Page 124 of Stardust Child

“Didn’t. I didn’t,” Ophele said, staggering back to her feet and clutching her head. It hurt.

“Ophele,” came Lady Hurrell’s voice, and the sound of those soft, sorrowful tones was enough to bring tears to her eyes. Lady Hurrell was her protector. The arms that held her, the hands that tenderly stroked her, the voice that rebuked and then consoled. Ophele’s eyes wove toward her, burning with tears.

Lady Hurrell wassmiling.

It was only for a moment. One time in ten years when Lady Hurrell’s carefully controlled mask slipped. A traitorous quiver of her lips before she turned them down, a single instant where malicious glee shone in her eyes. And Ophele might have argued with herself that she was confused, she hadn’t seen right, surely Lady Hurrell could not bepleased…

It was an instant of such stark, searing truth that Ophele could never doubt it.

“You’re a liar.” Ophele’s voice quavered, thick with tears. Slowly, she retreated, her hands trembling as they lifted to touch her own face, reassuring herself that this was real, this had just happened. “You’re a liar. You’re a liar,you’re a liar!”

All this time? All these years? All those times Lady Hurrell had slapped her, all those punishments, all those cold, hungry, lonely days when the only consolation had been that it hurt Lady Hurrell as much as it hurt Ophele. It was Ophele’s fault formakingthe lady punish her.They had cried together as Lady Hurrell explained that she didn’t want to do it, such discipline was horrid and vulgar, but necessary to correct a bastard’s crooked, ugly nature.

And Ophele hadbelievedher! How could Lady Hurrell smile to see someone strike her? It didn’t make sense. Had she been secretly hiding that smile every time Ophele came to her, cowering and begging pardon for things she couldn’t remember doing? And those moments of kindness, the scraps of affection that Ophele had worn out in her memory, starving her heart out for just a little love…hadallof it been lies? Lady Hurrell didn’t care about herat all?

“Ophele…” The smile was gone now. Lady Hurrell had realized how much she had betrayed herself. “Sweetheart, come here, your head…”

Blood was running in a slow stream from Ophele’s temple, dripping down her chin. It felt warm.

She turned and ran.

Somehow, she had found a place to hide. Her head hurt so dreadfully, she wasn’t sure where she was or how she got there. Crawling into the smallest, darkest space in the room, she curled up around her churning belly and slipped into blackness like going underwater.

In her dreams, her father had come for her. Funny, she had forgotten that until now. Ophele dreamed for a very long time, nauseated and sick, her head pounding as if it might burst apart. She dreamed the Emperor came to Aldeburke, sweeping into the house filled with fury that they had dared to lay hands on his child. He had come to take her home, it had all been a mistake, a misunderstanding, and really he had loved Ophele all along…

But he had not come. He had never come. And when eleven year-old Ophele opened her eyes, it was with the understanding that she was alone, and no one cared if she was the Emperor’s daughter. Least of all the Emperor.

It was an understandable error for a child. But Ophele was old enough now to know better.

Mechanically, she went to build a fire, her head thumping with an echo of that remembered pain. The sanctity of the blood of the House of Agnephus was another premise so deeply embedded in the fabric of the Empire, it was sacrilegious to question it. Ospret Agnephus had comefrom the stars and married a star’s daughter. That bloodline continued unbroken to Bastin Agnephus.

But what wouldreallyhappen if someone killed her? Remin would make a fuss, of course, and his knights, but who cared about them? Certainly not the Emperor, unless it could be used to his advantage. The Court of Nobility had had nothing to say about all the attempts on Remin’s life, which might not be blasphemous, but was still regarded as a terrible crime, and for the same self-serving reasons. The Temple? It had taken them more than a year to send arepresentativeto the valley.

No. Her illegitimate origin had always outweighed her sacred blood. It would be no protection to Remin. It had been no protection toher.It would not protect their children.

Which meant she had nothing to offer Remin but herself. A lying bastard. A cowering mouse. A princess who did not have the love of her father. A duchess who was barely a lady.

All poison, no sweet.

A sob burst from her throat.

For a long, long time, she curled up in bed, sobbing into Remin’s mutilated jerkin and wishing with all her heart that he was there. There were so many things to cry about. She cried for hours. She cried until her eyes ached and her head throbbed, until the sun set and night fell and the room was cold and quiet. And then she lay silent in the dark, limp and drifting, and wondered what under the stars she should do.

Divorce was unheard of in the Empire. Remin would chase her to the edge of the world if she tried to run away.

In the darkest hours of the night, she slipped out of bed and wrapped herself in a blanket, padding quietly to the southern end of the large bedchamber, still empty except for a few crates. Outside the windows, she could see the moonlight shining on the dark waters of the Brede.

She couldn’t swim. Would it be quick, to go that way?

Ophele looked down at the river and thought about it. Remin was owed a princess. She was not one in any way that mattered. Should he not have a proper lady, at least? Lady Verr would make a far better wife. She always knew what to say. She dressed beautifully. She knew how to dance. And most importantly, she understood the society of the capital in a way that Ophele would take years to learn.

Unconsciously, her finger found the ring that Remin had placed on her hand.

A wife’s work was not trivial. Houses might rise or fall because of the connections and alliances a woman made in society. And after all the talk Ophele had heard of balls and salons and the thousand ways she might make a fool of herself, the bare thought of going to Segoile made her feel like she was going to be sick.

But even now, she did not want to die.

It was the longest night of her life. After all this, she had arrived again at the same place, and every time it seemed she had less to offer and more to learn. Again and again, she built up the fire. She made pots of tea and left the cups to grow cold. If all she had to offer Remin was herself, then somehow she must become so much more than what she was. But how?How?

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