I wake to agony.
Every muscle in my body screams, my core feels like it's been torn in half. Which, I suppose, it has. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest, the desperate emptiness in my arms.
Where are my sons?
The thought propels me upward despite the way my body protests. I reach for the bell pull beside my bed, yanking it hard enough that the braided rope burns my palm. The sound echoes through my bedchambers, urgent and demanding.
A lady-in-waiting Margery appears in the doorway within moments, one of the younger ones. Her eyes widen when she sees me sitting up. "My lady, you shouldn't be…"
"Where are my children?" My voice comes out hoarse, raw from screaming during labor. "I want to see my sons. Bring them to me immediately."
Margery's expression shifts, something uncomfortable flickering across her face. She glances over her shoulder as if seeking help. "My lady, you need to rest. You lost a great deal of blood, and the birth was difficult. The physician said—"
"I don't care what the physician said!" I grip the edge of my blanket, my knuckles white. "I want my babies. Where are they? Are they with the wet nurse? Bring them here. I need to see them, need to hold them."
Another lady-in-waiting appears behind Margery. Lady Helena, older and more experienced. She steps forward with a practiced smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Lady Rosetta, please. You've been through a terrible ordeal. You must rest and recover. Someone will speak with you soon about everything. For now, you need to focus on healing."
"I'll heal better once I see my sons." I push the blanket aside, trying to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Pain lances through me, so sharp I gasp, but I don't stop. "If you won't bring them to me, I'll go to the nursery myself. Where are they?"
"My lady," Helena moves forward, her hands raised as if to physically restrain me. "Please, you're going to hurt yourself. Just lie back down, rest. Everything will be explained once—"
"Explained?" The word comes out sharp as broken glass. "What needs to be explained? I gave birth to two healthy sons."
"My lady!" Margery's voice cracks with something that might be genuine distress. "Please, you're bleeding again. Look—you've torn your stitches. Let us help you back into bed."
I look down and see she's right—dark red blooms through my nightgown. But I don't care. I don't care about anything except the babies who should be in my arms right now.
"Bring me my sons," I say again, slower this time, each word deliberate. "That's all I want. Just bring them to me."
The two women exchange glances. In that brief look, I see something that makes my stomach drop—pity mixed with something else.
Something that looks almost like guilt.
Eventually and reluctantly, they get me back into bed, change my bloodied nightgown, bring me weak tea that I barely taste. Hours crawl by, each one feels like a year.
My breasts ache with a pain different from the rest of my body—the specific, relentless ache of milk coming in with nowhere to go. My body knows I should be feeding my babies. My body remembers what my mind is desperately trying to hold onto.
I can still hear their cries in my memory. That first wail, so sharp and pure. The way my son's tiny body felt against my chest, warm and squirming and alive. The star-shaped birthmark on his arm, matching mine exactly.
Every servant who enters my chambers gets the same question: "Where are my sons?"
And every answer is a variation of: "Rest, my lady. Someone will speak with you soon."
Their patience begins to fray as the day wears on. I hear them whispering outside my door when they think I'm sleeping. Words like "obsessed" and "refusing to accept" and "poor thing" drift through the wood.
Finally, as afternoon light slants through my windows, the door opens to admit the head midwife and Leander's personal physician, Master Aldric. Their faces are carefully, perfectly blank, and my heart begins to hammer against my ribs.
"Lady Rosetta." Master Aldric approaches my bed with measured steps. His voice is gentle and sympathetic. "I'm deeply sorry to have to tell you this. The infants... both of them... they were stillborn."
The words hang in the air between us and I hear a ringing in my ears.
They make sounds, form sentences, but they don't mean anything. They can't mean anything because they're not true.
"No." The word comes out flat, certain. "No, that's not right. I heard them crying. I held one of them. He was breathing, moving. Both of them were alive. I heard them both."
The head midwife steps forward. Her voice is no longer smooth and practiced, but there's an edge to it now, sharp as a blade.
"My lady, difficult labors can cause trauma to the fragile mind. Sometimes, when a woman is in extreme distress, her mind creates... protections. False memories to shield her from unbearable truth. It's not uncommon for mothers who've previously lost children to believe they heard crying, felt movement. The grief plays tricks."
Something in me snaps. My spine straightens despite the pain shooting through my core. I meet her eyes with a look I learned from watching Leander hold court—cold, regal, absolutely unyielding.
When I speak, my voice could freeze water. "How dare you?"
The midwife's mouth closes with an audible click.
"How dare you speak to the first wife of the future king in such a manner? As if I’m some mad woman," I continue, each word precise and cutting. "Do you address Countess Cecily with such disrespect? Do you tell her that her fragile mind is playing tricks? That she's hysterical? That she's invented memories to comfort herself?"
Master Aldric shifts uncomfortably. "My lady, no one is suggesting…"
"Speaking of which." I turn my gaze to him, and I see him actually flinch. "How did Countess Cecily's labor proceed? She delivered yesterday as well, did she not? How is she? How are her children?"
The physician's mouth opens. For just a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps, or maybe guilt. "There were complications with the Countess's delivery as well. The birth was difficult, and she’s also—"
"That's quite enough, Master Aldric." The midwife's hand closes on his elbow with surprising force. Her smile is so tight it looks painful. "We mustn't upset Lady Rosetta further. She needs rest and quiet, not discussions of other people's labors. Come. We have other patients to attend to."
"You haven't answered my question!" I lean forward despite the pain. "What complications? How is Cecily? Did she deliver healthy children?"
"Lady Rosetta clearly needs her rest on her own." The midwife is already steering Master Aldric toward the door. "We'll return later to check on her condition. Perhaps something to help her sleep."
"I don't want to sleep!" My voice rises, breaks. "I want my sons! I want to know where they are! Where did you take them?!"
But the door closes on my words.
The next two days pass in a fog of pain and confusion.
My body slowly begins to heal, though my breasts continue their cruel aching. I sleep fitfully, waking from dreams where I hear babies crying, where I feel that small warm weight in my arms, where I see that star-shaped birthmark over and over.
When I'm finally strong enough to stand without immediately collapsing, I leave my bedchambers. The servants scatter when they see me coming. They duck into doorways, suddenly remembering urgent tasks in other wings.
The ones who can't escape quickly enough avert their eyes as I pass, mumbling hasty curtsies and apologies.
I hear the whispers, though. They're not even trying to hide them anymore.
"...poor thing, completely lost her mind..."
"...they say she tried to convince the physician she'd given birth to living children..."
"...ninth time she's lost a baby. Of course she's mad..."
"...the Crown Prince's deranged wife..."
I force myself to keep walking, chin high, spine straight. I'm the Crown Prince's first wife, his first love. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I'm passing through the east wing, the more luxurious section where Cecily's bedchambers are located, when I hear it. A baby's cry.
Not just any cry. That cry. The exact pitch, the same tone, the precise sound my son made when they first placed him on my chest. I would know it anywhere. It's burned into my memory, into my soul.
I freeze mid-step, my heart stopping, then slamming so hard against my ribs I think they might crack.
The cry comes again, muffled by stone and wood but unmistakable.
It's coming from Cecily's chambers.
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