The One Where I Need a Hug

Morgan

The first sign that my world was about to unravel found me in the quiet solitude of the kitchen, nursing a bowl of soup. To say the guards’ sudden appearance was a surprise would be a laughable understatement; the porcelain spoon slipped from my grasp, clattering against the stone floor and splashing warm broth across my trousers. I was just reaching for a cloth to dab at the stain when a mailed fist clamped around my arm, yanking me from my chair with such violence that the breath left my lungs in a sharp gasp. The mess on my pants was instantly forgotten.

"What in God's name are you doing?" I demanded, twisting against the iron grip. "What is happening?"

My questions were met with a contemptuous glare from a man whose face was a mask of brutish stupidity. The only answer he offered was a smug, unpleasant smirk. It was then, in the ensuing chaos, that I saw I was not alone. Every servant, every kitchen hand, was being subjected to the same rough, bewildering treatment. A tide of confusion and fear washed over me. We were dragged, a stumbling, terrified procession of staff, through the corridors and toward the great dining hall. Had something happened to the King?

We were shoved and prodded into a ragged line inside the dining hall's grand entrance. There, standing near the head of the immense table, was Natalia. Beside her stood Dr. Isaak, the kind physician I knew had been attending to her during her recent illness. He had left me with a long, detailed list of instructions for her care. What was he doing here now? And what was wrong with Natalia? She stood stiffly, her gaze fixed on some distant point, her eyes utterly devoid of light or life. My heart began to hammer against my ribs as I forced myself to look at the King, who had begun to speak.

"One of you," he began, his voice a low, menacing rumble that seemed to shake the very air in the cavernous room, "thought it a fine idea to add a... special ingredient to the evening's menu." He paused, his cold eyes sweeping over our terrified faces. "Confess now, and I will grant your family the mercy of not having to join you in death."

A wave of pure, cold dread washed over me. Poison. They thought one of us had tried to poison them.

"Morgan."

The name was a mere whisper, but it cut through the thick silence. It took me a moment to place the voice—it was Natalia’s, yet it was unnervingly flat, stripped of all emotion. "Leave Morgan be," she said, her deadened eyes still staring into nothing. "She would never try to kill me."

My gaze snapped back to the monarch. He gave a reluctant, almost imperceptible nod. I sensed that if I hadn't been a fixture in this castle since birth, a familiar face who knew nothing of the local politics and rivalries, he would not have conceded so easily. Feeling as though my head had just been plucked from the executioner’s block, I pulled away from the line of staff and rushed to Natalia's side. Why did she sound like a hollowed-out shell of herself? The poison… were they talking about her? Had she been poisoned?

I wrapped my arms around her, a tight, desperate hug, and began to run my fingers through her hair—a soothing, familiar habit we’d shared since we were children. Them? Dare to harm her? The thought was a furious blaze in my mind. None of them would dare. Natalia is my sister in all but blood! I would never try to kill her. Maim her, perhaps, if she did something truly idiotic, but kill her? Never.

In that same instant, as Natalia’s hands clenched, twisting the fabric of my uniform into tight fists, I knew I wanted blood. No one hurts my sister. No one. If the King wouldn't find the person who did this, then I would. But one look at his face—a terrifying mask of placid, controlled rage—told me it would not come to that.

It was clear there would be a great deal of digging tonight, and it would not be in the gardens. Shielding Natalia from the grim spectacle that was about to unfold, I turned her away from the frightened assembly of servants. The King gestured to one of his soldiers. "Keep a tally of the dead," he commanded coldly. "They will need to be replaced."

A collective wave of primal terror rippled through the staff, but I hardened my heart against it. I have never been a person who thirsts for violence, and I knew that later, in the quiet of the night, I would mourn the innocent lives lost. But in that moment, one of them was guilty of attempting to murder Natalia. I would not let them escape justice.

The King summoned the first staff member, a young man whose eyes were wide with a terror so profound it seemed to steal the air from his lungs. "What do you know of the poison?" the King demanded.

The boy, a father I knew by sight, collapsed into gut-wrenching sobs, pleading for his life and begging the monarch to think of his children. He knew nothing, he swore, he knew nothing. A sharp pang of pity struck me, but I crushed the useless emotion as swiftly as it appeared. I flinched as a sword was presented to the monarch, trying to wall off my own feelings.

They brought forward the next, and the next. The process was sickeningly efficient, brutal, and swift. We were nearing the end of the line when the second-to-last person, a woman with a defiant glint in her eye, was pushed forward. The King repeated his question, his voice weary but unrelenting. "What do you know of the poison?"

The woman smiled, a chilling, victorious curve of her lips. I recognized her then. Coward, I thought with a surge of revulsion. To let all those people die for you. It's despicable.

"Long live the rebellion!" the woman shrieked. I could only stare in stunned disbelief as she lunged forward, deliberately impaling herself on the King's outstretched sword. Even the King seemed taken aback, his shock quickly curdling into an even deeper, more potent rage. He barked orders at his soldiers, commanding them to find and interrogate anyone and everyone connected to the maid.

I retrieved the hairbrush from Natalia’s bedside table and led her back to the sanctuary of her chambers. I began to brush her hair, the simple, repetitive motion a small anchor in the storm that had just ripped through our lives. As I drew the bristles through the long strands, I watched as silent tears finally began to trace paths from her vacant eyes down her pale cheeks.

"Why?" Natalia whispered, her voice cracking with the first hint of real emotion I’d heard all night. "She was going to die anyway. Why didn't she just confess? All those people…"

I set the brush down, turned her to face me, and pulled her into another embrace, murmuring meaningless words of comfort into her ear as she wept, trying to shield her from a world that had suddenly become infinitely more cruel than either of us had ever known.