"You may leave," Gisela murmured to the maids, her voice a thread of sound as she began her slow ascent up the stone staircase. Her hand trailed the cold rail, her mind adrift in a fog of violation and threat. The world narrowed to the next step, and the next.
Then, the solid stone betrayed her. Her foot met empty air where a tread should have been. A lurch of pure panic—a brief, weightless fall—
An arm like a band of iron snared her waist from behind, arresting her plunge and yanking her backward. The force pivoted her, spinning her around to face the opposite direction, into the solid, unforgiving wall of him. Her balance, entirely his to grant, settled with her front pressed against his chest. Disoriented, breathless, her hand rose instinctively and came to rest flat against the fine linen of his tunic, feeling the steady, terrifying beat of his heart.
Her gaze lifted. Henry's face was above hers, his hazel eyes observing her with a contemptuous stillness. Of course. He was always there at the precipice of her shattering.
"Next time," he said, his voice a low, cold vibration she felt through her palm, "attend to your footing." His grip was not supportive; it was corrective.
She could not speak. She could only stare, trapped in the humiliating proximity.
He released her as one might release a misaligned tool. "Compose yourself," he commanded, his tone shifting to one of detached instruction. "The betrothal ceremony for your father, Lord Wilhelm and the princess of France is tonight. You will attend. You will perform the role of the devoted daughter, brimming with sentimental joy at her father's newfound… companionship." His eyes catalogued her pallor, the faint tremor in her hands. "Your excitement is a required element of the evening's narrative."
"But I am not excited," she whispered, the confession a brittle defiance.
He smiled, a thin, joyless curve of his lips. "That," he stated, "is what makes your performance valuable. You will be a performing seal of familial bliss. Your father's happiness, and the stability of this new alliance, depend upon the convincing nature of your… delight."
He stepped aside, clearing her path. "Do not falter again."
Gisela turned and walked down the corridor, her back straight, her soul screaming. The performance was infinite, the scripts written by others, and the director was always in the wings, waiting for her to miss her mark. The engagement was not a celebration; it was another stage in her endless choreography of compliance.
---
"My lord." The voice of Henry's chamberlain, Edward, sliced the antechamber's quiet. "The northern route requires four hours. We depart imminently."
Henry's eyes remained fixed on the empty staircase. "Four hours is adequate. A closed space. A defined duration. It will serve as an assessment."
"An assessment, sire?"
"Of the morning's work," Henry clarified, his tone devoid of inflection. "The orchard, the stairs… they were stimuli. The carriage is the observation cell. Her reactions to isolation will be informative."
Edward gave a tight nod. "The Queen Dowager has appointed the attendants. They are instructed to be… ambient."
"Silent and observant. They are my eyes inside the chamber. Ensure they understand their report is more valuable than their service."
"Understood."
"And the escort," Henry continued. "Position them within clear sight at all times. Not for protection. For perception. Let the architecture of her confinement be unmistakable."
Before Edward could reply, a hush fell.
Henry turned.
Gisela descended.
The gown was outstanding . Crimson velvet, structured and severe, was barricaded by vertical straps of solid gold. The dress did not flow; it enforced. Her hair, that vibrant testament to her spirit, was extinguished—pinned and lashed down under a net of fine gold chain. Every element was a renunciation.
She moved with a glacial control that was more alarming than any tremor. Her face was a mask of flawless, vacant composure. She had not merely dressed for the evening; she had entombed the woman she was that morning.
Henry watched, a clinical coldness settling behind his ribs. This was superior data. She had not broken under the morning's operations. She had crystallized.
"The variable has stabilized," he remarked, as if noting a gauge's reading. "The initial conditions were effective."
Edward remained silent, witnessing the result of his king's designs.
"Send a rider," Henry commanded, his gaze tracking Gisela's turn toward the private exit. "Have them block the main bridge. Force the procession through the lower ford. It will add an hour of slow, rough travel."
"To test the stability," Edward inferred.
"To test the durability," Henry corrected. "Anyone can be calm for a smooth four hours. I need to know if this," he gestured minutely toward Gisela's retreating form, "is surface polish, or something hardened all the way through."
Edward bowed. "The obstruction will be in place."
Henry's attention did not waver. The engagement feast was a political formality. The true work was already in motion, rolling toward its first deliberate obstacle.
Gisela watched Edward bow and retreat, the space between her and Henry now charged and still. She took the final steps toward him, her movement measured.
"Should we not be departing?" Her voice was low, carefully stripped of any emotion that could be construed as eagerness or resistance.
"Of course." His reply was a flat statement of fact. His hand closed around the curve of her waist, not as a guide, but as a claim, steering her toward the archway that led to the courtyard. His touch was proprietorial, absolute.
"You must feel some anticipation," he said as they walked, his tone carrying a blade's edge of mockery. "Germany is, after all, your homeland. A return to familiar soil."
She kept her gaze fixed ahead. "It is the soil of my childhood. A different country entirely."
"And yet, in all our years, I have never heard you speak its language." The observation was casual, but the intent behind it was a probe.
"I speak German perfectly well," she replied, her voice even. "But I was sealed to you from the cradle, was I not? My tutors considered fluency in your tongue the paramount virtue. My own became… a private relic."
He glanced down at her, his hazel eyes assessing. The information was filed away, not as a curiosity, but as a potential vulnerability—a hidden chamber in the architecture he was mapping.
"A relic," he repeated. "How fitting. See that it remains buried. At court, you are a queen of this realm. Nothing more."
They emerged into the courtyard where the carriages stood like polished black beetles in the fading light. His hand did not leave her waist until he handed her, with cold ceremony, into the darkened interior of the second coach. It was not an assistance; it was an installation.
As the door shut, sealing her in the velvet-lined silence, his final words lingered in the space between them, more effective than any lock.