The sound of cutlery scraping against china frustrates me into wakefulness. I stare at the ceiling, my stomach churning. Perhaps if I do not move, it will stop churning and I can fall asleep again.

But in the next room, the teapot clinks against the tray and the suddenness of the sound makes my stomach flip. I drag myself from the twisted sheets and manage to get to my bathroom before I retch into the toilet. Nothing comes out but a dribble of clear bile, streaked with fresh blood from my mouth. My stomach churns again.

Mariusz comes into the room behind me. "You're awake."

"I wish I wasn't."

"Do you want something to drink?"

I run my tongue around the dusty, acid backsides of my teeth. "Please."

He leaves again. I wait over the toilet, but my stomach neither revolts nor settles. I sit down with my back against the rim of the bathtub and put my head in my arms. That makes my face throb, so I crawl to my feet and look in the mirror to see why. My vision is blurred. A dark gash runs from my right cheekbone down to my jaw and my right eye is swollen and purple-pink. I think that explains my vision.

When Mariusz comes back into the room, he turns pale. He hands me a cup of tea and looks wincingly at me.

"Does it hurt?"

"Uh." I sip my tea carefully. It stings my lips, but it wets my mouth and settles my stomach. "Quite a bit."

It even hurts to speak. And I don't want to look at it. I turn my back to the mirror and try to remember — exactly — how it happened. My memories of last night run clear up to the fireworks, with Valery, in the terrace garden. I know something bad happened because I feel ashamed. Mariusz was there. I recall throwing up. My shame crystallises. He gave me his handkerchief.

"What happened last night?" I ask.

"You got very drunk." Mariusz keeps his gaze upon my hands now, like he cannot bear to look at my face. "I think it was the absinthe, though I don't know how."

I remember the cup Valery gave me on the terrace. It was significantly bigger than the thimbles we had in the ballroom. "Valery gave me more, afterwards. We watched the fireworks together and drank."

"Valery." There is an edge to Mariusz's voice. "I see."

"I don't think he meant to get me drunk."

"I think he did."

I cannot find the energy to argue. I can't even be sure Mariusz isn't right. It's the sort of thing Valery would do. I sip slowly at my tea, my wound throbbing with every swallow. More memories come back to me. Mariusz, touching my chin and swearing. A procession of never-ending stairs like those that led to my tower.

"We were on the roof, weren't we?"

"Yes. How much do you remember?"

"Fragments. It's coming back to me." I trace the line of my stitches. "It was the edge of the door."

"The steel edge of the lock piece. It was covered with blood. I went up there before breakfast to find out exactly what happened." Mariusz dares lift his gaze to my face again. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I was trying to protect you."

Then it's not the ugliness of my wound that keeps him from looking at me. It's his guilt.

"I wasn't going to jump."

"I was worried you would fall. You were right on the edge. You were swaying. I was terrified."

Our conversation echos a memory. "You wanted to protect me. King Edmund asked you to."

"Yes. He did."

I finish my tea. There is something wrong here, some hidden truth I have trodden over without exposing. I can see it in Mariusz's eyes.

"Do you feel better now?" he asks.

I don't fall for the distraction. "A bit."

I don't think I'm going to be sick again, but my mouth is still dry. It must be the morphia. I remember that now too. The morphia must have worn off, because my wound hurts. And my pride, once more. How strange it is that the drug would numb not just my body but my heart.

The panic I could not feel last night comes flooding back. It was Konrad I was running from on the roof. Konrad on the stairs.

Konrad in my room.

Was that real? Did that really happen?

"Sasha? What's wrong?"

I shuffle past Mariusz and out into my bedroom. In bright morning sunshine, it looks peaceful and safe. How did he even get in? There is always a guard at the end of the hallway when we have guests.

I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.

"Sasha?"

"I need a drink."

I go to our sitting room, where the breakfast table sits by the window. I pour myself another cup of tea and drink, heedless of the burn in my throat and the sting on my lips. A letter sits face down on Mariusz's toast plate, spotted with grease. Ink bleeds through the paper in the grease spots.

Mariusz follows me to the table and resumes his seat. He is halfway through a breakfast pastry. He takes a bite and tosses it carelessly on top of his letter.

A little too carelessly.

"When did my uncle ask you to protect me?" I ask.

"To keep you safe," Mariusz corrects. "I would try to do so anyway, of course. I don't want you harmed."

"Uh-huh. And when did he ask you?"

Mariusz looks guilty.

"You're writing letters to him, aren't you? You're telling him things about me. And he's telling you things. You've been writing to him all along."

"Not all along. Only about six or seven weeks, really. Only since the night you told me to find allies beyond my drunken friends. Well, I did."

"You cannot trust him."

"Why not?" The edge comes back to Mariusz's voice, only this time it's directed at me. "Exactly why not, Sasha? You know him best. Tell me why I should not trust him."

"He lies. Everything he does is for his own profit. Everything he says is to manipulate you. He would sacrifice you in a heartbeat if it suited him."

"Would he? Would the man who saved your life, who created the bill that prevented your execution and forced it through his unwilling parliament, who found a place for you to live away from the pain and shamefulness of your past, would that man sacrifice me in a heartbeat? If I can trust nothing else about him, I can trust that he cares for you. And as long as you live here, he has reason to care for my country and my people too."

"You have no idea how wrong you are. I don't want you tell him things about me."

"Mostly I just ask questions, really. Why won't she let down her guard? Where did the scars on her wrists come from? Is there a way to tell when she is lying? What was she like as a child? Was she always this determined not show weakness? What can I do to make her happy?" Mariusz shakes his head. "But I will have to tell him about last night. He deserves to hear from my perspective what happened, not from whatever second-hand gossip comes his way. I would encourage you to tell him as well, but I don't suppose you will."

Uncle Edmund will know everything I tell Mariusz.

"Don't look so horrified," Mariusz says. "I've made a fool of myself over drink before, and I would wager that in his youth King Edmund has too. I would keep it secret if it were only that. But I have to explain how you came to be injured. I have to assure him that you're not as badly hurt as it looks. That you're safe."

But I am not safe. Not if King Edmund knows all my secrets. Not if Konrad comes in my room.

Was he really there last night? I struggle to remember what we talked about. I recall the sight of a low-burning candle, the scent of lavender and honey. Did I really kiss him? It doesn't seem real. Perhaps, under the influence of morphia and absinthe, I dreamed it.

I can't tell Mariusz. Real or imagined, he will report it back to King Edmund. I can't having my uncle knowing.

"I'm sorry," Mariusz says quietly. "I know you don't like it, but I think I really do trust him."

"You do what you think you must." I turn away so he cannot read my thoughts in my eyes. "But let me warn you, like absinthe, he has a way of coming at you from behind."

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2025-02-09: No, Alex, no! This is not the time to keep secrets!