She Sings at Dawn

VII. Deadly News

I wake to the sun's glow behind my curtains. Confusion breaks through the morning fog in my brain. My maids normally open my windows, letting the light scatter any remaining shadows and the songbirds rouse me. Today is dim and silent.

I push my quilt off me, lower my feet onto the wood floor, and pad to my windows. With a flick of my wrists, the curtains spread open. Dawn floods my room, and after opening the glass panels, a symphony does, too. The clearest of all is in the middle of its morning runs, flowing into notes so deep they're more like vibrations than part of a melody. It whisks up again, higher and higher, until it melts into the air. I stand there, eyes half-closed, letting the music resonate. What a beautiful morning to follow the festival.

Hinges creak behind me, and I whirl around. Matilda, one of my maids, pokes her head in from the doorway. Her hands twitch on the doorknob, pale face taut and eyes shifting until they settle on me.

"Good morning." Her thin lips tighten in a smile.

"Good morning. Is everything alright?"

"Oh, uh..." Matilda pauses. "I'm sorry I'm late. Let's get you ready for the day."

I want to press for answers, but she disappears into my bathroom. Water pounds as Matilda fills my bathtub. Moments later, she returns to my room.

"Everything's ready," she says.

I take my bath in cold water. It's never cold, unless I request it. My mind slips into thought as I go through my morning routine. Did she get bad news from a family member? Matilda is several years older than me, in her early twenties. Perhaps she's getting married and wants to retire from her position as a maid, but doesn't know how to break the news.

When I'm done, Matilda provides me with a dark orange dress, edging on brown, more of a fall color rather than spring. The skirt forms a simple narrow triangle down to my feet. Something's definitely off, but I don't mention it. I brace as she starts on my corset. She tugs the laces so that it barely compresses my waist. Then, she runs a brush through my hair several times.

"All set," she says in a rush. "Better get to your lesson."

My eyebrows twitch together. "Matilda, if something's wrong, you know you can tell me. I'm all ears."

"Better get to your lesson," she repeats, opening the door. I decide not to push further. She'll tell me when she's ready.

I exit to the hallway. Servants mill about, and not to take decorations down. Whispers circulate in the air, too faint to make out. I hold my head high, right hand on the corner of my skirt, just like I'm taught. Some cast glances in my direction. Are they talking about me? Is this about the cake incident? I push the thought aside; otherwise, I might blush.

Sigvard sits on a sofa in The Salon of the West Wing when I arrive. Wolfgang stands by, stiff and straight. His eyes land on me as I enter, and his light brown irises glimmer. I sink into the seat beside Sigvard.

"What's going on?" I murmur.

His rigid black jacket constrains his shrug. "Beats me. I've told him three times that I'm hungry."

"Is Clemaina here?"

"Not yet." Sigvard looks at Wolfgang. "May I at least have a biscuit?"

Wolfgang doesn't reply. That's a first. Sigvard and I exchanged glances.

"Is this because of yesterday?" I ask. "I thought Father said—" Wolfgang blinked so forcefully that I cut off my sentence.

"What's going on with all these servants?" Clemaina flounces into the room a second after we hear her voice. She wears pink on pink on pink—a dress of frills and lace that puffs out like a multi-tiered cake. She reclines across from us, satin fabric occupying half the couch.

Sigvard shoots Clemaina a glare. "Now can we eat? Everyone's finally here."

Wolfgang inhales an audible breath. "We're waiting for your uncle."

"Uncle Rothbart?"

"Well, it wouldn't be Uncle Vonimir," Clemaina says.

"You never know," Sigvard fires back.

"Uncle Rothbart will be here shortly." The sharpness of Wolfgang's voice sends us into silence.

My uncle appears moments later. Red taints his blue eyes, and it seems like liquid has dried on his cheeks.

"Good morning," he says in a hoarse voice. All three of us start to speak, but he holds up a hand. "I won't delay things any more than I need to. Last night, King Ivandor retired to his study after dinner to work on a few matters. Early this morning, a guard checked on him since he hadn't left his study. They found him face down on the table, dead."

It takes a minute for his words to register. King Ivandor. Face down.

Dead.

"Dead?" Clemaina exclaims. "What—" She bites her red-stained lip.

My vision blurs. "He's... he's..."

"Gone." Though quiet, Sigvard's voice resonates in the room.

"That's... what? How..." I can't continue. Tears pour down my cheeks like a rainstorm. I squeeze my eyes shut, bury my face in my hands. An arm reaches around my shoulder, and I only cry harder.

"We'll get through this." If my uncle weren't right next to me, I wouldn't hear him. I only hear sobs, my sobs. Blood pumps through my veins, constricting my head in knots. How can he be dead? I just saw him yesterday.

I don't know how long I sat there, how long we sat there, my sobs echoing through stillness. Gradually, my tears abate, though the well of sorrow inside me hasn't run dry—won't for a long time. Slowly, I lift my head. My uncle releases his semi-hug, and Sigvard removes his hand from my arm. I hadn't even felt him put it there.

"What was the cause?" Sigvard asks.

"We won't know until the autopsy," Uncle Rothbart says. "The doctor suspects a heart attack."

"From what? Too much cake?"

"Sigvard!" Clemaina gasps.

"Father was perfectly healthy." Sigvard's jaw clenches. "Who saw him last night?"

"No one," Uncle Rothbart says firmly.

Clemaina whimpers into her handkerchief. All eyes turn to her.

"I-I did," she stammers.

"When?" Sigvard demands.

"Sigvard! Enough of this!" Uncle Rothbart orders. He inhales, trying to calm himself. "I think it's best if the three of you don't have lessons today. They'll resume once things settle down. Take some to... digest what has occurred."

My head reels from the news. I stumble from the salon, through the halls, and into my room. I collapse on my bed, bouncing on the cushy quilt and mattress.

King Ivandor is dead, just like my mother, just like my biological father. He filled a vacant space in my life, treated me like his own flesh and blood, always more than a step-father. And now he's... dead.

Reunited with the Fallen Roses of Saursi.