Have You Gone Mad?

Phillip jumped to his feet, startled from slumber, his greying hair sticking up. His silk nightshirt flapped dramatically as he staggered forward. “Have you gone mad?” he barked, still half-asleep, still somehow managing to sound imperious as he directed the accusation squarely at Matthew.

Matthew, meanwhile, was pacing, eyes wild, fingers clenching and unclenching. “You said she was dead. You said you killed her,” he thundered.

Phillip’s eyes widened, and he darted toward the heavy wooden doors, pushing them shut with both hands. “Keep your voice down, you fool!” he hissed, locking the door.

“You lied to me!” Matthew growled again, this time quieter but no less lethal. His eyes locked with Phillip’s.

“What are you talking about?” Phillip asked, grabbing a thick embroidered robe and yanking it over his head.

“I just saw Lirae,” Matthew spat the name. “At Duke Williams’ ball. Alive.”

Phillip froze mid-motion, his robe tangled around one arm.

“Impossible,” he said. “There was no way she could have lived. No one can survive that. And did she… did she say anything?” His face was drained of color now.

“Thankfully,” Matthew muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, “she has no memories of what happened. But who knows?” He looked up sharply. “She could regain them tomorrow. Or next week. Or right in the middle of a bloody toast at a wedding.”

“Well then,” Phillip said, slipping into his usual mode: solution, ruthlessness, repeat. “We have to get rid of her. It’s simple.”

Matthew took a step forward, his jaw tightening, hands at his sides. For a man who had spent his entire life dancing to his father's string-pulling, the next words tasted like rebellion.

“You lay one finger on any strand of her hair again,” he said slowly, clearly, “ever again, and I will reveal every dirty little secret by myself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me. I’ve got nothing left to lose. My crown? It was never mine in the first place. But her? She’s the one real thing I have.”

“You cannot threaten me,” Phillip hissed, rising slowly, the fire behind his eyes reigniting. “You are the king. If I go down, you lose everything.”

Matthew just stared back, lips parted as if debating the weight of his response. Then he said it, soft but unyielding. “So be it.”

Phillip actually recoiled a step, not expecting the answer. He looked his son up and down, as if trying to find the boy he once groomed to follow orders. But that boy was gone. In his place stood a man who had apparently grown a spine.

“You are a fool!” Phillip shouted, pacing now. “Blinded by love, controlled by his loins.” He waved an arm dramatically. “We are in this mess because of you, because of your carelessness. Your obsession!”

Matthew smirked dryly. “Funny. I thought we were in this mess because you tried to kill a woman because she found out about our dirty laundry.”

Phillip ignored him and marched up close, practically nose-to-nose. “Listen to me. I built this kingdom’s strength with my bare hands. You think love matters when the throne is at stake? Love is a distraction.”

“I have given you every last shred of dignity and conscience I have,” Matthew bit back. “I let you pull my strings, smile for your friends while you whispered in my ear what to say. But not anymore. I am not giving you any more.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You will stay away from Miss Lirae or so help me God, both our heads will be used to decorate the market square.”

“And when she talks? What will you do then?”

Matthew didn’t have an answer. His jaw clenched, his lips pressed tight. The thought had haunted him the second she walked into that ballroom. When she talked—if she remembered, it would be war.

*****

But then, he wasn’t thinking about the kingdom.

He thought about the way she’d looked at Elias.

He thought about how her eyes had danced, even in confusion. He thought about how she’d looked at him with unease.

“Good night, Father,” Matthew added, stepping back and heading toward the door.

The old man stood in stunned silence as the door clicked shut behind the king.

*****

“Presenting the Marchioness Gemma of Avenrest!” the herald announced.

Elias’s foot faltered mid-step. The dance floor spun from dread. Bad timing... bad timing... oh for the love of all things sacred, bad timing. His spine stiffened. He had been told, Gemma was away attending a wedding in the outer reaches of Brinlor. Apparently, she made it back in time.

“What’s wrong?”

He gave a wince. “The Marchioness?... We have a bit of history.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “You dog... you.”

Elias turned his head toward her with mock offense. “Excuse me?”

She snorted. “Tell me, how many women swoon at your feet?”

He smirked. “Lots—including you.”

“You don’t see me swooning,” she shot back, lifting her chin.

“We’ll test that theory when I take you home…Which we should do now.”

The song ended. Another melody began to gather behind them, but Elias wasn’t about to risk Gemma making this evening go bad. He took Lyra’s hand, weaving through the crowd toward Duke Williams so they could say their goodbyes and vanish.

“My Lord!” came the honeyed voice.

The Marchioness stepped directly into his path, her gown sweeping. Elias stopped so abruptly Lyra nearly collided with his side.

Gemma curtsied. Her gaze lifted, sharp and gleaming. “Lady Lirae!”

“Marchioness Gemma,” Lyra replied with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth. “How are you doing?”

Gemma’s returning expression wasn’t even trying to play polite. If looks could kill, Lyra would be six feet under and Gemma would be dancing on her grave in that embroidered gown.

Lyra, to her credit, kept her chin up and her posture regal.

Elias, meanwhile, stood between them. He cleared his throat. “Marchioness Gemma. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“No,” she said. “It appears I arrived just in time to witness... Miss Lirae’s miraculous return into society.”