The Lady Justice

Chapter XXVII: I Reveal, I Reveal Not

Lady Therese De Beauharnais of Roche

18 November, Year 32 of King Frederick V of Monrique's reign

Roche Manor, Roche

Monrique

"....Mais hélas ! qui ne sait que ces loups doucereux,
De tous les loups sont les plus dangereux."

On that profound note, I closed one of my old folklore books, Charles Perrault's Petit Chaperon Rouge.

Papa had been listening to the story in silence thus far, leaning against his pillows. His sapphire blue eyes were unfocused, as they stared off into space.

"Alas, who knows, indeed," he mulled over the last two lines of the story now, his voice barely audible, "those with the sweetest tongues have the sharpest of teeth."

Taking the bowl from his bedside table, I fed Papa the last spoonful of his porridge.

"Lord knows why you insist on listening to these children's tales before your naps, Papa. Most of them have such depressing conclusions," I smiled in amusement, "I thought you preferred light-hearted stories."

He slowly swallowed it. "I never realised how much wisdom there is in these tales. Not when my own parents had read them to me as a child – nay, not even when I had read them to you and Clara when you were children," he chuckled, and coughed, "indeed, mon ange, there are many things I am coming to realise now that I am about to die - "

My eyes snapped to him at that, and I felt my good mood vanish into thin air.

"Do not say that, Papa," I cut him off quietly, "if you value my sanity, even in the slightest, please do not say that."

A heavy silence fell over the room, as I set down the porridge bowl on his bedside table.

I stood up from his bedside, and strode over to the study table yonder to prepare his herbal concoction, as instructed by the Physician sent by Jules. Slamming the glasses hard against the surface, I mixed the ingredients as violently as I could without breaking the utensil. I could feel the resentment, the grief rising within me, as my eyes stung with tears.

It took very little to set me off these days. It had been a difficult one month.

"Ah, do not be angry with me, child," he murmured, watching me, "I was only telling you what I thought."

I turned around. "What do you think, Papa? That you will never recover? That you will weaken and waste away until the Lord takes you to his abode?" I was trying hard to keep a hold over my emotions, "Lord help me, Clara and I have been trying and trying and trying to nurse you back to health all this while, but if you do not want to get better – "

"Tess."

I stopped my tirade. "Yes?"

His eyes regarded me with tenderness. "My days are numbered," he stated softly, but firmly, "you can twist and turn the matter any way that you like, bring in any physician from any corner of the world to look at me, but we both know it: I am dying." His voice was bleak.

A discomfiting wind swept over my stomach; I shook my head vehemently. "Nay, you are not," I whispered, "if you rest more, continue taking the concoctions – "

"They do me no good," he denied, coughing, "you know I only drink them on your insistence. Look at me, child - do I seem any better in health from when you first saw me last month? Despite everything you have done for me?"

I gazed at him. Most of his blonde hair had already fallen out in clumps. Dark, purple circles ringed his sapphire blue eyes, and they were set deep within their sockets. His pale, parchment-like skin was stretching painfully over his cheekbones, and many red-purple spots marred his stick thin arms and legs.