Page 111 of The Queens and the Kings
Casting his eyes around the room, and feeling less restrained andobservedthan at the Ladylord’s house, he said, “I’m sorry, Selma.” Her name sent a shiver through him.
Astonished, she whispered, “For what?”
“For leaving the other day. I?—”
A placating hand lifted, stopping him. “There are no apologies to give, Er—Henrik.” Her face crumpled into an awkward wince, but before she could apologize, he managed a smile.
“You can call me Erik.”
If possible, her eyes widened farther. “Then you must . . . believe me?”
“Yes.”
A sob caught in her throat. This she couldn’t hide. She simply nodded, motioned to the pillow, and lowered to one herself. She moved with great care, as if her knees were about to give out. To put her at ease, he sat on the pillow.
Words jammed in his throat. He’d gone over what he’d say when he met her on his own terms, but all his plans fled. He could only muster, “I didn’t forget.”
Brimming tears robbed her voice. Her brow furrowed.
Henrik swallowed his rising emotion. “When the soldats took me, you screamed something. Do you remember?”
“I told you to find me,” she whispered. “To never forget. I shrieked my name like a wild woman so that you wouldn’t.”
“Your mama’s name is Selma!”He spoke each word with care. “I didn’t forget. Your plan worked.”
A shuddering shook her arms as Selma covered her face with both hands, weeping. He hesitated, stood up, sat next to her on her pillow, and put a hand on her shoulder. Her despair had no sound. Only agony as she leaned into him. Henrik accepted her weight.
The memory of her last moments, those screaming, vicious memories that woke him from deepest sleep, that haunted him every day, that had such power, dissipated.
He’d found her.
At last.
Minutes passed before she could compose herself. His questions built on top of themselves, ruthless, insatiable. Selma leaned away to better see him. Her hand, dotted with tears, rose to his face. The tips of her fingers lingered along his cheek.
“Erik.”
He kept her stare, not sure what to say. This was not a broken woman, but a woman who carried deep sorrow. What had it been like to battle daily life alone, all these years? To wonder what happened.
To think?—
“What happened after?” he asked. The questions would no longer remain in place.
“They sent me away.” She used her bent knuckles to wipe her cheeks. “They were embarrassed, I think. Trying to set an example so other mothers didn’t do the same.”
“Embarrassed?”
“About my protests, my screaming. I just . . . I knew you wouldn’t remember me unless I made it something for you to remember.”
“Who sent you away?”
With a wave of her hand, she said, “His Glory. I had to meet with him. Or was he there? I can’t remember. The whole thing was a blur. We hadn’t given our permission for you to go into the soldats, they just showed up.”
His heart hammered in his throat. “We?”
“Your father.”
Her eyes met his, filled with something like fear. Henrik had to calm his racing heart very carefully.
