The Ostler's Boy (The Ostler's Boy Book 1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

There were times I thought my Sword's fever would break, long before the weekend. Times I feared it would never leave us. Come Saturday, I had only myself to blame.

Lurking in Cyrus' room at odd hours had its benefits. The obvious; time honing my skill of over-analyzing every moment of my life while still maintaining an act of soundness for the staff.

But moments they were, one after the other. Ones I was not proud of; that had slipped between the cracks of divine punishment. Moments that were likely responsible for this, that had fueled this curse I had infected him with.

They were all considered quite thoroughly.

I wanted, more than anything, to release Cyrus from the spell. For him to wake up. To wake up and escape the daze he muttered in. For every croak and moan to transition into an actual word or sentence I could understand. But when that desire manifested, I cried. I'd tried to stop it. I tried to shield my face with my hands, but even the chamber maid was concerned at best. She left in a hurry to grant me privacy so that I could slip into my sobbing madness alone.

When my Sword became vaguely coherent, he spoke only of the War. Apologized to men I didn't know and he fell asleep when I brushed back his hair.

But I felt his agony; an experience I was ashamed to be granted without his permission. There I sat, harboring my own secrets in the dark, craned, watching over his.

Of course, he knew the worst of them. I had killed a woman. Which, remarkably, didn't phase him like I thought it would. When I babbled it off to him, he was more concerned with comforting me. He didn't comment on Hellveig. He just rushed to me, gathered me into his arms and told me I was safe three or four times within a minute.

But if what he felt over the War was half of this weight... I.

I scolded myself.

I knew better. I knew this would happen. I was right to be afraid. It may not have been Miss Hellveig's hand this time, but it may as well have been mine. The Lord did not appreciate adulterers, and he had reaped his vengeance over me, and worse; I knew it was well deserved.

I did this.

I poisoned him with my attention. I'd allowed myself to... to entertain the idea that I could have a real connection. Allowed myself to desecrate the altar I would be married at, and now the man I used to fill the void that had always been Willem, was scarred for life. Just like him.

If he lives, I promised God, I will do anything. Anything. Just, God, please. Let him live. He doesn't deserve this. This is my fault. This should be me. Tell me how to-!

"Princess?"

I jumped out of prayer to find Ser Willoughby standing at the door.

"It's the middle of the night," he said. "I thought it was Josie's shift."