with Rose is different from the way I worked with Poppy. It didn't matter to me that no one really got it, even Nathaniel, which is also weird because he's pretty smart for a boy - but like I said, it didn't matter.

But he matters. So I take in a deep breath and prep myself to do something I haven't done in years - apologize.

I didn't mean to ditch you. I'm sorry.

I should have visited earlier. I'm sorry.

Are you okay? I'm sorry.

I keep scratching out mental rough drafts and crumpling the parchment because I can't really figure out what to say or how to say it. But all that really matters is that you tack on those two little words at the end, I think. It's not really the words that matter, but that you've mustered enough of whatever you need to say them.

Even though I walk slowly, I get to the medical wing faster than I'd like. Before I know what I'm doing I'm knocking on the door and taking in a breath and then it creaks opens, revealing a surprised old, old man.

I let out a breath and realize I was scared it would be Devon.

He's a good guy. But something about the way he raved about Nathaniel the last time I saw him, the way his eyes shone, wide and bright and fanatical - it creeped me out. That's not how you talk about a person, like they're some kind of spectacular thing for you to dissect.

"I am here to see Ser Derrington," I state, chin tilted high. I won't make the same mistake I made with Devon. I won't slip.

"Ah," the old man says. He scratches his beard and does a little grimace that instantly makes me uneasy.

Is he okay? I want to blurt. But I remember the mask, that I can't slip, so I focus on the anger. Sharpen it.

"I command you to let me in," I snap.

"Princess..." the old man wheezes. He pauses, as if the two syllable word is enough to wind him, which it probably is, he's so goddamned old. "I am... sorry to inform you... that..."

That what, you senile shit? Spit it out before you croak.  

"...he has already... departed."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in and settle in my bones like a winter chill.

"He's dead?"

"Oh, goodness, no, Princess," the old man says in a flurry of wheezes, his adam's apple bouncing with the strain. "Forgive me for... the misleading... phrasing..."

Even though I barely had enough time to wrap my head around the idea of his death, the relief is enough to send my knees buckling. But the weakness doesn't show beneath the layers of petticoat and ruffles and lace. I look like I took everything in stride.

"Where is he?" I ask pleasantly, stretching my mouth into a smile.

"You... don't know?"

"Apparently not," I reply cheerfully, picturing his bouncy adam's apple coming to a slow stop under the pressure of my thumbs.

"The Queen... Her Royal Highness... sent him... on a... quest."

"Come again?" I say, my smile sticking to my face so I'm talking through my teeth. 

"To rescue... Princess Poppy..."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"They departed... several hours ago... Ser Derrington with... Devon..." he said, saggy eyebrows furrowed downwards. Looking at me with pity. "I'm sorry... Princess."

I stare at him and cock my head. "You're a liar."

I'll give it to him, he manages to look surprised at the accusation. It's almost believable.

"You're a liar," I repeat.

Nathaniel and I are friends - best friends. He wouldn't leave me. But if he really, really had to, he wouldn't leave without saying something first. 

I cover my mouth with my hand and giggle. "You're hiding him. You fucking liar." 

His mouth soundlessly flaps open and shut like the old, ugly turkey he is.

"Step aside," I command, grasping the door handle.

It causes him to shake a bit, but he stays frozen in place. I can imagine his liver spotted claw hands clutching the doorknob from the other side for support. If I flung the door hard enough, he'd fall badly enough to break something. 

Suddenly a hand falls on my right shoulder. 

"I am afraid the physician is telling the truth, my darling."

A second hand falls on my left shoulder and the two work together, kneading, soothing, rubbing her words in, a hard words softened by gentle touch.

"I sent the Young Dragonslayer on his most daring quest yet - to save your sister. It is too late for Rose. But Poppy..." There's a distinct longing in her voice, the closest I've ever heard her come to weakness. Jealousy knives through me. "Oh, but for Poppy - it is not too late. There was a chance, so I gambled on it. A foolish gamble, some may say. A waste of time, of hope. And perhaps it is. But things are different for a mother, you see? We weigh the world so differently from the rest of them. They do not, will not, ever understand."

I open my mouth and words come out. They don't feel like mine, though.

"He's gone?"

"Yes, Marigold, my love. I am sorry."

I wrestle out of her grip easily because it's not that hard, it wasn't as hard as Nathaniel's, that night at the ball, whenever I remember that it hurts, still hurts, but it doesn't hurt that bad so I push down the door and the old man and run into the room with the cots because really, it doesn't hurt that bad and he can't really be gone because he can't.  

"Nathaniel!" I shout, running down rows of clean white linen sheets, empty cots lined up like coffins, one after another.

And then my palms hit a wall, an end, again and again and again only it can't be the end there has to be more he's in here somewhere he can't be gone he can't he can't he can't and then my hands stop hitting the wall they stop hurting because she's holding them back and then she's holding me and I have to stop because it's been so fucking long since I've had that from anyone and he's gone he's really gone he left me and it hurts.

"Why didn't he say goodbye?" I ask, only it can't really be me, it sounds so small. Cracking and falling apart. Weak. Ugly.

"I cannot say, my darling," she whispers, her fingers running down my hair, again and again. Soft and smooth and gentle. "They say his mind was addled by the fire. Perhaps-"

"He didn't say goodbye."

"I know, love. I know."

"It's not that hard."

She doesn't say anything, just makes a shush, shush sound that's so quiet and nice and suddenly I remember she used to do that when I cried when I was little. She would brush my hair with her fingers just like this. I wonder when she stopped.

Somehow in the middle of everything we ended up on one of the cots, her coddling me in her lap like I'm four again and I have a scrape on my knee, like the times before I stopped running to her and started running to Devon. When did that happen? I can't remember when. I can't remember why. Probably because it happened so slowly neither of us noticed.  

"It's not that hard," I say again, right into her collarbone, tracing the outline of it with my finger, feeling something slowly rising in my own chest, hot and slick and black. Then it gives a little pop and the hate boils like fat, juicy maggots in a bloated corpse, eating everything, ripping meat off bone until nothing is left, but they're still there, squirming and starving for something, anything.

"It isn't hard at all," Mother agrees, her voice quietly dripping into my ear, feeding the writhing maggots. "People you love should know better than that."

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And that's that. Sorry, Marigold.

For the critiques, what do you think of the Queen now? And Marigold? And about Nathaniel? It looks like he never said that goodbye after all, huh. I really like to focus on all sorts of relationships and the nuances of how they work. Any thoughts?

Anyhow, as always, any comments and votes really make my day and motivate writing and such. Thanks for reading!