Morning.
-Everything anew,- Beatrice muttered as she rose, pulling on her robe. -There's little joy here, and even less choice.
She walked to the window and threw the curtains wide open, letting light flood the room. Outside, the weather was beautiful, seemingly late spring or early summer. Straight ahead, alleys lined with trees stretched out, where gardeners carefully shaped the foliage with large shears. To the left, a stone wall rose, and beyond it a narrow inner courtyard, shrouded in shadow, with massive arches and a fountain in the center. The water barely rippled. Beatrice squinted.
- How beautiful.- she thought.
To the right, the view opened onto the balcony , the same one from which, according to the diary she had found, Beatrice had once threatened to throw herself. Further off stood the stables.
- That explained the sound of horses.
Cracking the window open slightly, she tried to listen to the surroundings. Down below, on the stone pavement, maids passed by, chatting cheerfully.
-That new stable boy sure has a handsome face! I wonder if he's already promised to someone.- mused one dreamy maid.
-But he's five years younger than you. You should be looking for a proper husband, not some boy.- another scolded.
Problems always stay the same, it seems. Beatrice thought, rolling her eyes slightly. Still, this confirmed it, she could now fully understand the local language. Yesterday, when reading the diary, she hadn't realized at first that the letters and words weren't familiar to her. The thought had struck her only halfway through: the words were in a foreign script, yet she understood them easily. At least that was some kind of advantage. She turned and walked back to the bed. But what's the use of this advantage? What am I supposed to do? If I decide to 'step out into the world,' will I even resemble the real Beatrice? How did she behave? She wrote that she had no voice here. Am I supposed to just stay silent in public? Will that keep me alive? And if I slip and say something wrong, something the people here don't understand, will they burn me at the stake again?
Beatrice sank into thought, the darkness curling around her. Her fingers found the edge of the blanket, and she pulled it over her head once again.
Now she opened her eyes when there was no one in the room. Сlosed them as soon as she heard footsteps.. Maids would come, bringing food, sometimes stealing a few bites themselves, feeding the "doll," changing the sheets, whispering near the door. Occasionally someone would call her name, but not insistently, as if afraid that if they truly woke her, something terrible would happen. And she wouldn't answer. Wouldn't move. Just lay there, her eyes closed. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for days. The first days blurred into fog. She barely noticed when night fell. She didn't try to count time. The food stayed untouched until hunger gnawed at her. Then she ate quickly, silently, when no one could see, and returned to pretending , lying curled in the blanket, cocooned from the world. Outside, dresses rustled, footsteps echoed, whispered voices passed , all of it felt like another world. No one saw me, so I don't need to wake up, - she thought. - Let them think I'm still sleeping. Let them be afraid. Once, she even heard someone say the Queen probably would never awaken. That there would be no "miracle." That now... she was empty. Sometimes she remembered the diary. Beatrice's words, written with bitterness, hatred for her position. Each time, it felt like something heavy pressed into her chest. But even then, she wouldn't get up.
She no longer knew if she was truly asleep or not. Everything merged into one gray stream , days, nights, faces. Only one thing never faded: The sound.
Crying.
Sometimes barely audible, thin, carried like a rumor by the wind. Sometimes sharp, tearing through her heart. She would twitch in her sleep, clench the sheets in her fists, while tears trickled down her cheeks without reason. It felt like someone was calling for her. Her, specifically.
-My son...- she whispered once without opening her eyes.- Forgive me...
She knew it was impossible. Knew it could be just a broken mind's fantasy. But her heart still heard it. Still ached whenever that sound reached her. And each time she thought:
Maybe... maybe it's him?
Then one night, when the room held neither light nor movement, the crying came again , this time clearer. More real. As if someone truly was behind the wall. She opened her eyes. The darkness no longer felt empty. For a fleeting second, she believed it wasn't a dream. She pushed herself up on the bed.
Listened.
-One more time...- she whispered, afraid even her breath might break the moment. But there was only silence. Only her heart pounding faster and harder , as if in warning.
In the morning, she overheard the maids behind the door.
-He cried again?
-Yes. He wouldn't calm down for almost the whole morning. They say he feels the loss. The Prince is too small to understand, but children feel a mother's heart...
-Pity that his mother... well...- And silence.
She lay still, listening, every word striking her chest like nails. My son... alive? Pain and doubt engulfed her anew.
She sat at the edge of the bed, threw off the blanket, and pulled the worn diary from under her pillow. The corner of the cover was bent. The pages crackled like old paper soaked in time. Her fingers trembled from excitement. Opening page after page, she scanned the familiar handwriting neat, strict lines soaked with resentment, bitterness, a quiet anger at life. But now she sought something else.
"Heir."
The word was written slightly larger than the others, on a yellowed page.
"790th day after the wedding."
"They say I should be grateful. I gave the world a prince. I fulfilled my highest duty. Now I am - a tree from which the golden apple was plucked. I stand. Silent. Withering slowly. But the apple survived so it must mean everything is as it should be?"
Beatrice clutched the diary tighter. Next, frantic, hurried lines:
"792nd day after the wedding."
"I thought... maybe he would love me. See something more in my eyes than duty. More than blood. But no. The prince is his, and I... I'm just a vessel. They praise me, smile, pat me on the shoulder like a mare after foaling. As if I no longer exist. All the attention goes to him. And damn it, he deserves it. But it still hurts. I'm alive. I... want to be loved. By someone."
The writing grew shaky. In some places, the ink was smudged, as if tears or anger had blurred the lines.
"806th day."
"When he cries at night, I come to his cradle. Watch his eyelashes tremble in sleep. He's beautiful. My gold. My pain. My love."
"847th day."
"I no longer feel the morning. It comes without me. My body becomes more foreign with each day. Not tired, but betraying. I wake and fear. Not for myself. For him."
"848th day."
"I fear one day I won't hear him cry. That I won't get up. That he'll call, and I won't wake. How foolish - to fear sleep. But I do."
"850th day."
"His name is Laer. My last breath. He looks at me, and I feel he already understands. His silence louder than any cry. He waits. He hopes. And I smile, so he won't see my trembling hands."
"854th day."
"Today, it took time to get up. Not because of pain. Just emptiness. As if my body waits for me to decide whether to live. I decided. For him. Only for him."
"857th day."
"In the morning, I couldn't open my eyes. I only heard footsteps, floorboards creaking, Laer's breathing. I wanted to hold him, say something... but I couldn't. I lay there, counting heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Many."
"859th day."
"At that moment, I forgot how to hold a spoon. The nurse does everything. He cries less now. Maybe he understands I'm failing. Maybe he already expects someone else. Someone more alive."
"861st day."
"It's easier not to get up. Simpler. Not to see the glances. Not to hear the polite pity. I pretend to sleep. It's convenient. No one touches me. I am just a body. Warmth still exists. The soul... maybe it has already left."
"864th day."
"He laughed today. Not with me. Not near me. But his laughter is still beautiful. Still mine. And yet I didn't even turn to look."
"865th day."
"I am afraid. Afraid that tomorrow I won't write anything. That I won't open my eyes. That he will call, and I... I..."
The words broke off mid-thought. The final dot stood in the middle of a sentence, as if the hand holding the pen had simply fallen limp. Beatrice sat, the diary resting on her knees. The shadows of trees drifted across the floor. Her head buzzed with tangled thoughts.
Childbirth. Too early... after losing the first child, such exhaustion.
She remembered the diary's words: how hard it was to feed him, how her body refused to rise, how she feared not waking up.
Postpartum weakness...
She clenched her teeth. No, not just that.
Malnutrition. Chronic stress. Maybe internal inflammation. Postpartum depression? Or...
She remembered the body she had found herself in that first day. The skin. Too cold. Without signs of life.
...The body had simply given up.
It had been too late for healers. Or maybe no one had even called them. The courtiers, the maids, Theodor perhaps none of them had noticed. Or perhaps none of them had wanted to notice. They got the heir. The golden apple was picked. And she had rotted from within. Beatrice lowered the diary. Tears streamed silently, endlessly heavy, like rain, falling onto her nightgown, onto the diary, onto the cold floor. As if she were mourning her own death. The death of the woman who had been a mother. The one who hadn't saved herself. The one who hadn't known there would be another chance. That woman who had written those lines. The one who had craved love. The one who had feared never waking up. She was gone.
Beatrice said nothing aloud. She didn't draw conclusions. She simply set the diary aside and rose to her feet. Now she knew why. It had come to her. The child. This Beatrice had a son. Her heart stopped as if some massive weight inside her had shifted. There it was the meaning. What she had been searching for through all these lives, all these deaths. He was alive.
He hadn't burned. He hadn't disappeared. He had waited. Waited for his mother, not the one who had given birth to him, and the one that will become.
The current Beatrice was nothing to him. Yet. But she could become someone. And that was enough.