enjoyebooks CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 65
POV: Celeste
They change my lessons without telling me.
I realize it when I arrive at the study room and find the chairs rearranged in a half circle, pushed too close together, the long table gone. The windows are open wider than usual, curtains tied back as if air alone might keep something terrible from happening. Two court ladies stand near the door, pretending to examine a tapestry that has not moved in years.
I stop just inside the threshold.
“This isn’t my room,” I say.
My governess smiles too quickly. “It is today.”
She guides me to a chair in the middle of the group, her hand hovering near my elbow without ever touching. Around me, other children settle into their seats, their eyes flicking toward me and then away again. No one smiles. No one whispers hello.
A tutor I don’t recognize clears his throat. “We will be conducting lessons together from now on.”
I lift my hand. “Why?”
He glances at my governess before answering. “It is… more efficient.”
Efficient for whom, I wonder.
The lesson begins. Letters on slate. Simple sums. I know all of this already. I sit very straight, my hands folded, my feet pressed flat against the floor. I breathe slowly, carefully, the way I’ve learned to do when the strange warmth inside my chest starts to stir.
Ink scratches across parchment. Chairs creak. Someone coughs.
I feel it before it happens—the tightening, the pull, the sensation like invisible fingers winding around my ribs. I focus on my breathing. In. Out. Slow. I do not want anything to break. I do not want anyone to scream.
The ink pot trembles.
It is small at first, barely a shiver. I freeze, eyes locked on it, willing it to stay still. The tremor grows. The ink ripples as if something is stirring beneath the surface.
“Stop,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I am speaking to.
The pot lifts.
Gasps ripple through the room. Someone knocks their chair back. The tutor steps away from the table, his face pale.
The ink spills in a sudden rush, splattering across the parchment and dripping onto the floor. It floats for a heartbeat—thick, black drops suspended in the air—before crashing down, staining everything it touches.
“Enough,” the tutor snaps. “Everyone out.”
The children scramble to their feet, rushing past me with wide eyes and stiff movements. One brushes too close and yelps as if burned, though I never touch her.
I sit very still.
The room empties in moments, leaving only me, my governess, and the two court ladies by the door. Ink pools at my feet, dark and spreading.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say.
My governess presses her lips together. “Of course not.”
Her voice trembles.
The court ladies exchange a look. One of them steps forward with a cloth, hesitating before kneeling to wipe up the ink. Her hand shakes so badly she drops the cloth twice.
“You should rest,” my governess says. “You’ve had a long morning.”
I nod. I always nod.
They escort me back to my chambers in silence, walking just ahead and just behind, as if I am something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
---
My mother comes to see me that afternoon.
She stands in the doorway at first, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on me. I sit at my small writing desk, my fingers smudged with dried ink, staring at a blank page.
“May I?” she asks.
I nod again.
She crosses the room slowly and sits across from me. Up close, I can see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the tension she carries even when she is still.
“The tutors tell me there was an incident,” she says gently.
“I didn’t mean to,” I reply immediately.
“I know,” she says.
But her hands are clasped too tightly in her lap. She does not reach for me. She does not touch my cheek the way she used to when I was younger.
“Celeste,” she continues, choosing her words carefully, “you must understand that some people are… uneasy.”
“Because of me,” I say.
She exhales slowly. “Because of what happens around you.”
The distinction feels thin.
“I try to stop it,” I say. “I really do.”
She nods, her eyes darting briefly to the window, as if checking to see if anyone is listening. “We believe you.”
Belief, I am learning, does not mean trust.
“For now,” she says, “your lessons will be supervised. Grouped. It will be easier for everyone.”
Easier.
I look down at my hands. “Am I… wrong?”
Her breath catches.
“No,” she says quickly. “No, of course not.”
But fear flickers across her face, quick and unmistakable. It hurts more than if she had shouted.
“You should rest,” she says, standing. “We will speak again tomorrow.”
She leaves without embracing me.
***
The days that follow blur together.
Lessons are short and crowded. I am never alone. Someone is always watching—standing too close, hovering just out of reach. When I walk through the corridors, conversations stop. Doors close softly.
I begin to feel like a shadow in my own home.
At night, I sit on my bed and stare at my hands, turning them over, searching for some mark that explains everything. They look the same as they always have. Small. Pale. Ordinary.
Inside, the warmth coils and waits.
One evening, Maximilian sneaks in again. He closes the door quietly and leans against it, his face tight with frustration.
“They’re idiots,” he says without preamble. “All of them.”
I manage a small smile. “You’ll get in trouble if you keep saying that.”
“I don’t care,” he replies. Then, softer, “Are you all right?”
I hesitate. “I don’t think so.”
He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel his shoulder against mine. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know,” I say.
The lie tastes bitter.
After he leaves, I lie awake long into the night, listening to the palace breathe. Somewhere beyond my walls, life continues—lessons, laughter, plans for the future.
I curl inward, wrapping my arms around myself.
If something inside me is wrong, then I will learn to keep it quiet.
If they are afraid of me, then I will become smaller.
I close my eyes and focus on stillness, on silence, on disappearing without leaving the room at all.
The warmth inside me tightens, as if offended.
I do not sleep.