My ever-active veins squirmed across the surface of my skin as the faint feeling of thousands of insects crawling underneath it engulfed my entire being. Eyes wide open, the elaborate canopy roof of my bedroom met my gaze once more—the same ceiling I saw yesterday, the day before that, last week, and so on and so forth.
Staring at the bed’s ceiling I saw every morning would have led to me trying to rise from the bed afterwards, only to feel every fibre of my muscles straining, threatening to snap. Following close behind was a sluggish sensation I could describe as fatigue, a type of exhaustion vastly different yet strangely similar to when I had to run from the labourer district to the Blue Tower.
Even with the warnings my physique hinted at, my hands still clung to the mattress’ edge, unwilling to leave the confines of this awfully pleasant silk sheet. Yet, before I could fully leave the cover, I was met with a pair of scrawny sticks crawling onto my wrist.
“Hush… Sleep longer, a long day awaits you.” I leaned down and held the woman’s chin, then planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll meet you again in the evening.”
“Can you not lay here longer, Your Highness?” The woman rolled on her stomach, closing the distance between our forms. She interlocked my forearm on her chest and placed her chin on my elbow. “Why must you wake up so early?”
“I’m terribly sorry, my fairest Lady. Many matters awaited me and you know that well.” My brows contracted and curved the far corners of my lips slightly downward, both as naturally as I could muster.
I looked to the side and sighed to simulate a more convincing show. “I will give you that dessert you favoured in return.”
The woman continued her hold, her silence I could only take as a confirmation. That momentary silence evolved into one final goodbye—partaking no longer than thirty minutes—leading to my departure from the comforting bed.
Leaving the curtained inside the canopy bed, the cold, smooth texture of the floor below unveiled the canvas covering my mind. Coming afterwards, the thick odour of dicentra invaded my mind, bolting me further awake. Contrary to the Spring Palace’s grasses, the marble's coldness highlighted the rough edges and callouses on my feet, like what the blanket of snow in winter would have provided had I walked bootless.
Was it because of my body’s warmth disturbing the balance of the stone’s temperature? Because of my gradual reacquaintance with this familiar sensation? Perhaps because of a combination of the two? Whatever it may be, the temperature of the polished rock seemed to settle for a higher degree with each step I took.
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Grasping a hold of my quarter's doorknob, I once more felt that similar cold, now enwrapping my palm instead of feet. A turn of the gilded lump on the door's surface released a mechanical ‘click’ leading to the opening of the large wooden slab.
Revealed behind the door was Reinhard and a familiar maid—holding a basin—standing in wait.
“Did you have a fine sleep, Young Prince?” he asked.
“Blessed I was, Reinhard, blessed.”
“Praise Goddess”—he placed a hand on his heart, prompting me to do the same—”may the Young Prince be blessed forever.”
I then walked to the bowl and scooped the water with both my palms. Coldness permeated my hands, and eventually, it made contact with my face, clearing my mind further. After five more times of the fast manoeuvre, I finally finished washing my face.
“Excuse my suddency, but will the Young Prince you bathe now?”
“You do know my answer, do you not?”
“This humble one may be aware. In that case, will Your Highness don the towel?” He handed me a towel.
A smirk curved my lips as I took a step backwards. “Why must I? None will be early enough to be my witness.”
“Supposedly, however, this servant shall remind the Prince of Her Majesty's reminder.”
“Excuses to un-see my great form.” I took the towel and wrapped it around my lower body. ”Although I admit my mother's wrath is most undesirable.”
Cold fine stone floor shifted into warm rough—sharp, almost—rugs as I stepped out. The imperfections on my toes seemed to vanish, hidden by the short carpet’s hairs brushing against my skin.
Lights from the countless crystal chandeliers shone upon me, glistening the rolling sweat I secreted and reminding me of the damp sensation I felt around my neck. That light would have shone upon the painting ceiling of Hellen’s coronation. That same light probably showed a reflection of myself on the glass mirror hung on the nearby wall and those white dicentras I kept seeing.
My lower limbs stopped alternating as a sense of heaviness bore down on me. Gaze cast downward, I was met with the sight of a stitched slit coming across my bare left foot.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet citrus scent of the dicentras in the many vases in the hallway.