A/N:
This chapter is 7.9k words so strap in, you guys! I got sick the latter half of March and couldn't update so I made sure this was a longer one for you all to enjoy<3 Also, this attached video of the beautiful Ilene Woods singing "a dream is a wish" lives in my mind rent free<3

***

xxvii.

"AND THEN WE SHALL HAVE THE PATIENT BATHE in a tub of this medicated mixture for fifteen minutes," The physician, Doctor A.V Harlot spoke, the stout man peaking up to meet the Duchess' eyes through his half moon spectacles, the glasses of which, were barely the size of Isadora's fingernail.

The white powdered gentlemen's wig rested askew on top of his head, and the lack of symmetry bothered Isa slightly less than the horrifying stench of the medicated mixture he was presenting in a glass vial.

There was a sick luster to the thick brown liquid, and bubbles arose and popped on the uncorked surface due to the exposure with air.

"Bathe in it?" Isadora managed, swallowing thickly as she exchanged a glance with the patient in question.

Lucy, her weak form seated on a chair in the living room, blinked in dismay. Perspiration glistened on her face, and her blonde hair was damp, with strands of it stuck to the sides of her face. Her maid's cap lay abandoned on the nearby table, the usually swollen muslin material now flat against the surface.

"Doctor, surely ingesting the medication is enough?"

The physician had expressed both routes, except, according to his treatment, there was to be no single choice made.

"Yes, your grace," The elderly man hastened, his voice slightly shaking as he fought to explain. He was much shorter than her, and even than Lucy herself for that matter.

"But the fumes, your grace! The fumes will help the girl."

Isa sighed then, casting another glance at Lucy and finding desperation as well as dismay etched into her maid's features for another such treatment.

If Isadora said yes to this treatment, this would be the third time Lucy will have to ingest and bathe in another strange coloured stinking liquid. Doctor A.V Harlot was the second physician The Duchess had switched to, and this was the third time he had brought forward yet another concoction, after being told that the previous ones he had prescribed had not worked.

Isa had deduced that the root problem had not been deciphered by either this physician or the previous one she had employed the services of, and both these men had indulged in a game of luck that was dangerously ebbing away at Isadora's patience and Lucy's strength.

After the horrifying event of last night, Isa had promised herself that she would give Doctor Harlot the benefit of the doubt for a solid fifteen minutes, but if he brought forward another vial of liquid substance with the repeated suggestion of ingesting and bathing in it, he would have to go.

"So, your grace," The physician turned to his giant leather bag on the sofa and zipped it open. "I have brought along thirteen vials for the bathing ritual and—"

"That won't be necessary, doctor," Isadora let out. "You will be taking your leave, thank you for giving us the time that you have."

"I beg your pardon?" The man blinked, adjusting his half moon spectacles with shaking thick fingers, "Your grace, but the treatment hasn't yet been completed—"

"It has for me, monsieur," Isa managed, her chest tightening as despair struck at her core. She had run through notable town doctors in Basingstoke like water, who was she going to turn to next? Where was she going to look?

"The treatment is not for you, your grace," The physician struggled with controlling his tone to a submissive regime, leading the Duchess to picture exactly how protective and assertive the man could be behind the closed doors of his practice with other people not of the Duchess' stature.

"Surely if you allow the patient a bit of time with the treatment to ascertain how she herself is truly faring—"

"You are not helping her!" Isadora cried out, furious at another's attempts at trying to counter—nay, derail her determination—as though she was a petulant child.

The audacity of the doctor tugged at the core of her composure, making fury unravel in her blood.

"We have been doing your suggestive treatments for two weeks and nothing has come of it," Her eyes bore into the man's beady ones, fire in her gaze. "My maid was found unconscious on the floor last night, and all attempts to revive her proved in vain until she suffered bouts of painful seizures and was driven awake of her own ailment's accord."

"And all you have to say for it, is another of your disgusting concoctions?"

The physician's face went pale, his thick stubby fingers reaching up to itch at his right ear, pushing the white powdered wig further askew.

"I deal with medicines, your grace," His voice was tamer now, fearful in face of Isa's vicious anger. "I assure you, I only add to the strength of the concoction each time if the dosage does not work. I do my best—"

"It is not enough," The Duchess cut him off, "Please take your things and leave."

The man's thin lips parted slowly, but then he clamped his mouth shut and turned to zip his leather bag full of clinking vials.

Isadora folded her arms across her chest, her hollow heart tightening in on itself. It still hurt, she thought. Even after going through intense heartache, her heart could be hollow and empty yet still find things to despair over-people to despair over. Isa was never empty inside, and at present she didn't know whether to rejoice in that privilege or mourn it.

The doctor murmured a hasty goodbye and scuttled out of the drawing room joined by a footman who Isa had gestured at to show the man out.

What next? The question prodded urgently into her senses. Who could she ask for help next? What doctor could she employ—what cure could she seek?

"Your grace," Lucy's voice invaded the silence then, the girl's tone frailer and weaker by the second.

"Please don't worry about me, I cannot be in peace knowing that you exert yourself so on my account."

"Then I do not care about your peace," Isadora's eyes met the maid's, perspiration coating the girl's fair skin as her eyes remained half closed. She was breathing heavily through her mouth, and just the sight of her pain—Mon Dieu it was unsettling.

"Do you understand me Lucy?" Isa's voice broke slightly. "If your peace entails me doing nothing while you suffer, then such peace of yours can go to hell."

The maid paled some more, instantly dropping her face low and hiding the guilt and hurt on her face. Isadora hated the girl's guilt and her hurt—Mon Dieu, if only she could chase the wretched feelings away from her. For what purpose had the girl to be hurt or to entertain guilt when she was suffering in physical pain? What audacity had she to find space for guilt and hurt inside of her when Isa was ready to part with anything she owned just to see her get better?

"Mama!" Archie's footsteps pitter pattered as he came running into the drawing room. "You said I could come after the doctor left."

He ran up beside Lucy's chair, placing both his hands slowly on the arm rest as his expression sombered at the sight of the girl. His sky blue eyes met Isadora's with a desperation.

"Mama, isn't she better?" He asked, doubt coloring his question. "Didn't the doctor give his medicine? Didn't he say Lucy will get better?"

"Darling," Isa managed, her throat tightening. "Please, go fetch Louis for me."

Archie nodded, his eyes sharpening in determination as he spun on his feet and ran off.

Isadora pivoted on her heels, gathering her skirts in a fistful as she hurried over to the writing table in the room. A footman in the room rushed over, quickly pulling out a fresh piece of parchment from the desk drawer and placing it in front of her. He whipped open a bottle of ink and had a quill ready for her fingers by the time she had seated herself.

With a tight chest, Isa put her ink dipped quill to paper.

'To His Royal Majesty,'

Her hand shook violently and she had to stop, a desperate blot of ink appearing where she had intended to put a comma. Isadora shut her mind off. This was nothing, this was nothing but her pleading to His Majesty for the services of his royal physician for only a single day. Surely there was no other physician left to ask instead. Isadora had gone through the best that the town of Basingstoke had to offer.

Yes, she could inquire after physicians from neighboring towns, but Mon Dieu, she had no time to play chance. If she were to gather someone, where would she even start? Which neighboring town would she go to first?

Exhaling, she penned down the note. A brief, desperate plea for the King of Angria to lend the services of his palace physician for the duration of a few hours at the least. Isa's eyes rechecked the note as she bit her lip, making sure she hadn't overstepped at any point—making sure she hadn't called him by a name she was no longer supposed to use, making sure she hadn't said something she wasn't supposed to say.

It was then, that Archie came running back into the drawing room, followed by the estate gardener's apprentice.

Isadora rushed up off the chair, taking the note and folding it twice and then slipping it inside an envelope.

"Mama, what are you doing?" Archie came running up to her, eyes curiously looking as she held out a spoonful of wax under the candle flame being held by the footman.

"It's a letter of help, my love," Isa managed, "Let's hope we receive it."

She poured the melted lavender wax over the envelope flap, then took her copper coloured heavy seal and pressed it against the soft bed of molten wax. Pulling the seal off, she was greeted with the crest of the Duke of Basingstoke's dukedom-the design modified for the seal that only the Duchess of Basingstoke was to use.

Isadora took the finished envelope and spun to walk towards Louis, her steps becoming uncertain as she saw him looking at Lucy as though he was frozen in place, his face pale and brows furrowed. His bottom lip quivered slightly and his nimble hands were fists at his sides. Lucy couldn't offer him anything in return, and she had—in her pain—turned her face away into the nook of the chair as she continued to breathe heavily. The misery struck at Isa's heart, slashing at it and causing yet more anguish in the emptiness of her chest.

"Louis, I need you to take this message to the palace," Isadora handed out the envelope to him as the boy blinked himself out of his daze and looked at her.

She bit back the jolt of horror in her countenance upon the raw—dazed—melancholy in the boy's eyes. Louis was no younger than Lucinda Tremaine or even the new princess of the Kingdom of Valence, Cinderella. Both her sisters could not muster a compatible anguish the likes of this boy's if they so tried, regardless of the individual cards of hardship that their own lives had seemingly dealt them. Still the anguish in her gardener's apprentice's eyes was something that even all the labor his life accounted to could not rival.

"Take the carriage please, and hurry," Isa held her elbows as he took the letter from her. "It's for Lucy. I have asked the services of the palace physician. Bring the man along if he can be spared. If they ask more—if anybody asks more—please tell them it's urgent."

Should she have elaborated in the letter? Should she have said something more? Doubt ensnared Isadora harshly. After all, why should the King help her? He was not obligated to. After what she had done to him—Mon Dieu, if he refused the services of his palace physician to help with Lucy's pain, then it would be Isa's fault. Nobody but Isadora herself would be to blame. The palace was much more than an hour's ride away, surely she would have her answer.

Louis nodded and immediately left, a harrowing determination and agony in his eyes that he seemed to try and hide from Isadora, but he needn't do so, for Isa could grasp the extent of it already.

"Mama?" Archie's soft voice prodded up in Louis' wake.

Isa looked down at him, her hand touching the back of his head at her sides as she caressed the back of his neck with her thumb while the boy buried his face in her skirts.

It was 10:00am, outside the birds chirped with wild fervor and the sun illuminated every bit of land surrounding the Duke's estate outside. Isadora could see the lavish gardens of the estate from the drawing room windows—flowers and buds sparkling softly under the passion of the sun. She heard the carriage being ordered by masculine voices, and she heard the vehicle pulling up to the estate entrance. She could see the thing, a black dot outside of the gardens as Louis' form hastened and jumped up inside it, after which the dot lurched and pulled off.

The Duke of Basingstoke—her husband—hadn't returned from his excursions last night, and Isadora wasn't sure if it was the lustful excursions that had kept him or the rapid succession of duties the man had found himself bound to after the attacks on the border of Angria. But such was Isa's dislike for the man that she was grateful he wasn't here when she needed help the most.

The town of Alopie on the border of Angria had been attacked a week ago, and while the casualties had been extreme, precaution and damage control—that Isa couldn't fathom the extent of-was being conducted by every serviceable nobleman in the kingdom. The Duke of Basingstoke, too as a result, had been roped in to the planning and strategic routes being founded at court, though the man had had no inclination to share details of the going ons with his young wife.

Like the noblewomen, wives and peasant mothers of Angria, Isadora too was kept in obscurity—sheltered from the face of war if not the idea of it—and made to go about her day to day life where her hourly worries would concern what she wanted to eat and what gown she wanted to wear.

Sickeningly, Isadora felt safe in the obscurity. When she had been foretold war by the fairy godmother, she had assumed it would occur so close to her that it would scorch her skin off with it's heat.

But it had been a weak since the attack on the Angrian borders, if the royalty and noblemen knew who the attacker was, they hadn't shared that information with the rest of the people. Still, Isadora's world was still going on was it not? She heard the birds outside, saw the glorious estate gardens blossom, kept up the refurnishing plans she had for the remaining rooms, managed a weekly visit to the Basingstoke town market where others were as untouched by affairs of war as she.

Despite the fairy god mother's terror, Isa's world was still going on, and she realized that it were the guilty and terrified ones that tried to trick you into feeling the same way when they knew that none of the consequences would directly affect you either way.

Alopie was on the Angrian border, and the town of Basingstoke was nestled northwards a distance of two more towns away from Alopie. There was a distance of two towns in between Alopie and Basingstoke, and the town center of Angria—the Kingdom's capital and the seat of the King's throne—was right adjacent to Basingstoke.

If the fairy godmother had wanted Isadora to whimper in fear and foam at the mouth, she should've tackled a different approach, for it was unlikely that a newly married Duchess with an estate and a house staff of fifty at hand and direct access to the hustle and bustle of town activity, as well as the knowledge of the geography of her new Kingdom, would ever quickly disintegrate at the thought of war.

It was the 18th century, not the 14th, for a delusional old hermit to spread predictions of war and for the illiterate to emerge in mass hysteria and panic. Kingdoms were firmly in place, weapons as well as magic was guarding the kingdoms. The fairy godmother too was undoubtedly assigned to the task, along with the four others like her. That was her purpose, was it not? Perhaps that was why she hadn't paid a visit to Isadora in a while, or maybe, the old fairy was too angry yet still to face the consequences of her own threats and predictions, for her efforts had done nothing at all.

Little Archie broke away from Isadora's skirts then, and found himself by Lucy's chair again, his hands on the arm rest on the side as he rested his chin on top, curious and pained blue eyes fixed on the ailing girl.

"Give that to me," Isadora spoke softly, taking the dripping warm piece of towel from the hand of the servant who had appeared and begun attending to Lucy, fueled by previous orders given earlier in the morning.

The woman nodded and surrendered the towel to Isa, quickly replacing the wooden stool she had been serving Lucy on with a sofa chair being dragged on the spot for Isadora to seat herself onto while she resumed the same duty.

The servant then quickly replaced the now cool water being made use of, taking porcelain bowl and bringing it back in a minute with warm water.

Isadora shifted her sofa chair nearer to Lucy, dipped the wash cloth into the warm water, wrung it out and started pressing it gently on her maid's damp forehead while the girl's eyes flickered underneath her lids.

"I should tell them," The girl murmured faintly. "Your grace.. how can I tell them?"

"Tell who?" Isa spoke, her eyes meeting Archie's briefly, who had furrowed his brows with worry resting on his face.

"My family," Lucy managed, her voice so soft that had a bird chirped outside over the girl's words at the same exact time, the chirp would've swallowed everything.

The Duchess swallowed thickly, her heart thudding in her chest. She knew the network of familial connections that her maid had had in the village in Toulouse. Of course, Isadora hadn't personally known any of those connections, but there had been run ins and mentions of aunts, uncles, cousins and even neighbors. Isa hadn't known Lucy to write to her connections when they were at the chateau in Toulouse, but since Isadora's marriage and the move to Basingstoke, Lucy was vocal about writing home. The girl could read and write, and Isa had seen no issue with adding the maid's letters onto the estate's pile of letters that needed dispatching.

But to think of sending notice to family amidst this crucial time-Mon Dieu, did the girl think she was dying?

"You are burning," Isadora's voice shook suddenly then as she sensed the heat coming off from the girl.

Panicking, Isa bit the bullet and dipped the back of her gloveless hand underneath the girl's chin, pressing it against her damp skin. The bare contact made a cold chill travel down her back, but the almost scorching heat of the girl's skin overruled every other feeling of discomfort in Isadora.

"Mon Dieu," Isa's whispered voice cracked as her composure wavered. "You have a fever. You are burning hot, we shouldn't be using the hot water-"

Realizing, Isadora tossed the warm damp washcloth away, her hands shaking as she tried thinking of what to do.

"Mama do we use cold water then?" Archie perked up, his eyes wide as he went on alert, sensing Isadora's panic.

She didn't respond, her heart hammering inside her chest. What if Louis came back empty handed and her plea was refused at the palace? What if Lucy was truly dying? The thought of the girl's death made something rip inside Isa, as though her flesh had been pierced and she couldn't see where, only feel the pain of it.

"I'll bring the cold water," Archie called as he ran off, and the servant woman, hesitant and oblivious of what to do, took hold of the porcelain bowl of hot water and scurried off out of the room.

"I'll tell them," Lucy's faint voice came as she breathed heavily through her open mouth, eyes closed and brown pinched together in pain as she moaned. "Please don't bother yourself, your grace.. I'm sure I can get some one from the staff.. to send a message on my behalf."

"You'll tell them yourself," Isadora let out, her voice hard as she straightened herself, emotion thick in her throat. "You'll tell them yourself when you get better."

Not thinking of it this time, the Duchess touched Lucy's forehead with her bare shaking fingers, pushing the pieces of damp blonde hair away as gently as she could.

"It's never led to a fever before.. your grace."

The admittance was soft but a harsh reality check. It was someone whirling someone else by the hair on their head and making them face the facts that they were willfully obscuring from their knowledge.

But Isadora could argue more. She could argue that the girl's ailment had never led to her losing consciousness before either, or the seizures that had occurred in the wake. She could argue, but she found no strength to with the present state of her companion.

"Mama!" Archie voice rushed into her senses before the boy came running in, holding a bigger porcelain bowl with cold water that splashed in bits over the edges as he ran, dampening the front of his attire and splashing onto his face.

"I brought the water!" The boy came to their side, slowing down and placing the bowl on the table within Isa's reach.

He was panting as he produced a new dry wash towel from where he had stuffed it in his pocket, and her son's entire exertion wrought fury through Isadora's core. Regardless or not if he had been made to carry the heavy porcelain of water back himself because he insisted, she would still be lashing out at the servants without restraint. What if he had dropped it? And tripped on the pieces of sharp shattered porcelain? Isa shuddered, before she brought her attention back.

The servant woman hadn't re-entered, and only the footman from earlier stood in the corner of the room waiting to be ordered. The lashing out at ignorant servants would have to wait.

She dipped the wash cloth into the cool water and resumed her earlier activity, dismally feeling the cloth getting warm in face of Lucy's emanating heat. Her fear and frustration ebbed away at her, but as Archie watched in hope, she held her composure firmly together for him.

It was then that commotion was heard outside on the estate grounds like a ripple of hasty conversation in male voices thrumming in her periphery.

"Mama!" Archie ran to the nearest window. "The carriage is here! Louis is here!"

Isadora's chest tightened. Goodness, what if he brought no solace with him? What if he returned, having been turned away? Shutting her eyes tight briefly, she continued her anxious attempts of dabbing Lucy's forehead with cool water, pressing the cold wash cloth in the girl's neck and over her chest—as much as her maid's attire neckline would allow.

"He has someone with him!"

Isa exhaled audibly, tears stinging sharply at her eyes. There was still hope, perhaps the palace had obliged, heeding her desperate call.

It was then, that a footman appeared at the entrance of the drawing room.

"Your grace, the gardener's apprentice has returned," The man began, his arms at his sides, hands clad in white gloves. "He is on his way to your grace's presence with the royal physician, and His Royal Majesty King Alexander Casimir of Angria."

Isadora gasped, whipping her head to look at the footman, wishing she had misheard him. The hallway behind the man, illuminated by the morning light flowing in through the windows was empty, but her thudding heart knew figures would appear in the empty space soon, and one of those figures would be him.

Mon Dieu, why had he come? Has she written something in the note she sent? Had she disrespected him in some way? Or was he just inclined to make sure his physician was not being overburdened with tasks? With the kingdom in disarray by the attack on the border, how and why had he found the time and need to come?

Isadora became conscious of her state then. She had been dressed with care for the day, but her sleek and faintly sparkling material of the beautiful mustard coloured gown now had ugly black stains of water droplets at some spots from her anxious tending to Lucy. And her hair, having originally been pinned up high at the crown of her head was already displaying loose bits falling out of the plethora of pins at her back. Her hands were inelegant at present-gloveless and horribly clammy and wet and shaking with nerves.

Her lips were apart, but before she could say something to the footmen, footsteps were heard as figures piled into the hallway behind him. He stepped aside quickly, and the first person to enter was Louis.

His anxious eyes met hers. "The physician came, your grace, and the King himself came too."

She couldn't respond to him in her daze, and then the figures of the physician and the King of Angria stepped into the room.

The King looked.. resolute. He looked like a marble bust—like a statue that perhaps Michelangelo had slaved over in a desperate secrecy, keeping his creation hidden away from other mortal sight on basis of perhaps envy and jealous lust. Alexander Casimir's dark bronze skin glowed golden in the light of the Duchess' drawing room, the contours of his face were cutting-sharp. There was no crown on his head, and the dark grey brocade suit he wore made him the most profound presence in the room.

His eyes were on her, and she hadn't realized that she was staring into his chocolate brown orbs as she quickly caught herself, standing up from her chair beside Lucy and quickly dropping into a curtsey, struggling as her knees shook slightly.

"Your majesty," She tried saying the words, and she thought she had spoken them, but she hadn't. The words hadn't left her tongue at all, she had added nothing to break the silence of the room that was only being countered by Lucy's labored breaths.

The physician, a thin and short man with a single glass monocle fixed in his right eye and a shining balding head, made his way over to Lucy, not wanting to waste time.

"I trust this is my patient, your grace?"

"Yes," Isa spoke then, turning away from the King's direction to look at the physician as he set his bag quickly to a side.

"Please tell me what the matter is while I inspect her," The man's tone was monotonous but focused, as though he had switched all other thoughts and occupations off his head except the one at hand.

He brought out a thermometer, a big device with strange markings on it.

"She—she has these heavy headaches," Isadora started, her voice shaking as she tried to control herself, pushing the King's presence out of her mind.

"They weaken her, and are brutal. Last night she fainted and wouldn't be roused until she woke of her own accord. She had seizures, she's never had them before," The Duchess swallowed thickly. "And now she's burning up."

"Hm," The man muttered, using various tools to prod and monitor Lucy as the girl's breaths got labored by the second, her mouth half open as she groaned with each breath it took as though it caused her great pain.

"Is it the croup?" Isa managed, feeling Archie's form against her skirts as she brought a shaking hand down on his back, holding him against her for her own emotional support while her son buried his face in her gown.

"An aggravated version of it, I suppose," The doctor murmured, still busy in his inspection.

Isadora's heart clenched, her voice cracking. "Children die from the croup."

"Well," The man straightened, looking at Isa with a newfound consideration. "You need not worry, your grace. This isn't exactly the croup and your maid is not a child. So I must insist you don't fret over the possibility."

"Now," He continued, "I must employ use of your staff please, for I do need to bring this fever down."

"Yes, of course," The Duchess managed, gesturing to the footman in the room and directing him to the doctor.

"I need a bucket of ice, two more pairs of hands, a fresh bowl of cold water and..," Isadora heard the doctor relay to the footman, as the man nodded and scurried off, looking particularly determined about the last thing the doctor had asked for which Isa hadn't caught.

"Your grace," The doctor looked to her then, before turning towards the silent form of the King. "Your Majesty. I must implore you both to leave the room and please wait for the improvement in a separate room if you are so inclined."

Isa bit back the urge to protest as she felt Archie's form at her skirts. He was weary already, terrified from worry and fear and she couldn't bring herself to keep him in such a room where his sentiments would only dampen. He needed air, and she too could use it.

The Duchess nodded then, gently taking hold of her son's hand and turning to walk towards the exit of the drawing room. The King stood to a side, his facial expression of solid steel as he waited, giving her the way to leave first, before following. Isa saw Louis stay in the room, his anxieties plain on his face as he went forgotten amongst the presences in the room.

Isadora, her hand holding Archie's, made her way straight to the first drawing room-the main and the bigger one used to host official guests to the estate, all the while she felt the King's footsteps behind her.

Stepping into the drawing room, the two footmen closed the door behind the King and took their places against the walls-silent furnishings that were a pre-requisite to every room in the estate.

Then, plunged into a heavy conscious form of daze, the Duchess managed to approach a seat of the crimson sofas in this drawing room, a distance away from where the King of Angria had stationed himself. Then, she stood for he too was standing, regardless of how much she wanted to sit for a moment.

"Please, your grace, take a seat," The King spoke then, his baritone hard as he gestured once with his hand.

"Thank you, your majesty," Isadora managed the words this time, feeling something in her clench tightly at his use of her married title as the Duchess.

She was still holding onto Archie's hand, and the little boy was willingly not letting go of her, so she sat down and helped him sit right beside her on the crimson sofas, both his feet dangling as she adjusted the skirts of her gown trailing on the floor.

The silence was thick and sickening, and Isa's eyes were desperately engaging themselves in the workings of her fingers and in glancing at Archie, for she found that she was too weak to look at the King standing at a distance from her.

Her son, in a stark contrast, only displayed a worry on his features-his thoughts majorly left behind in the past room with Lucy. There was no familiarity in his eyes at the sight of the King, only a certain resolution, hesitancy and curiosity as his blue eyes flickered to the royal.

Isadora couldn't understand it. He had hoped and waited for the King's visit for so long, had he not? He had given his toy away to him, he had spent days watching the front courtyard of the estate for even a sign of a royal carriage pulling up, and now he was just.. still and hesitant. Isa knew he was worn out, with the worry of Lucy's state and the dullness of the wait he had given for all the two months-most of it had worn him out.

And for a moment, she was selfishly thankful for it. For it would've hurt, had Archie greeted the King like he used to. It would've hurt hearing the King's nickname from her son's lips, it would've hurt had the child embroiled himself with hope and passion for everything that had been. All that would've hurt Isa so much, even the thought of seeing her son in such a delusion made her stomach churn.

"How are you?" The King's voice penetrated the silence then, his tone heavy as it dominated the atmosphere of the room.

The Duchess' eyes flickered towards him, as bit the inside of her cheek and reigned in her composure. He was looking her with a careful inspection, as though it was she who had been sick and had just been given leave to abandon her sickbed.

"I've been fine, your majesty," Isa hastened, "Thank you for inquiring."

"And Archie?" The man asked, a sudden hesitance—guilt?—overtaking his voice.

On impulse, Isadora wrapped her arm around the back of Archie's shoulders and pulled him close to her. Willingly, he leaned his head against her chest, his blue eyes carefully looking at the King as Isa rested her free hand on her boy's cheek, caressing his face briefly.

"Archie's been alright too, your majesty," She managed, "He's just worried at present. We've all been out of sorts since last night, I suppose, with Lucy taken ill like this."

Alexander Casimir upheld Isadora's eyes carefully, a certain consideration in them before his chocolate orbs turned to Archie in her arms.

"Archie?" The man spoke then, and the lack of careful propriety that a royal should show to another man's child was shockingly obvious in his tone.

The familiarity of him taking the name of her son, struck Isadora hard. After two whole months and a few weeks, it was unsettling—a figment of a secret dream haunting her.

Archie stirred against her, lifting his head away from her chest, his eyes on the King.

"I must apologize to you," The King of Angria let out, and Isadora's heart clenched. "I promised to visit and then I didn't come."

She shut her eyes briefly, her palms feeling hot as she glanced at her son. Archie met Isa's eyes as though he felt her anxieties oozing out from her, an acknowledgement in the blue orbs as though he was consoling her.

Don't worry, mama, I know what to say. I will handle this. Except, Isadora was not consoled in the least.

"It's alright," Archie spoke then, his voice civil and soft. He jumped off the sofa seat and took a few steps closer to the King, stopped right in the middle as Isa watched with a hammering heart.

"I know of the attacks on the border, I know you are busy," The words were firm and careful on the little boy's tongue as he turned to look at his mama again.

Isa swallowed, not knowing what look to give to him, not knowing what to convey through her eyes. The attack on the Angrian border was common knowledge in town, but did her son sense the intensity of it all more than she did? What did he mean by attacks? Did he know of more than one on the town of Alopie? He went to school daily, of course, he was being trained in the Kingdom's political situation—courtesy of his teacher Monsieur Gabriel DuBois—as well as in astronomy, math and other areas. But Isadora hadn't ever thought of how much more his awareness stemmed. Someday, his knowledge of the world would surpass her own.

"Mama and I wish you success," Archie concluded then, fixing his eyes back on The King as he dropped into a small bow. "Your majesty."

Isa swallowed tightly, her throat feeling constricted as her fingers gripped the surface of the crimson sofa seat—where Archie had been sitting—tight.

"Then I am sure to succeed," Alexander Casimir's tone was hard as his jaw tightened in a certain dismay before he tried to push it away.

"Now that I know the only two people I would give my life for, wish me success."

The Duchess' eyes whipped towards the King, and she found him staring at her, after removing his eyes from her son. Isadora trembled to see remnants in his eyes of everything they had gone through together in the fateful month of March. June was almost at an end now with summer in full swing, and the events of spring had tortured and impaled Isa's heart. Only, was he too aching? For him, had the hurt still remained? Did he too, like her, couldn't sleep at night sometimes because of the hurt of it all?

Isadora couldn't understand it. He was a King. If the Duke of Basingstoke could boldly leave for a different woman's bed each night, surely the King of Angria could find himself in middle of dozens of female attentions should he try. Surely he could find himself faced with someone who deserved his own attentions, someone who didn't have a child to think about too, someone who had the means of being selfish in love. Someone who was favored by the world in a way that it didn't always try to tear her happiness away from her.

"We care about you too.. your majesty," Archie struggled with the title, trying not to say the name he had so carelessly been in the habit if using.

Isa's heart ached for her son's consideration. She was a stickler—a harsh guard and promoter—for propriety, she knew that and he knew that. But she had never forced Archie, and could only be grateful that he listened to her—understood her—even at his age.

"Do you?" The King stepped closer to her son, before crouching down in front of him, resting his gold ringed dark hands on his knees.

"Then you will comply with my order of your weekly—thrice in a week at minimum—visits to the royal stables," The man spoke, his eyes glinting at he looked at Archie, though his facial features remained firm.

"I will be giving you proper riding lessons, and I won't cave until you are capable of riding by yourself on whichever animal you choose."

"Your majesty," Isadora blurted out then, getting up off the sofa in a panic.

Why would he order such a thing? Didn't he see that him maintaining his distance was the only proper way? Why did he want to hurt her further than the hurt she had caused herself? Mon Dieu, why would he want to hurt Archie by manipulating his hopes so?

The King looked at her, a certain challenge in his eyes as though he had expected her to argue—to deter his order in some way.

"Archie has school, Monsieur Gabriel DuBois is particular, and his grace would frown upon Archie not attending—"

"Then I will speak to both his grace, and Monsieur DuBois," Alexander Casimir met her challenge coolly, an intrigue in his eyes masking his raw self from her.

"Surely no teacher or guardian would refuse a boy his riding lessons," He continued, breaking his gaze away from her and looking at Archie in front of him, "Especially if that refusal goes to the King. They wouldn't want to part with their limbs I'm sure."

Archie giggled, bringing his palm to his mouth briefly as the King of Angria grinned at him. Isa's heart clenched at the sight of them both, and she ached to break it away lest the image burn into her mind and add to her hurt.

"So, do we have an agreement?"

Archie nodded frantically. "Yes, please."

The King smiled, "I didn't bring your toy today."

"But I brought the cream mare I gifted to your mama, she seems to have forgotten it."

His eyes travelled to Isadora's and she blinked, her heart hammering inside her chest. She hadn't forgotten the mare, though truth be told she had imagined he would like it back, after everything that had happened. Because how in the world was one supposed to keep a gift like that? How to keep a gift given with love when you had went on and pushed that love willingly away?

"It is being made at home at the Duke's stables as we speak, though I'm sure it needs a sympathetic face," The royal raised a brow at Archie then.

Archie lit up them, his composure breaking into excitement.

"I will go and check up on it!"

With that he had sprinted out of the room like lightening, before Isadora could even gather herself the thought of being left alone in her husband's drawing room with the presence of the King—the man she would've married had circumstances not forced her hand.

Turning her hands into fists, she tried to keep the cruel thoughts away.

"Your grace," The King spoke her title then, and in the silence of the room and the tension weighing on her heart, she was sure he was mocking her.

But when she met his eyes, she saw no mockery in them.

"Why are you doing this, your majesty?" She forced herself to speak. "You are very well aware that I can acquire any riding instructor for Archie—Monsieur DuBois might even recommend someone. You do not have to force yourself to keep something up that no longer has any merit."

The King's jaw tightened. "No merit? I care for Archie, Isadora. I force nothing. I was prepared to make him my heir, do not dare tell me my feelings for him no longer have any merit."

She stilled, her composure cracking suddenly at the familiar sound of her name in his voice.

"I am a King," He let out, stepping closer to her, "You kept reminding me of it, did you not? So do not forget it now. I am your King and if I want to teach Archie riding, I will do so. I will do whatever that I want—Mon Dieu, if I want to pin you against one of these sofas and have you to myself right now, I will, and these two footmen—as well as your husband—will as blind and deaf to it as I want them to. Do you understand me?"

Isa gasped, her chest rising and falling in her shock as her heart pounded in her ears. He held her shocked gaze with a fury and determination.

"The attacks on the border," Alexander Casimir spoke after a pause, collecting himself as he exhaled. "They keep increasing. I need you and Archie to be aware of that and be safe, for I have appointed the Duke in charge of border patrol with a curated army. It has been three days since his appointment to the task yet still, the attacks keep increasing."

Isadora blinked. "I thought it was only the town of Alopie that was attacked."

"That isn't the case any longer," The royal met her eyes. "I was in the Kingdom of Valence in May, and there were rumors of these attacks. I prepared defenses here, yet still, Alopie suffered and now putting Bennett on patrol, regardless of my motivations to do so, has cost me another attack on the border."

"Is that why he didn't come home last night? Is he injured?"

To her surprise, the King scoffed, his eyes vicious.

"Truth be told, I would be content if he had died."

The Duchess tilted her head slightly, her eyes sharp.

"Is that why you put him on border patrol? Not to merely protect your kingdom but to kill an already spineless man for your personal vendetta? Are these the motivations you speak of?"

Alexander Casimir ground his jaw, his eyes flashing as he looked at her.

"I want to give him a serviceable death, instead of crushing his windpipe with my bare hands," He let out, "Does that satisfy you, your grace? Did I not promise you I would smolder the ground he walks on?"

Terror engulfed Isadora's veins then. The fairy godmother had predicted this had she not? The King would save the empire—the world—but he needed support, she had said. He needed Isa to be there. The newly wed Duchess had shrugged it off, for it was not her duty to aid a King.

"You can control King Alexander Casimir of Angria."

That was what the fairy godmother had said, but Isadora hadn't seen why she would need to control him at all. 

But now, without her presence, what was the King of Angria doing dealing with his personal grudges before thinking about the Kingdom? Mon Dieu, if the threat was as severe as the fairy godmother had predicted, then they would all suffer if the King went on like this. A whole town was burnt to the ground, so many casualties and deaths—Mon Dieu, and this was the state of the Kingdom's King? 

"No, your majesty, please," Isadora panicked, her voice wavering. "The Duke doesn't matter in face of the attacks. Please don't let his presence cloud your judgement."

"Cloud my judgement," The King broke away, turning his head away briefly as he scoffed, before meeting Isadora's eyes again.

In his eyes, she saw the madness that he had been trying to conceal from her.

"I will tell you just how much he clouds my judgement."

"Reginald wants to ally with my Kingdom formally to face these attacks," He spoke, a mad defiance in his eyes. "He wants to take control of the alliance and thinks of it as charity, because he fears I have lost it. He fears I will endanger my Kingdom, because he thinks I have gone fucking mad in my distress—that I'm unfixable after this goddamned hole in my fucking chest that you left, Isadora."

Isa's violently shaking hand touched her chest as she tried to calm her breathing. Mon Dieu, the state of his heart scared her, and it was her fault—she was the cause of his sufferings. But did he think it was only he who suffered? Did he think she hadn't hurt herself too?

Then before she could say anything more, he stepped closer to her until the distance between them was of only a handful of inches.

"Tell me, Isadora," Alexander Casimir's jaw tightened as he focused his eyes on her, as though he had pushed everything insignificant away for this one important question—as though nothing he had said before will matter to him like what he would say now.

"For my goddamned sanity," He exhaled, and Isa could feel the warmth of his breath against her facial skin.

"I need you to tell me if he touches you."

Isa blinked, her brows furrowing as her heart raged in her chest.

"What?" She managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The King's face scrunched up in anguish, before fury schooled his features and he dipped his head forwards, the front bits of his hair brushing her forehead lightly as she peered up into his eyes.

"Please tell me you don't let him touch you," He forced the words out as he stuttered. "Tell me that at nights he doesn't—come near you. Tell me he doesn't make you feel—tell me he doesn't—"

The door of the drawing room was pushed open then, the royal physician's presence barging in on the moment, as The Duchess stepped away from the King, her knees shaking and heart hammering painfully inside her chest, having entirely forgotten about the initial distress that had plagued her this morning—the health of her personal maid.