As he carries me out of the hall, my head rests against his shoulder. I keep my eyes closed, pretending to be in a deep, painful stupor, but inside, I am screaming at myself.
I am a horrible person, I think.
In my modern life, I'm the girl who works 14 hours a day to keep her family safe. I'm the girl who values honesty. But here, I'm lying to the only person who seems to truly care if I live or die. He is carrying me like I'm made of glass, his footsteps heavy and hurried on the stone floor. I can feel the tension in his arms, the way he's shielding me from the world as he navigates the corridors.
He truly thinks I am dying. He doesn't know this is just Sara from the Office playing a part to avoid a murder attempt.
I'm sorry, Arthur, I apologize silently, feeling the heat of his worry. I have to do this. If I don't pretend to be in pain, they'll know I'm a stranger. But god... please stop looking at me with so much love. I don't know if I can handle the guilt.
By the time we reach the safety of my room, I am exhausted—not from the illness, but from the weight of the lie. He lays me down on the silk sheets as gently as if he's placing a feather on water, his hand lingering on my forehead for a second too long.
The silk sheets of my bed feel cool against my skin, but I keep my breathing shallow and ragged. Arthur's hand is a warm, steady weight on my own. To my other side, I hear the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the Duke. He is standing so close I can smell the faint scent of cedar and old paper that always clings to him.
The physician—a small, frantic man with spectacles—is hovering over me, dabbing my forehead with a cold cloth.
"It was a small dose, Your Grace," the physician whispers to my father. "But for Lady Elanore, even a trace is a death sentence. She is lucky to be breathing."
"Lucky?" my father's voice drops to a terrifyingly low growl. "She is lucky because everyone was 'careless'?"
I keep my eyes lidded, just a crack, so I can see the room. The power dynamic is fascinating. My father and Arthur are like two pillars of stone guarding my bed. But further back, near the shadows of the doorway, stand the others.
My mother has a handkerchief pressed to her eyes, making soft, sobbing noises. To anyone else, she looks heartbroken. To me? I can see her eyes darting toward the physician's bag, checking to see if her mistake is being officially recorded. She is a shark in a lace dress.
And then there is Orlando.
My older brother looks... strange. He isn't crying, and he isn't smirking. He looks frustrated, almost angry, as he paces the edge of the rug. Suddenly, he steps forward, his voice sharp and biting.
"How could you be so stupid, Elanore?" he snaps, though there's a tremor in his hand. "Hey! Answer me! You've had this terrifying allergy since you were three years old. How can you even forget something that almost killed you twice? Did you hit your head that hard, or are you just trying to make us all look like murderers?"
"Orlando! Silence!" my father commands, but the damage is done.
Orlando's words are a warning. He isn't just worried; he's suspicious. He's the first one to point out the hole in my story—that a person doesn't just forget a deadly allergy.
I let out a soft, pained moan and turn my head away, moving deeper into the pillow. I see the Duchess stiffen. She realizes Orlando is inadvertently helping her. Even if I forgot my allergy because of my memory loss , Arther will not forget this mistake and try to investigate it himself.
Nice try, brother, I think, feeling a surge of adrenaline. But I'm not just a girl with a bad memory. I'm a woman with a plan.
I let my hand twitch in Arthur's grip, making him tighten his hold. I need him to stay angry on my behalf. As long as he is furious at my family, my mother can't touch me.
"This time the maids had made an unforgivable mistake. I should punish them properly!" my mother's voice rings out, sharp and desperate. She isn't crying anymore; she's in damage-control mode. "The kitchen staff has become utterly clumsy. I specifically ordered a specialized recovery meal, and they must have confused the trays. Your Grace, I will personally oversee the investigation. They will be punished for this negligence!"
I keep my eyes closed, but I can practically hear the Office Brain in my head filing this away. Classic corporate move, I think. When the project fails, blame the interns.
I feel the heavy silence from my father. He isn't stupid. He knows the Duchess controls the kitchen, but he has a bigger problem: Arthur is standing right there, his hand still on his sword, looking like he's ready to declare war on our household for attempted murder.
I see my father's shadow flicker as he looks at the Arther. He's terrified of the scandal.
It's time for my move.
I let out a soft, fluttering sigh and slowly open my eyes. I focus on Arthur first, making my expression look soft and grateful. Then, I look at my father. He looks aged, his shoulders hunched with the weight of a potential political disaster.
"Arthur..." I whisper, my voice sounding appropriately weak. "I... I need to speak with my father. Alone. He looks so worried."
Arthur hesitates, his grip on my hand tightening for a second. He looks like he doesn't want to leave me in this house of snakes, but he respects my wish. With a final, lingering look of protection, he bows to the Duke and exits the room, taking the Physician and the Duchess with him. Even Orlando lingers at the door for a second before slipping out.
The room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence.
I sit up slowly, the dying girl act dropping just enough to show I'm conscious. My father is staring at the floor, looking defeated.
"Father," I say, my voice steady now. He looks up, startled by the change in my tone. "You're worried about what to tell Arther, aren't you? You're worried he thinks your were trying to hurt me."
He looks at me with wide, shocked eyes. He didn't expect me to be reading his mind.
"I have a solution," I continue, looking him straight in the eye. "Tell him the truth—or at least, a version of it. Tell him that since the fall, I have lost my memories. Tell him I forgot the allergy myself, and that is why I didn't recognize the food. It protects the family name, and it buys me time to 'regain' what I've lost."
My father stares at me as if I've grown a second head. I'm not the crying, weak daughter he remembers. I'm a woman offering him a political lifeline.
I sit up straighter, my back stiff against the pillows. The 'weak, dying girl' act is over for now; I have a move to make. I look my father dead in the eye, my voice as cool and professional as if I were delivering a quarterly report.
"Father," I say firmly. "You need to make an official statement to the court. But if We request Arthur to keep a secret to protect my reputation in our society, he will understand. It will protect the our family's dignity from a murder charge, and even if any rumors spreads in future, it will buy us time to settle the situation. It's the only logical move."
Silence drops over the room like a heavy curtain.
I see my father's face change. For the first time, he isn't looking at me with pity or annoyance. He is looking at me with surprise—the kind of shock you feel when a mute person suddenly starts to speak.
When did my daughter become so... mature? I can practically see the question burning in his mind.
He knows the 'Elanore' of the past. That girl would be hysterical right now. She would be clutching his robes, crying about the poison, and begging for her mother's love. Even this morning, he probably expected me to be a sobbing mess after such a terrifying ordeal. But here I am, calmly handing him a political solution to a family scandal.
"So, we don't have any other options." he repeats, his voice raspy. He takes a step toward the bed, searching my face. "You... you are suggesting we use your own injury as a shield for the family name?"
"I am," I reply, not blinking. "It's about damage control, Father. We can't change what happened at lunch, but we can control how the Kingdom hears about it."
He stares at me for a long, uncomfortable minute. I see him comparing the daughter who used to cry over a broken doll to the woman sitting before him now. He sees the "Office Brain" at work, though he doesn't have a name for it. He just knows that I've stopped being a child and started being an asset.
"Very well," he says, his voice regaining its authority, though there is a new layer of respect beneath it. "I'm going to call Arthur. 'Memory Loss due to Trauma.' It is... a wise suggestion, Elanore."
As he turns to leave, I catch a glimpse of his expression in the vanity mirror. He looks shaken. He came in here to save a dying girl, but he's leaving with a shocking expression.
The crying girl is dead, I start to think, watching his shadow disappear into the hallway. And if I have anything to say about it, maybe she's never coming back.