Page 22 of The Bodyguard

I sit there long enough for the fragrant water to penetrate my pores and then I’m ushered out, a bath sheet wrapped around me.

I want to cry but my tears won’t fall so I’m stuck in this weird realm of emptiness.

I’m helped into my clothes. I vaguely take note of the dress Margo’s chosen for me. White silk and chiffon with a border of pale blue roses. It’s floor-length, a modest princess seam bodice, and sleeveless.

My hair is dried, then curled and twisted into a demure bun. My jewelry is simple. Diamond earrings, a matching diamond necklace, and a bracelet. Margo insists I wear three-inch heels. Roger Thompson, she says is tall and we need to cut an affable image which means our heights need to be compatible.

I do as I’m told.

The pool in which I drowned my thoughts seems to be draining too fast. I’m nearing the bottom of it. The intertwined darkness.

The sound of bone snapping.

The thought of my sister at risk of being killed.

The touch of his hand on my thigh. The callous on his palm that scrapes against my skin and makes me catch my breath.

I spring up abruptly from the chair.

“Are you all right, Your Highness?” Rachelle asks. I see her concern for me in her eyes. Her suggestion that I needed rest, that I needed to process things was shot down by Margo. Those are things normal people do. I’m not normal. I’m a princess, soon to be a queen. Never mind that I will have zero say in the running of my country. I will be confined to attending tea parties and being pretty all day long for my husband, the king.

“I’m fine,” I say and smile. My natural instinct to put everyone around me at ease kicks in. I don’t want Rachelle to worry about me.

It’s almost seven and I need to go downstairs and pretend everything is normal.

I put on the facade I’m required to wear with my dress and follow Igor down to the dining hall.

The sparkling chandeliers, the rich tapestry, the very spirit of the hall catches me. I used to love this room. It’s not too big, but not too small. It’s where we have our more intimate dinners, mostly family and very close friends. It’s where I opened the Christmas presents my mother bought me, where I blow the candles out on my birthday cakes. It reminds me of my mother and I feel closer to her. But now I see a strange room filled with strange people. I’m finding it hard to recognize my own father in this space.

But my facade reaches into my head and swipes my mind clean.

I smile and allow myself to be greeted properly. I’m aware of the duke’s disparaging glances as if he doesn’t believe I’m the pure innocent he wants his son to marry.

The roasted beet soup, prepared by our finest Michelin-starred chefs sits tasteless on my tongue.

On my right, is Minister Carlten. I’ve looked forward to our talks. He’s fond of quizzing me on mythology, a subject he is consumed by. We talk about the birth of Athena from Zeus's forehead, ironically making her Goddess of Intelligence and Wisdom, to Inti, the Inca Sun God.

“Tsukumogami,” Minister Carlten says with a smug look on his face. He thinks he has me. Tsukumogami is of the field Japanese Yokai. Japanese monster mythology.

I know Tsukumogami translates somewhat to a Tool God. That when every inanimate object, from this plate in front of me, to the chair I’m sitting on, reaches the age of one hundred years it becomes animate. It’s given a spirit unless it has been thrown away or given away. Some texts say these spirits are bad-tempered.

I pretend I never heard of the term and don’t listen to Minister Carlten as he embarks on an excited explanation.

The sound of gun shots that comes even with a silencer. The trigger only he pulls.

Kayne.

The sound of Kayne.

The way he whispers in my ear.

Close your eyes.

His scent. The power I feel coursing through his body as he lays over me.

I pinch my arm to stop my thoughts.

I’m polite and pleasant when Roger Thompson, on my left tries to engage me in conversation. When he asks me how I am, it catches me by surprise. He seems genuinely concerned and I feel guilty I am nothing but fake to him, perfected that he doesn’t know this.

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