enjoyebooks CHAPTER 124
CHAPTER 124
POV: Evangeline
The memory comes back to me while I am awake.
That’s how I know it matters.
I am standing in the small receiving room outside Sebastian’s study, waiting while he finishes a council meeting that has already stretched too long. A servant offers me tea. I decline. Another adjusts the curtain because the light falls unevenly.
“Your Grace,” she says softly, “shall I—”
“No,” I reply. “I’m fine.”
She bows and steps back.
The room is quiet, but not peaceful. Somewhere behind the closed doors, voices rise and fall—measured, strategic, distant. I focus on none of it.
Instead, I am eight years old again.
We are hiding behind the hedge near the eastern gardens, knees muddy, hands clasped over our mouths to keep from laughing. The gardener passes by, oblivious, humming to himself as he trims the roses.
Alexandro nudges me with his elbow. “Don’t breathe,” he whispers.
“I have to,” I whisper back.
He grins. “Then breathe quieter.”
I glare at him. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me,” he says easily.
“I tolerate you,” I reply.
He snorts, laughter shaking his shoulders. “Liar.”
We wait until the gardener disappears, then burst from the hedge like we’ve conquered something enormous. Alexandro raises his arms in victory.
“We did it,” he announces.
“We hid in a bush,” I say.
“A strategic bush,” he corrects. “Someday, I’ll hide us from much worse things.”
I frown. “Like what?”
“Father,” he says without hesitation.
I glance toward the palace, suddenly nervous. “He’ll find us.”
Alexandro steps in front of me, chest puffed out. “I won’t let him.”
“You can’t fight him,” I say.
“I don’t have to,” he replies. “I’ll be Duke one day. Then he’ll listen.”
I tilt my head. “And what about me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’ll be with me.”
“Always?” I ask.
“Always,” he says.
I consider that seriously, the way children do when they sense promises are dangerous but beautiful. “What if you forget?”
“I won’t,” he says.
“What if I leave?” I ask.
“Then I’ll follow,” he says.
I smile, relieved. “What if I’m the one who gets in trouble?”
He shrugs. “Then I’ll take the blame.”
“That’s not fair,” I say.
He grins. “I don’t mind.”
We sit on the grass, backs against the hedge, watching clouds drift lazily overhead.
“Promise me something,” I say.
“Anything,” he replies.
“Don’t ever leave without telling me,” I say. “If you go somewhere, you take me with you.”
He reaches out, hooking his little finger around mine. “I promise.”
I squeeze his hand. “Swear it.”
“I swear,” he says solemnly.
The memory fractures there.
I feel it every time—the moment the promise cracks under the weight of time, choice, fear. I inhale sharply, the present rushing back in around me like cold water.
“Your Grace?”
I blink.
Sebastian stands in the doorway, council finished, his expression already shifting from ruler to husband.
“You look unwell,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.
“You’re pale,” he observes.
“I said I’m fine,” I repeat.
He studies me for a moment. “Come. Walk with me.”
I follow him down the corridor. Our steps echo together, steady, practiced.
“You were waiting a long time,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You don’t complain,” he adds.
“I don’t see the point.”
He slows slightly. “Sometimes speaking changes outcomes.”
“Sometimes,” I agree. “Most times it doesn’t.”
He glances at me. “You’re thinking about your brother.”
The words hit closer than I expect.
“Yes,” I say.
He nods once. “I suspected.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because when people go quiet like that,” he replies, “it’s rarely about politics.”
We stop near a tall window overlooking the inner courtyard. Sunlight spills across the stone floor, bright and unforgiving.
“You never talk about him,” Sebastian continues.
“There’s nothing left to say,” I reply.
“That’s not true,” he says. “There’s always something left. You simply choose not to give it voice.”
I look at him then, really look. “And you? What do you choose not to voice?”
He exhales. “Many things.”
Silence settles between us—not uncomfortable, but weighted.
“He promised me something,” I say suddenly.
Sebastian turns fully toward me. “What?”
“He promised he’d never leave without telling me,” I say. “He promised he’d take me with him.”
Sebastian listens without interrupting.
“And then?” he asks.
“And then he left,” I say. “And I stayed.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightens. “People break promises.”
“Yes,” I agree. “But children believe them.”
He nods slowly. “And adults pay for them.”
I look back out the window. “I never said goodbye.”
“You don’t always get closure,” he says.
“I know,” I reply. “That’s what hurts.”
That night, I can’t sleep.
I sit up in bed, the room dim, Sebastian already asleep beside me. His breathing is steady, untroubled. I envy that.
I slide out of bed quietly and go to the small writing desk by the window. I open the drawer and take out the letters—the ones I never sent.
My fingers shake as I unfold the top one. I’m still here. I’m still waiting. I press my lips together and fold it back up.
“You promised,” I whisper into the empty room.
The words feel childish, useless.
I return the letters to the drawer and close it firmly.
The past doesn’t ask permission when it comes back.
It just appears—fully formed, aching, impossible to rewrite.
And I understand now, with painful clarity, that the last memory I have of my brother isn’t his face as a man, or his voice as he left.
It’s the sound of his laugh behind a hedge. It’s the warmth of his hand in mine. It’s a promise made by a boy who didn’t yet know how much leaving could destroy.
I lie back down beside my husband, staring at the ceiling until my eyes burn.
Tomorrow, I will be a queen again. Tonight, I allow myself to be a sister. Just once. And I let the grief finally settle into its rightful place—not loud, not dramatic, but permanent.