Grief Will Drown You

It’s amazing how much things can change. One moment you’re going about your day, and the next, you’re mentally preparing yourself for murder. The funny thing—or not funny, really—is that I don’t even know who my enemy is. I just know someone or something, somewhere, is going to die.

I stare at the numbers so hard that I forget to blink. I only wrote them down a few minutes ago. When my thumb lightly brushes over the lines, the ink smears. 

It isn’t even dry yet.

I roll the glass-nib pen between my fingers, back and forth. I know I should put it down and look at the man standing in front of me. One of Ciro’s many couriers. But I can’t.

The numbers and this stupid rolling motion are the only things holding me back from slipping into a dark place. I’m already rigid in my chair, shoulders tense, fighting the urge to cry and demand how this could have happened. But crying isn’t an image I want to give anyone, especially not some random courier.

It’s a small mercy I chose this blue dress today. If I’d chosen the other one, I would’ve been on the floor by now, trying desperately to get it off.

A laugh almost bubbles out. This is ridiculous when you think about it. Because, what are the chances? I’d almost finished the totals when he walked in. I just needed five more lines.

I thought the message would be quick, maybe another task or a request to send more troops. I thought I could listen and finish the ledger at the same time. Send it off and not think about it for another month. I was five lines away.

I was so far off.

The worst part is the courier. He’s still talking, and it’s getting harder to tune him out. After he told me why he was here, the silence between us became unbearable. He tried to immediately smother it with rambling about the kingdom’s appreciation for our House.

Halfway through, he realized how inappropriate it was and now I’m listening to him stumble through apologies. I want to throw my pen right at his forehead. 

Dammit. He’s just the messenger. It’s not his fault. Do not stab the messenger.

Instead, I raise my hand to get him to stop and he finally shuts up.

I lean over the ledger, refusing to look at whatever expression he’s making. He won’t leave until I dismiss him. He’s probably hoping I’ll do it now. Too bad for him. I need answers. He’ll wait.

I need to think. I know Ciro wouldn’t have sent him to me without confirming it. That means I have to treat it like it’s real. The first problem that comes to mind is that anyone with access to the ledger will spot my revisions.

They’ll know something is wrong. I’ll have to make up a believable excuse later. I don’t know what, but I’ll figure it out. I always do.

I grip the pen and set it back on the page, going over the estate staff wages again, line by line.

I move on to the stipends for the guards and sentinels. Both stay exactly as they are. If the House is going to maintain some semblance of normalcy, people need to feel like nothing in their lives has changed.

“Focus,” I mutter.

We’ll need to increase the frequency of outer swim patrols. If they run into mercenaries, we’ll need more medical supplies too.

I cross out the existing numbers and replace them with bigger ones.

The courier clears his throat.

“Perhaps I should return later—”

“No. You’re going to stay there.”

I don’t care that he’s uncomfortable. If I have him wait outside, someone might talk to him. Honestly, what was Ciro thinking, sending him? From what I’ve heard so far, trusting him to keep quiet would be stupid.

I shakily dip the pen into the inkwell. There goes my concentration.

Logistics, think only about logistics. Come on. What’s the consequence of increased patrols?

Our people will be exhausted. One delayed response is enough to get someone killed. Or several. We need to prioritize nutrient-rich food to combat mana depletion. That means increasing the orders to the local fish and seaweed farms.

I update every order, then I cut.

Decoration budgets are the first to go. My own allowances vanish with them. I hesitate when I get to the sketches I’d ordered for Ambrose’s gift. I hold them for a few seconds, admiring the designs. I’d narrowed it down to two. Knowing him, he would’ve loved whatever I picked and worn it proudly.

I toss them away.

It doesn’t matter anymore. The priority is the men and women who serve our household. Making sure that they are taken care of, that there won’t be any openings for bribery or weaknesses for other Houses to use as a reason to remove us from power.

I write “canceled” next to commissions that haven’t started. Before I know it, it’s done. I close the ledger and place it aside, next to all of the orders. Someone will come pick it up soon.

For just a little bit longer, I don’t want to face the courier. I want to avoid him, avoid this entire situation, pretend everything is as it was before he opened his mouth.

So, I turn toward the warded window, where arcs with engraved sigils hold back the ocean, hoping the view will take me out of this room.

It does. Even after a century, seeing all of that water being held back still feels unreal.

Somewhere on the estate, Drisana is probably laughing with her tutors.

For one awful second, my control cracks. Burning eyes, a constricting feeling in my chest and watering vision. I bite my tongue. There’s no escaping it anymore.

I finally give my attention to him.

Brown hair and brown eyes. He’s wearing the standard royal uniform. A long blue coat with gold trim and dark trousers tucked into tall boots. Pinned to his chest is the royal insignia: a gold crowned seahorse.

There’s nothing remarkable about his appearance except for the scar hooking down his chin.

His gaze keeps darting to the ceiling, to the wall behind me, anywhere not my face. He stands straight, hands politely behind his back.

“Say it again,” I command.

“Lady Nerissa—” he begins, softening with pity.

I instantly hate what he’s trying to do. And I’m not just some Lady receiving bad news. I’ve more than earned my place in this House.

“Duchess,” I correct him.

He swallows hard. “Duchess Nerissa.”

He pulls out the scroll bearing Ciro’s seal, the same one he tried to give me earlier and then hid again when I made it clear he wasn’t leaving.

“I…” He steels himself, eyes meeting mine. 

“Your husband, Duke Ambrose Threnos, has been officially declared dead. His Majesty, King Ciro Larlaith sends you his deepest condolences.”