The Crown

Chapter Thirty Three

Marcus stared at the prisoner in front of him from his chair. He held his chin by his fingers, trying to understand the person locked away in front of him.

Beatrice stared back at her kidnapper, unsure of what his intentions were. From what she could gather, he appeared to be distressed in thoughts. He seemingly came to her cell to think about things, frequently pacing around in front of her.

"Is your plan to keep me here forever?" she asked him.

"Watch your tone," he replied.

She laughed. "Why bother? What worse can you do to me?"

"Did my son enjoy your tongue?" he asked. "Is this what he found so amusing about you that he would abandon a marriage and want to court you?"

She shifted on the uncomfortable bench. 

"Oh, have you finally lost your words?" he snickered. "Not so sharp-witted, are you?"

A guard came down the steps into the cellar. He bowed. "The funeral services are starting shortly."

Marcus waved him away as he stood and gathered his coat. He stopped at the rails of the cell, looking to the prisoner once more. "I have your funeral to attend."

"Tobias will figure out there is nobody in the coffin," she told him. 

"He will not want to look," he told her. "We told him you were mauled by wolves; not a pretty sight to see," he looked at her. "A shame, for I am certain your beauty was striking to the impressionable prince."

"You are sick," she spat. "How could a parent go so out of their way in order to make their child miserable?"

"I am making my child successful," he grunted. 

"You told him the woman he loves is dead!"

"Loved," he corrected. "Do not make the same mistake again, Miss Prior. My son loved you. Foolishly."

"You will not get away with this," she vowed. "He will not give up!"

"Do not speak of him as if you knew him," he snapped. "You know nothing of my son!"

Without the final word, he left her alone and hurried up the stairs to join the service.

Beatrice closed her eyes and leaned against the wall behind her. She longed to believe that her disappearance was more than a few days; that Tobias did not rush into planning a funeral service in the hopes of forgetting about her.

Her wish did not need to come true, for Tobias would never be able to forget her.

Tobias sat on his side of the bed, holding a clock in his hands. He stared at the hands of the clock as they moved slowly around. 

His breath hitched as the clock struck midday, a tear slipping down his cheek and onto the glass. 

"Twelve days since her disappearance. Seven days since her death," he reminded himself each day. He set the clock back on his nightstand, turning away. 

He glanced at the untouched side of his bed, as neat as ever. The side she slept on. He reached out and held her pillow softly in his hands, bringing it to his lap. He slowly lifted it to his nose, breathing in the memory of her nights spent by his side.

The memory of being able to wake up to her face, knowing he would be able to hear her voice soon after.

His heart pained as he set the pillow back in its place, walking away from the bed. 

Tobias stopped at the sight of the torn painting in his room, crouching in front of it. He had ripped it apart after the royal painter attempted to paint a picture of Beatrice from his memory. The painting, he found, was so horrendously inaccurate that he had no other choice but to tear it apart.