Chapter 4: Hand in Hand
THE next several days saw nothing but more of King Ricardo’s nonsense tours. We left at lunch, ate street food, and took in the sights. At night, I crammed as much knowledge of the town and country into my head as I could. I knew I was running myself thin—but if I didn’t push myself now, there would be no point. My beloved Elizabeth, my tormentor King Ricardo, and my classmates and aides were relying on me, and I couldn’t let any of them see weakness.
Thinking back, that was all a mistake.
I awoke to find my eyelids leaden like I hadn’t slept a wink. The ceiling seemed oddly far away. I considered the possibility I’d fallen asleep on a chaise with a history book, but Harold would’ve carried me to bed if that had happened. I blinked, doubting my own eyes, and finally recognized the canopy. I was in bed, all right.
When I tried to sit up, I realized how befuddled I was. My sight swam, and my breath felt disturbingly rough and hot on my lips. I finally managed to concentrate on the sky outside my window to find the sun was beginning to climb past the horizon. Harold would be by to wake me soon.
Oh, no.
He’d warned me several times to take better care of my health, and now I was paying the price. I stood to find a mirror and ascertain how pale and sickly I looked—or rather, I tried to stand. I should’ve known from the way my head spun that my feet wouldn’t work properly. I lost my balance almost immediately and tried to support myself on a nearby chair, but only succeeded in making more noise as I fell.
“Prince Vincent?!”
Harold flew into my room immediately, his usually immaculate hair out of sorts. He must not have finished grooming.
“I’ll be okay,” I muttered. “This is nothing.”
Nothing hurt, but as I attempted to stand up, I almost lost my balance again.
Harold’s glare grew sharper. There was a blur of motion, and before I realized it, I was lying on the bed again. I didn’t feel anything until just then, and I couldn’t fathom the trick he’d pulled to achieve that.
“You have a fever,” he muttered disapprovingly.
Drat. He figured it out.
“It’s nothing,” I reassured him. “It must be like a developmental fever, what with all the studying I’ve been doing. We can’t leave Elizabeth wait—”
I attempted to stand again, but he forced me back into the bed. “I’m canceling all your plans for today. I shall explain the situation to King Ricardo.”
“But—”
“Her Majesty has designed the palace gardens herself, so I’m certain he will want to explore them. I shall have him seek out the hidden Count Marsh Mallow topiary.”
I blinked. “What hidden topiary?”
“I had one prepared for this eventuality.”
Is there anything Harold can’t do? He knows King Ricardo better than I do… I can’t even keep up with our conversations without my memories.
The thought was depressing to the point that I collapsed into bed weakly. That was a bad idea. The more I relaxed, the more I became aware of my poor health, and the entire room spun about my head, even from the mattress.
“I’m not that sick, am I?” I mumbled.
“Of course you are. Harboring three discrete sources of mana puts a significant strain on your body, hence why I insisted you rest.”
“Three what?”
Harold’s eyes widened. “Were you not aware?”
“I guess not.”
It was a shock, but it made more sense the longer I thought about it. In addition to Plum’s seal on my memories, there was the interference of Lars’ mana conflated with Elizabeth’s mana. I thought having Elizabeth’s mana inside me would raise my spirits on the spot, but I still didn’t grasp my condition enough to feel much of anything.
Harold bowed his head. “My apologies. I should have said as much sooner.”
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve realized it myself.”
He turned to leave. “I shall retrieve water for you. Please, you must rest.”
I lay face-up on my bed, staring blankly at the pattern on the ceiling. Memories of the past few days passed in a fevered haze. I came onto Elizabeth and troubled her deeply. I messed with the seal on my memories and only made the situation worse. I’d made no progress planning the wedding in ages, I couldn’t answer any of King Ricardo’s questions, I caused more trouble for Elizabeth, and now I couldn’t even get out of bed.
I’m worthless.
Deep down, I was nothing and meant nothing. I had perfect looks and could act like a decent partner to Elizabeth, but I was a miserable wretch without that shell. I didn’t have even a single redeeming quality. I thought back to the day I met Elizabeth. I recalled that night when I cried myself to sleep with the realization I would never be good enough for her.
The door creaked faintly, signaling Harold’s return. He picked his way across the floor with carefully muted footsteps, but guilt overshadowed my gratitude.
Who could ever love a problem like me? Did Elizabeth truly accept how I treated her without my memories? Surely, I was imagining the trust I glimpsed in her eyes. I could hardly think straight through my fever. The more desperately I craved love and acceptance, the more I seemed to spiral. I let my eyes flutter shut.
“Elizabeth’s probably only nice to me because she can’t break off her engagement to me,” I muttered blearily. I was only half-seeking validation. Some part of me figured Harold would tell me I was wrong and reassure me.
“Prince Vincent…?”
A voice like a bell broke the silence of the room.
“Huh?”
I opened my eyes to see Elizabeth standing at my bedside. The morning sun hit her golden hair, making it glow with otherworldly light. Her face, however, held sorrow the likes of which I’d never seen.
Oh, no. I’d better apologize.
The urge to prostrate myself before her hit me, but my limbs were far too heavy to move. All I could muster was a blank look from where I lay.
She met my gaze for only a moment before looking away. Her fine brow was knit, and her mouth hardened into a tight, thin line. I made her angry—no, she was hurt. My heart screamed in my chest.
“E-Elizabeth,” I finally choked through dry lips.
She looked up once more, and I realized she was crying. My apology withered on my tongue.
I made Elizabeth cry. I didn’t entirely mean those words, but I said them.
My head throbbed with agony, and though my entire body screamed at me to apologize, I couldn’t muster the strength to do so.
She leaned down and whipped her hands out. I thought—rather, I hoped she was going to slap me. The impact never came, but there was a different pinch of pain, one on either cheek. She was pinching me hard and pulling as hard as she could, which was admittedly still extremely painful.
“E-Ewithabeth?” I sputtered.
“What is it, Prince Vincent? If you have an excuse, I should hope you’ll give it now.”
There was an unfamiliar sharpness to her tone. I looked up to find her frowning gravely.
She’s cute when she’s angry…