I hear what sounds like a grunt of agreement from Braizen and continue. “Finally, I found my way to the carriage, and I realized that…That it’s not only the young, who struggle with their grief. My father went mad that day, I think. He spoke words I didn’t understand; he barely stopped long enough to catch his breath. And then…” The following words creep from my mouth like the air pulls them from deep within me.

“He wouldn’t let her body be carried behind us. He said it wasn’t honorable. Nor did he trust anyone else to bring her home, not after what happened. So, he sat her next to me in the carriage, where she’d be safe.”

Braizen’s breath hitches, and he drops the shoe string.

“What?”

Tears threaten to spill, but I blink hard, shake my head, and keep them at bay.

“I rode the entire way home next to my mother’s dead body. My father spoke to her corpse for most of the trip, whispering that she’d be avenged. I didn’t look at her. Not once. But I could feel her skin pressed against mine, and it grew colder and colder. And, and… the smell…”

I shudder and shove the memory further back in my mind where I don’t have to face it. “We buried her beneath a willow in our courtyard.”

Braizen is so still; if it weren’t for the sound of his deep, even breaths, I’d think I was alone. The silence grows thick and heavy but, at the same time, too loud for me to concentrate. I push on to ease the tension it creates.

“In all these years, I haven’t visited her grave, not once. I can’t bring myself to. It reminds me of that night and the trip home. Besides, our people suffer outside the castle walls, and the Burial Ground grows every day. There are too many graves to mourn. If I start with hers, I’ll never stop. I’ll never stop mourning.”

Now the tears form. I feel them slide down my cheeks. I always afford two or three for my mother. When the fourth drips down, I wipe them away and straighten my back. Why did I tell him that? What in the hells am I doing?

Braizen’s eyes lock on mine, his sorrowful stare discovering hidden places that I never wanted anyone to find. I hate that he pities me. I shift, discomforted. Besides, it’s his fault—all of it. Baelliles caused this tragedy.

“Idalia…” He whispers, his fingers reaching for mine. When I pull away and grimace, he yanks back his hand. He stares at his palm as if confounded that he is unable to comfort me.

He can’t. Not physically, or any other way for that matter.